I
In the third book of the "Ethics", and in the second chapter,
Aristotle, dealing with certain actions which, though bad in
themselves, admit of pity and forgiveness because they were
committed involuntarily, through ignorance, instances 'the man
who did not know a subject was forbidden, like Aeschylus with the
Mysteries,' and 'the man who only meant to show how it worked,
like the fellow who let off the catapult' ([Greek: e deixai
Boulemos apheinai, os o ton katapelten]).
I feel comfortably sure, Gentlemen, that in a previous course of
lectures "On the Art of Writing", unlike Aeschylus, I divulged no
mysteries: but I am troubled with speculations over that man and
the catapult, because I really was trying to tell you how the
thing worked; and Aristotle, with a reticence which (as Horace
afterwards noted) may lend itself to obscurity, tells us neither
what happened to that exponent of ballistics, nor to the engine
itself, nor to the other person. My discharge, such as it was, at
any rate provoked another Professor (_emeritus,_ learned,
sagacious, venerable) to retort that the true business of a Chair
such as this is to instruct young men how to _read_ rather than
how to write. Well, be it so. I accept the challenge.
I propose in this and some ensuing lectures to talk of the Art
and Practice of Reading, particularly as applied to English
Literature: to discuss on what ground and through what faculties
an Author and his Reader meet: to enquire if, or to what extent,
Reading of the best Literature can be taught; and supposing it to
be taught, if or to what extent it can be examined upon; with
maybe an interlude or two, to beguile the way.