entered into a secret compact not to touch a problem even with a pair of
tongs? Or are they afraid of being confused with Hall Caine, Mrs. Humphry
Ward, and Miss Marie Corelli, who anyhow have the merit of being
interested in the wide aspects of their age? I do not know. But I think we
might expect a little more general activity from some of our authors who
lie tranquil, steeped in success as lizards in sunshine. I speak
delicately, for I am on delicate ground. I do, however, speak as a
creative artist, and not as a critic. Occasionally my correspondents
upbraid me for not writing like a critic. I have never pretended to look
at things from any other standpoint than that of a creative artist.




KENNETH GRAHAME

[_24 Oct. '08_]

It is a long time since I read a new book by Mr. Kenneth Grahame, but the
fault is his rather than mine. I suppose that I was not the only reader
who opened "The Wind in the Willows" (Methuen, 6s.) with an unusual and
apprehensive curiosity. Would it disappoint? For really, you know, to live
up to "The Golden Age" and "Pagan Papers" could not be an easy task--and
after so many years of silence! It is ten years, if I mistake not, since
Mr. Kenneth Grahame put his name to anything more important than the
official correspondence of the Bank of England. Well, "The Wind in the
Willows" does not disappoint. Here, indeed, we have the work of a man who
is obviously interested in letters and in life, the work of a fastidious
and yet a very robust artist. But the book is fairly certain to be
misunderstood of the people. The publishers' own announcement describes it