of the average decent person towards the classics of his
own tongue is one of distrust--I had almost said, of fear. I will not
take the case of Shakespeare, for Shakespeare is "taught" in schools;
that is to say, the Board of Education and all authorities pedagogic
bind themselves together in a determined effort to make every boy in
the land a lifelong enemy of Shakespeare. (It is a mercy they don't
"teach" Blake.) I will take, for an example, Sir Thomas Browne, as
to whom the average person has no offensive juvenile memories. He is
bound to have read somewhere that the style of Sir Thomas Browne is
unsurpassed by anything in English literature. One day he sees the
_Religio Medici_ in a shop-window (or, rather, outside a shop-window,
for he would hesitate about entering a bookshop), and he buys it, by
way of a mild experiment. He does not expect to be enchanted by it;
a profound instinct tells him that Sir Thomas Browne is "not in his
line"; and in the result he is even less enchanted than he expected to
be. He reads the introduction, and he glances at the first page or two
of the work. He sees nothing but words. The work makes no appeal
to him whatever. He is surrounded by trees, and cannot perceive the
forest. He puts the book away. If Sir Thomas Browne is mentioned, he
will say, "Yes, very fine!" with a feeling of pride that he has at any
rate bought and inspected Sir Thomas Browne. Deep in his heart is a
suspicion that people who get enthusiastic about Sir Thomas Browne
are vain and conceited _poseurs_. After a year or so, when he has
recovered from the discouragement caused by Sir Thomas Browne, he may,
if he is young and hopeful, repeat the experiment with Congreve
or Addison. Same sequel! And so on for perhaps a decade, until his
commerce with the classics finally expires! That, magazines and newish
fiction apart, is the literary history of the average decent person.

And even your case, though you are genuinely preoccupied with thoughts
of literature, bears certain disturbing resemblances to the drab
case of the average person. You do not approach the classics with
gusto--anyhow, not with the same gusto as you would approach a new
novel by a modern author who had taken your fancy. You never murmured
to yourself, when reading Gibbon's _Decline and Fall_ in bed: "Well,
I really must read one more chapter before I go to sleep!" Speaking
generally, the classics do not afford you a pleasure commensurate with
their re