ng, and having a box at the theatre every first
night. It is not the man of pleasure who has pleasure; it is not the man
of the world who appreciates the world. The man who has learnt to do all
conventional things perfectly has at the same time learnt to do them
prosaically. It is the awkward man, whose evening dress does not fit
him, whose gloves will not go on, whose compliments will not come off,
who is really full of the ancient ecstasies of youth. He is frightened
enough of society actually to enjoy his triumphs. He has that element
of fear which is one of the eternal ingredients of joy. This spirit is
the central spirit of the Bronte novel. It is the epic of the
exhilaration of the shy man. As such it is of incalculable value in our
time, of which the curse is that it does not take joy reverently because
it does not take it fearfully. The shabby and inconspicuous governess of
Charlotte Bronte, with the small outlook and the small creed, had more
commerce with the awful and elemental forces which drive the world than
a legion of lawless minor poets. She approached the universe with real
simplicity, and, consequently, with real fear and delight. She was, so
to speak, shy before the multitude of the stars, and in this she had
possessed herself of the only force which can prevent enjoyment being
as black and barren as routine. The faculty of being shy is the first
and the most delicate of the powers of enjoyment. The fear of the Lord
is the beginning of pleasure.

Upon the whole, therefore, I think it may justifiably be said that the
dark wild youth of the Brontes in their dark wild Yorkshire home has
been somewhat exaggerated as a necessary factor in their work and their
conception. The emotions with which they dealt were universal emotions,
emotions of the morning of existence, the springtide joy and the
springtide terror. Every one of us as a boy or girl has had some
midnight dream of nameless obstacle and unutterable menace, in which
there was, under whatever imbecile forms, all the deadly stress and
panic of 'Wuthering Heights.' Every one of us has had a day-dream of our
own potential destiny not one atom more reasonable than 'Jane Eyre.' And
the truth which the Brontes came to tell us is the truth that many
waters cannot quench love, and that suburban respectability cannot touch
or damp a secret enthusiasm. Clapham, like every other earthly city, is
built upon a volcano. Thousands of people go to and fro in the