of brain-tissue than are
required for reading a newspaper. It means, in fact, "work." Perhaps
you did not bargain for work when you joined me. But I do not think
that the literary taste can be satisfactorily formed unless one is
prepared to put one's back into the affair. And I may prophesy to
you, by way of encouragement, that, in addition to the advantages of
familiarity with masterpieces, of increased literary knowledge, and
of a wide introduction to the true bookish atmosphere and "feel" of
things, which you will derive from a comprehensive study of Charles
Lamb, you will also be conscious of a moral advantage--the very
important and very inspiring advantage of really "knowing something
about something." You will have achieved a definite step; you will be
proudly aware that you have put yourself in a position to judge as an
expert whatever you may hear or read in the future concerning Charles
Lamb. This legitimate pride and sense of accomplishment will stimulate
you to go on further; it will generate steam. I consider that this
indirect moral advantage even outweighs, for the moment, the direct
literary advantages.

Now, I shall not shut my eyes to a possible result of your diligent
intercourse with Charles Lamb. It is possible that you may be
disappointed with him. It is--shall I say?--almost probable that you
will be disappointed with him, at any rate partially. You will have
expected more joy in him than you have received. I have referred in
a previous chapter to the feeling of disappointment which often comes
from first contacts with the classics. The neophyte is apt to find
them--I may as well out with the word--dull. You may have found Lamb
less diverting, less interesting, than you hoped. You may have had
to whip yourself up again and again to the effort of reading him. In
brief, Lamb has not, for you, justified his terrific reputation. If
a classic is a classic because it gives _pleasure_ to succeeding
generations of the people who are most keenly interested in
literature, and if Lamb frequently strikes you as dull, then evidently
there is something wrong. The difficulty must be fairly fronted,
and the fronting of it brings us to the very core of the business of
actually forming the taste. If your taste were classical you would
discover in Lamb a continual fascination; whereas what you in fact do
discover in Lamb is a not unpleasant flatness, enlivened by a vague
humour and an occasional pathos. You ought,