It is not a crime not to love literature. It is not a
sign of imbecility. The mandarins of literature will order out to
instant execution the unfortunate individual who does not
comprehend, say, the influence of Wordsworth on Tennyson. But that
is only their impudence. Where would they be, I wonder, if
requested to explain the influences that went to make Tschaikowsky's
"Pathetic Symphony"?
There are enormous fields of knowledge quite outside literature
which will yield magnificent results to cultivators. For example
(since I have just mentioned the most popular piece of high-class
music in England to-day), I am reminded that the Promenade Concerts
begin in August. You go to them. You smoke your cigar or cigarette
(and I regret to say that you strike your matches during the soft
bars of the "Lohengrin" overture), and you enjoy the music. But you
say you cannot play the piano or the fiddle, or even the banjo; that
you know nothing of music.
What does that matter? That you have a genuine taste for music is
proved by the fact that, in order to fill his hall with you and your
peers, the conductor is obliged to provide programmes from which bad
music is almost entirely excluded (a change from the old Covent
Garden days!).
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