myself. I was altogether stopped when I happened to meet with
Aubrey de Vere's Mary Tudor and Tennyson's Queen Mary.

Soon afterwards I read Jane Eyre again, and was more than ever
astonished at it. It is not to be classed; it is written not by a
limited human personality but by Nature herself. The love in it is
too great for creatures who are 'even as the generations of leaves';
the existence of two mortals does not account for it. There is an
irresistible sweep in it like that of the Atlantic Ocean in a
winter's storm hurling itself over the western rocks of Scilly. I
do not wonder that people were afraid of the book and that it was
cursed. The orthodox daughter of a country parson broke
conventional withes as if they were cobwebs. Jane Eyre is not gross
in a single word, but its freedom is more complete than that of a
licentious modern novel. Do you recollect St. John Rivers says to
Jane: 'Try to restrain the disproportionate fervour with which you
throw yourself into commonplace home pleasures. Don't cling so
tenaciously to ties of the flesh; save your constancy and ardour for
an adequate cause; forbear to waste them on trite, transient
objects. Do you hear, Jane?'

She replies--'Yes; just as if you were speaking Greek. I feel I
have adequate cause to be happy, and I WILL be happy. Good-bye!'

Therein speaks the worshipper of the Sun. Do you also recollect
that voice in the night from Rochester? She breaks from St. John,
goes up to her bedroom and prays. 'In my way--a different way to
St. John's, but effective in its own fashion. I seemed to penetrate
very near a Mighty Spirit; and my soul rushed out in gratitude at
His feet. I rose from the thanksgiving--took a resolve--and lay