Charlotte Bronte also knew that simple goal, but she loved her imagery.
In the passage of _Jane Eyre_ that tells of the return to Thornfield
Hall, in ruins by fire, she bespeaks her reader's romantic attention to
an image which in truth is not all golden. She has moments, on the other
hand, of pure narrative, whereof each word is such a key as I spoke of
but now, and unlocks an inner and an inner plain door of spiritual
realities. There is, perhaps, no author who, simply telling what
happened, tells it with so great a significance: "Jane, did you hear that
nightingale singing in the wood?" and "She made haste to leave us." But
her characteristic calling is to images, those avenues and temples
oracular, and to the vision of symbols.
You may hear the poet of great imagery praised as a great mystic.
Nevertheless, although a great mystical poet makes images, he does not do
so in his greatest moments. He is a great mystic, because he has a full
vision of the mystery of realities, not because he has a clear invention
of similitudes.
Of many thousand kisses the poor last,
and
Now with his love, now in the colde grave
are lines on the yonder side of imagery. So is this line also:
Sad with the promise of a different sun,
and
Piteous passion keen at having found,
After exceeding ill, a little good.
Shakespeare, Chaucer and Patmore yield us these great examples.
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