I am not saying one word against established reputations in literature.  The very fact of their being established (even the ‘Rambler,’ for example, has its merits) is in their favour; and, indeed, some of the works I shall refer to are masterpieces.  My objection is to the sham admiration of them, which does their authors no good (for their circulation is now of no consequence to them), and is injurious not only to modern writers (who are generally made the subject of base comparison), but especially to the utterers of this false coin themselves.  One cannot tell falsehoods, even about one’s views in literature, without injury to one’s morals, yet to ’tell the truth and shame the devil’ is easy, as it would seem, compared with telling the truth and defying the critics.

I have alluded to the intrepidity of Miss Bronte in this matter; and, curiously enough, it is women who have the most courage in the expression of their literary opinions.  It may be said, of course, that this is due to the audacity of ignorance, and a well-known line may be quoted (for some people, as I have said, are rude) in which certain angels (who are not women) are represented as being afraid to tread in certain places.  But I am speaking of women who are great readers.  Miss Martineau once confessed to me that she could see no beauties in ‘Tom Jones.’  ‘Of course,’ she said, ’the coarseness disgusts me, but apart from that, I see no sort of merit in it.’  ‘What?’ I replied, ’no humour, no knowledge of human life?’ ’No; to me it is a wearisome book.’

I disagreed with her very much upon that point, and do so still; yet, apart from the coarseness (which does not disgust everybody, let me tell you), there is a good deal of tedious reading in ‘Tom Jones.’  At all events that expression of opinion from such lips strikes me as noteworthy.

It may here be said that there are many English authors of old date, some of whose beauties are unintelligible except to those who are acquainted with the classics; and ‘Tom Jones’ is one of them.  Many of the introductions to the chapters, not to mention a certain travestie of an Homeric battle, must needs be as wearisome to those who are not scholars, as the spectacle of a burlesque is to those who have not seen the original play.  This is still more the case with our old poets, especially Milton.  I very much doubt, in spite of the universal chorus to the contrary, whether ‘Lycidas’ is much admired by readers who are only acquainted with English literature; I am quite sure it never touched their hearts as, for example, ‘In Memoriam’ does.