reverence them most. They are,
in short, idols, and their worship is not a faith, but a superstition.
This kind of belief is not shaken even by experience. When a devourer
of the novels of Scott, for instance, takes up _Tom Jones_, he, after
a vain attempt to read, may lay it down with a feeling of surprise and
dissatisfaction; but _Tom Jones_ remains still to his convictions 'an
epic in prose,' the fiction _par excellence_ of the language. As for
_Clarissa Harlowe_ and _Sir Charles Grandison_, we have not heard of
any common reader in our generation who has had the hardihood even to
open the volumes; but Richardson as well as Fielding retains his
original niche among the gods of romance; and we find Scott himself
one of the high-priests of the worship. When wandering once upon the
continent, we were thrown for several days into the company of an
English clergyman, who had provided himself, as the best possible
model in description, with a copy of Spenser; and it was curious to
observe the pertinacity with which, from time to time, he drew forth
his treasure, and the weariness with which in a few minutes he
returned it to his pocket. Yet our reverend friend, we have no doubt,
went home with his faith in Spenser unshaken, and recommends it to
this day as the most delightful of all companions for a journey.

In the present century, the French and German critics have begun to
place this reverential feeling for the 'classics' of a language upon a
more rational basis. In estimating an author, they throw themselves
back into the times in which he wrote; they determine his place among
the spirits of his own age; and ascertain the practical influence his
works have exercised over those of succeeding generations. In short,
they judge him relatively, not absolutely; and thus convert an
unreasoning superstition into a sober faith. We do not require to be
told that in every book destined to survive its author, there are here
and there gleams of nature that belong to all time; but the body of
the work is after the fashion of the age that produced it; and he who
is unacquainted with the thought of that age, will always judge amiss.
In England, we are still in the bonds of the last century, and it is
surprising what an amount of affectation mingles with criticism even
of the highest pretensions. It is no wonder, then, that common readers
should be mistaken in their book-worship. To such persons, for all
their blind reverence, Dante m