Also when the wrapper artist clothes a volume with a picture of an
elderly gentleman obviously giving up an attractive young woman of
perhaps one-third his years it is idle to pretend that the contents
retain all the thrill of the unforeseen. Having said so much, I can let
myself go in praise (as how often before) of those qualities of insight
and gently sub-acid humour that make a BENSON novel an interlude of pure
enjoyment to the "jaded reviewer." In case the indiscreet cover may
happily have been removed before the volume reaches your hands, I do not
propose to give away the plot in any detail. The autumn sowing of course
produces a crop not exactly of wild oats, but of romantic tares that
springs in the hitherto barren heart of one _Keeling_, prosperous
tradesman, husband, father, mayor, public benefactor and baronet,
by reason of the too sympathetic damsel who types his letters and
catalogues his library. That library shows Mr. BENSON'S genius;
without it I should hardly have been able to believe in the subsequent
happenings, but, given this "secret garden," all the tragedy is
explained. I have left myself no space in which to do justice to some
admirable characterization. _Keeling's_ wife is worthy of a place in the
author's long gallery of woolly-witted matrons; while in _Silverdale_ he
has given a study of clerical futility and egotism almost savage in its
detestability, a portrait at which one laughs and shudders together. Of
course the book will have, and deserve, a huge welcome.

* * * * *

The union of scholarship and sympathy, enthusiasm and eloquence, is
rare; yet these qualities are to be found in perfect harmony in the
stately volume on the poets' poet which has just been published under
the style, on the cover, _Life of John Keats_, and on the title-page,
_John Keats, His Life and Poetry, His Friends, Critics and After-Fame_