Take the famous article on Milton.  Speaking of “Lycidas,” Johnson coolly observes, “In this poem there is no nature, for there is no truth; there is no art, for there is nothing new.  Its form is that of a pastoral—­easy, vulgar, and therefore disgusting; whatever images it can supply are easily exhausted, and its inherent improbability always forces dissatisfaction on the mind.  He who thus grieves will excite no sympathy; he who thus praises will confer no honour.”  Now this is blunt, positive speech, and no one would mind it much if it were left alone by ignorant persons; but it is a trifle exasperating when Johnson’s authority is brought forward at second hand in order to convince us that a poem in which many people delight is disgusting.  Again, the dictator said that a passage in Congreve’s “Morning Bride” was finer than anything in Shakspere.  Very good; let Johnson’s opinion stand so far as he is concerned, but let us also consider the passage—­

  “How reverend is the face of this tall pile,
  Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads
  To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof,
  By its own weight made steadfast and immovable,
  Looking tranquillity!  It strikes an awe
  And terror on my aching sight.”

This is the stuff which is called “noble” and “magnificent” and “impressive” by people who fail to see that Johnson was merely amusing himself, as he often did, by upholding a fallacy.  The lines from Congreve are bald and utterly commonplace; they have no positive quality; and when some of us think of such gems as “When daisies pied and violets blue,” or, “To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,” or even the description of the Dover cliff, not to mention the thousands of other gems in Shakspere’s great dramas, we feel inclined to be angry when we are asked to admire Congreve’s stilted nonsense.  There is much to be objected to in Shakspere.  I hold that a man who wrote such a dull play as “Pericles” would nowadays be scouted; but the incomparable poet should not be belittled by even a momentary comparison with Congreve.

I can readily imagine a man of real good sense and cultured taste objecting to “The Pilgrim’s Progress.”  Why should he not?  Millions of people have read the book, but millions have not; and the fact that many of the best judges of style love Bunyan offers no reason why the good tinker should be loved by everybody.  As for “Don Quixote,” a fine critic once remarked that he would choose that book if he were to be imprisoned for life, and if he were also allowed to choose one volume.  Doubtless this gentleman has thrust his dictum concerning the value of Cervantes’s work down the throats of many people who would have liked to contradict him.  If his example were followed by critics universally, it would doubtless be hard to find in Britain a man pretending to culture who durst assert that he did not care for “Don Quixote.”  In spite of this, the grave terror with which my correspondent regards his own inability to appreciate a famous book is more than funny.