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.