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.
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