are vain and conceited *poseurs*. After a year or so,
when he has recovered from the discouragement caused
by Sir Thomas Browne, he may, if he is young and hopeful,
repeat the experiment with Congreve or Addison. Same sequel!
And so on for perhaps a decade, until his commerce with the classics
finally expires! That, magazines and newish fiction apart,
is the literary history of the average decent person.


And even your case, though you are genuinely preoccupied with thoughts
of literature, bears certain disturbing resemblances to the drab case
of the average person. You do not approach the classics with gusto--
anyhow, not with the same gusto as you would approach a new novel
by a modern author who had taken your fancy. You never murmured
to yourself, when reading Gibbon's *Decline and Fall* in bed:
"Well, I really must read one more chapter before I go to sleep!"
Speaking generally, the classics do not afford you a pleasure
commensurate with their renown. You peruse them with a sense of duty,
a sense of doing the right thing, a sense of "improving yourself,"
rather than with a sense of gladness. You do not smack your lips;
you say: "That is good for me." You make little plans for reading,
and then you invent excuses for breaking the plans. Something new,
something which is not a classic, will surely draw you away
from a classic. It is all very well for you to pretend to agree
with the verdict of the elect that *Clarissa Harlowe* is
one of the greatest novels in the world--a new Kipling, or even
a new number of a magazine, will cause you to neglect
*Clarissa Harlowe*, just as though Kipling, etc., could not be kept
for a few days without turning sour! So that you have to ordain
rules for yourself, as: "I will not read anything else