This curiously old-fashioned novel [A Song of Sixpence] is Doctor Cronin's fourteenth, published 35 years after his first, Hatter's Castle. This record demonstrates that Cronin is a prolific writer who has made few concessions to the ephemeral tastes of literary reviewers. A Song of Sixpence is traditional Cronin as much as The Citadel and Keys of the Kingdom but I must confess that I found it pleasant reading.

Set in his familiar pre-war Scotland, A Song of Sixpence traces the coming to manhood of Laurence Carroll, an unbelievably unspoiled youngster of Dickensian cast. The events of his life, although catastrophic in themselves are not nearly tortuous or agonizing enough to satisfy most contemporary novelists. And drastically unlike the latter, Cronin posts only exterior forces toward the development of his characters. The Freudian struggles so essential to most modern novelists are not for him. He eschews the counterpoint of the Id and the Superego so completely that when Laurence suffers "a nervous breakdown," it comes without warning both to him and to us. Significantly, his convalescence is suggested in terms of the recovery of his motor functions; psychotherapy, even self-administered, is never suggested. (p. 74)

As a stylist Dr. Cronin is … conventional but he writes with the effortless grace of a polished professional. As he guides his characters through their actions, he is unquestionably there making all the arrangements, calling all the signals at every turn. He is able to do this unobtrusively, however, because of an assurance that is almost completely free from self conscious introspection and questioning. Like their master, his characters seem hardly ever to question or probe. Isn't it enough that external events are happy or sad, evil or good, frightening or benign? These alone cause the characters in A Song of Sixpence to react, to change and sometimes to develop. So even if Dr. Cronin's style is noticeably dated, it is long enough to reach from the body to the ground. It is clearly adequate to accomplish Dr. Cronin's limited purposes.

What estimation, then, does A Song of Sixpence deserve? On one level it is a pleasant if superficial novel for people with nostalgia for old-fashioned drug stores and band concerts in the park. On another, it may be escapist fare for some of the many who occasionally tire of the existentialist struggle to survive among countless messages and overwhelming decisions.

Neither of these estimates, having been said, are necessarily jibes. A Song of Sixpence is certainly not a major novel, not even an important one, but Dr. Cronin is a master of his trade with the skill and discipline to make his novels something more than literary period pieces. And if sterner critics might find Cronin's latest book superfluous, it can be argued that calorie counting has not made whipped cream obsolete and that there is place for lagniappe so long as we do not mistake it for meat and potatoes. (pp. 74-5)