and in our rarer moments, to be one of the richest
triumphs of the spirit over the flesh.

It may be that Emily Bronte is right. It may be that a point can be
reached--perhaps is already being reached in the lives of certain
individuals--where sexual passion is thus surpassed and transcended
by the burning of a flame more intense than any which lust can
produce.

It may be that the human race, as time goes on, will follow closer
and closer this ferocious and spiritual girl in tearing aside the
compromises of our hesitating timidity and plunging into the
ice-cold waters of passions so keen and translunar as to have become
chaste. It may be so--and, on the other hand, it may be that the old
sly earth-gods will hold their indelible sway over us until the
"baseless fabric" of this vision leaves "not a rack behind"! In any
case, for our present purpose, the reading of Emily Bronte
strengthens us in our recognition that the only wisdom of life
consists in leaving all the doors of the universe open.

Cursed be they who close any doors! Let that be our literary as it is
our philosophical motto.

Little have we gained from books, little from our passionate
following in the steps of the great masters, if, after all, we only
return once more to the narrow prejudices of our obstinate personal
convictions.

From ourselves we cannot escape; but we can, unfortunately, hide
ourselves from ourselves. We can hide ourselves "full-fathom-five"
under our convictions and our principles. We can hide ourselves
under our theories and our philosophies. It is only now and again,
when, by some sudden devastating flash, some terrific burst of the
thunder of the great gods, the real lineaments of what we are show
up clearly for a moment in the dark mirror of our shaken
consciousness.

It is well not to let the memory of those moments pass altogether
away.

The reading of the great authors will have been a mere epicurean
pastime if it has not made us recognise that what is important in our
life is something that belongs more closely to us than any opinion
we have inherited or any theory we have gained or any principle we
have struggled for.

It will have been wasted if it has not made us recognise that in the
moments when these outward things fall away, and the true self,
beyond the power of these outward things, looks forth defiantly,
tenderly, pitifully upon this huge strange world, there are intimations
and whispers of something beyo