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 can not 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 Brontë 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 humor, 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 travesty 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.
I once beheld a young lady of great literary taste, and of exquisite sensibility, torn to pieces (figuratively) and trampled upon by a great scholar for venturing to make a comparison between those two poems. Its invocation to the Muses and the general classical air which pervades it had destroyed for her the pathos of "Lycidas," whereas to her antagonist those very imperfections appeared to enhance its beauty. I did not interfere, because the wretch was her husband, and it would have been worse for her if I had, but my sympathies were entirely with her. Her sad fate—for the massacre took place in public—would, I was well aware, have the effect of making people lie
