In all highly civilised communities Pretence is prominent, and sooner or later invades the regions of Literature.  In the beginning, this is not altogether to be reprobated; it is the rude homage which Ignorance, conscious of its disgrace, offers to Learning; but after awhile, Pretence becomes systematised, gathers strength from numbers and impunity, and rears its head in such a manner as to suggest it has some body and substance belonging to it.  In England, literary pretence is more universal than elsewhere from our method of education.  When young gentlemen from ten to sixteen are set to study poetry (a subject for which not one in a hundred has the least taste or capability even when he reads it in his own language) in Greek and Latin authors, it is only a natural consequence that their views upon it should be slightly artificial.  The youth who objected to the alphabet that it seemed hardly worth while to have gone through so much to have acquired so little, was exceptionally sagacious; the more ordinary lad conceives that what has cost him so much time and trouble, and entailed so many pains and penalties, must needs have something in it, though it has never met his eye.  Hence arises our public opinion upon the ancient classics, which I am afraid is somewhat different from (what painters term) the private view.  If you take the ordinary admirer of AEschylus, for example—­not the scholar, but the man who has had what he believes to be ’a liberal education’—­and appeal to his opinion upon some passage in a British dramatist, say Shakespeare, it is ten to one that he shows not only ignorance of the author (the odds are twenty to one about that), but utter inability to grasp the point in question; it is too deep for him, and, especially, too subtle.  If you are cruel enough to press him, he will unconsciously betray the fact that he has never felt a line of poetry in his life.  He honestly believes that the ‘Seven against Thebes’ is one of the greatest works that ever were written, just as a child believes the same of the ’Seven Champions of Christendom.’  A great wit once observed, when bored by the praises of a man who spoke six languages, that he had known a man to speak a dozen, and yet not say a word worth hearing in any one of them.  The humour of the remark, as sometimes happens, has caused its wisdom to be underrated; for the fact is that, in very many cases, all the intelligence of which a mind is capable is expended upon the mere acquisition of a foreign tongue.  As to getting anything out of it in the way of ideas, and especially of poetical ones, that is almost never attained.  There are, indeed, many who have a special facility for languages, but in their case (with a few exceptions) one may say without uncharity that the acquisition of ideas is not their object, though if they did acquire them they would probably be new ones.  The majority of us, however, have much difficulty in surmounting the obstacle of an alien tongue; and when we have