e 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
humour, 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 travestie
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 worse than ever about
Milton. On that same evening, while some folks were talking abo