see any charm in his rudeness, and they resented his lack of retenue. Robust candour is a quality which civilization—working in the interests of both sexes—has wisely thought fit to discard. Even Mr. Birrell, who is disposed to leniency where Charlotte Brontë's art is concerned, admits that while Rochester is undeniably masculine, and not a governess in revolt, he is yet "man described by woman," studied from the outside by one who could only surmise. And of the fierce and adorable little professor, the "sallow tiger" who is the crowning achievement of "Villette," he has still more serious doubts. "Some good critics there are who stick to it that in his heart of hearts Paul Emanuel was a woman."
Does this mean that femininity, backed by genius, cannot grasp the impalpable something which is the soul and essence of masculinity? Because then it follows that masculinity, backed by genius, cannot grasp the impalpable something which is the soul and essence of femininity. Such a limitation has never yet been recognized and deplored. On the contrary, there are novelists, like Mr. Hardy, and Mr.
