[In the following essay, Anderson discusses the characteristics of Grahame's prose style.]

Kenneth Grahame's writing belongs to what might be called the literature of the countryside. Not only does it deal with the significance of common things, of growth, of open-air delights; it draws attention to the way in which the countryside is significant in history. These qualities are to be found also in Chesterton and Belloc, the latter of whom has enshrined them in the poem at the end of The Four Men:

He does not die that can bequeath
Some influence to the land he knows,
Or dares, persistent, interwreath
Love permanent with the wild hedgerows;
    He does not die, but still remains
    Substantiate with his darling plains.

George Bourne, in his Memoirs of a Surrey Labourer, makes it quite clear that such historical significance resides in persons. There is nothing 'literary' about his attitude; he describes country life as it is lived and his description is direct and free from literary allusions. With Chesterton, Belloc and Kenneth Grahame there is at least a hint of the pathetic fallacy, and little description of country life as it is actually lived by those whose lot it is to till the fields and tend the crops and animals thereon.

Perhaps Kenneth Grahame comes nearer than either of them to the 'John Barleycorn' attitude, even though the very titles of the first two Pagan Papers—'Romance of the Road' and 'Romance of the Rail'—indicate the romanticism which is expressed in Kenneth Grahames's case by his somewhat learned and literary views, and there is a strong suggestion that the countryside is being described from the point of view not merely of the 'educated' but of the comfortable class. In this respect Chesterton, and to a great extent, Belloc, achieve a more objective attitude, though their Romanist views do not permit of a quite nonsentimental outlook (cf. Chesterton's interpretation of history in the matter of the Crusades). In none of them, of course, do we get simple nature-worship; all recognise the importance (or the necessity) of work and toil, yet sometimes, in Pagan Papers, there is a suggestion of literature and life (especially that of the countryside) as amusement, as reflection for the jaded—not as something that is actually lived. And connected therewith, there is a certain 'insincerity'—a search for the mot juste, for neat ways of saying things, for the sake of neatness and not for the things. This characteristic also appears in the literary style of the 'I' of The Golden Age and illustrates how 'fancy' can lead to inconsequence, to having things praised for their associations and not for themselves. At other times, again, there is a suggestion that men seek, and have sought, the idyllic: that there is a real and possible life of this kind, with its own economies and its own enjoyments: that, at least, it is a kind of life into which one can sink for awhile, and in which, if one could stay, it would be well. Then, again, there is the notion that all we have are glimpses of something that is now unattainable.

For Kenneth Grahame the golden age was in the past, both as regards the race and as regards individuals. In "The Lost Centaur," he asks if the lamentable cleavage between men and animals that has taken place somewhere along the line of development might not have been avoided, thus leaving the world with beings of a 'dual nature', comprising 'the nobilities of both and the baseness of neither'. And of ourselves, he says: 'As we grow from our animal infancy and the threads snap one by one at each gallant wing-stroke of a soul poised for flight into Empyrean, we are yet conscious of a loss for every gain, we have some forlorn sense of a vanished heritage.' What most endears these pagan worlds to him is the absence of didacticism, and though the rhythm of his prose gives an effect of rhetoric, there is thus often the saving grace of a certain ironical criticism of business and of systems of ends (i.e., of definite objects or goals), ranging from that of the strenuous holidaymakers in 'Loafing', 'their voices clamant of feats to be accomplished', to the more whimsical paper, called 'Deus Terminus', with its final request for a 'fat and succulent stationmaster' to be offered up on 'the altar of expiation'. There is, too, evidence of a certain satyric mentality (cf. his fondness for the musical god, Pan) which has none of the sadness of Belloc or the buffoonery of Chesterton; but there is, unfortunately, not enough of either quality to save the work from being judged both 'literary' and cathartic—something to amuse, to distract and 'interest'.

It is in The Golden Age itself that we find this ironical criticism of convention as the world is seen through the eyes of a child. He, for example, is not allowed to do as he likes, but they (the Olympians) are, only they have forgotten how to like (cf. the wish that fails because it never acts).

These elders, our betters by a trick of chance, commanded no respect, but only a certain blend of envy (for their good luck) and pity (for their inability to make good use of it).… Having absolute licence to indulge in the pleasures of life, they could get no good of it. They might dabble in the pond all day … they were free to fire cannons and explode mines in the lawn; yet they never did any of these things. No irresistible Energy haled them to church o' Sundays: yet they went there regularly of their own accord, though they betrayed no greater delight in the experience than ourselves.

Even in The Golden Age, 'fancy' intrudes to some extent. Instead of the recognition of play as useless work for its own sake, we have the children's activities glamourised. The impracticability of the 'practical' is not to be shown by means of 'fancy' or romance, but by means of things themselves as contrasted with ends or purposes. The earth and the children's kinship with it are not presented directly, but are treated with an insistence on the joys of retrospection, which comes perilously near the 'Cult of Immaturity'; but if it is a cult of anything, it is the cult of romance, which is not a childish thing at all. There is a certain amount of romance in Cook's 'Littlemen' in The Playway, but through it all, these 'Littlemen' are eminently practical. One might rather say that Grahame puts a romantic flavour over things that would later in life seem romantic, but were not so at the time. It is true that tales of knights and chivalry were far less interesting than paddling and other childhood activities, but Grahame sheds on these the light of romance that comes with memories in after years.

This is a good book, a better than Pagan Papers and superior, too, to Dream Days. It is nearer to things themselves and has fewer allusions, though it is still burdened by romance. Its excellence lies in the fact that it shows the working of simple motives, the going direct to some object, the cultivation of things in themselves—things not tied up with other people's expectations. In a word, it deals with the age of innocence, a theme which is strongly grasped; and for that reason alone, it is not a children's book, but quite simply a work of art, with certain incongruities like the foisting of literary enthusiasms on T, etc., but good in spite of that.

In Dream Days we find a greater tendency to epigram, much longer stories (suggesting a spinning out, or the intrusion of alien material) and more 'grown-up' stories. The title, too, is bad, standing as it does for the development of one of the defects in the previous book. There is also some affectation, a certain striving after 'fine writing' and, as a result, the poses are no longer boys' poses—they are too thoughtful. This preciosity leads to making fun by mixing up childishness and grown-upness—by a notion of the incongruity of a child's imaginings. But this position is not really sound for the child does not mix toys with his 'grown-up' adventures.

Perhaps the suggestion in the title is that we have here a halfway stage between the Age of Innocence and the Age of Convention—a conventionalised innocence, as it were—a compromise. But (except for the absence of 'Edward'), the background seems much the same, and the ages of the children very little different; the age is not yet the age of puberty. At any rate, the stories are told from a more external point of view—that of making fun of the child instead of entering into his diversions. They are pictorial rather than dramatic, and the atmosphere partakes too much of the 'jolly-good-fellow' spirit, of Bohemianism as well as of reflectiveness. The last story in the book is much the best; it captures some of the spirit of The Golden Age and avoids the smartness that has crept into much of Dream Days.

In Books and Persons, Arnold Bennett describes The Wind in the Willows as 'an urbane exercise in irony'. What we have in Kenneth Grahame generally, and The Wind in the Willows in particular, is a criticism of habits as contrasted with spontaneous activity; or of straight lines as contrasted with cycles—a criticism, in a word, of rigidity (i.e., of 'morals'). This is presumably the function of all comedy, whether in the form of irony or not, and just as it stands for criticism against 'morals', so it stands, in general, for art and literature, for things themselves against pretences (for the removal of hypotheses), for variety against uniformity—in a word, for beauty.

At the same time, there are in the book (cf. the chapter headed 'Wildwood'), objections to 'adventure without responsibility', such as those indulged in by Toad, as much as to 'responsibility without adventure'. These attitudes on the part of the author are both inartistic, for art is not random (as moralists assume); it is not a mere outbreak; it has rules. The important point is to follow the rules of things them selves, not to set up rules over and above them, i.e., not to set up standards from without. Things have measures. In addition to this defect, there is, as in the other books, a certain amount of 'fine writing' and some incongruity as in Otter's description of the snow.

But in the wonderful Pan episode ('The Piper at the Gates') we have the sense of great moments; of the lifting of veils; of inspirations that cannot be recaptured, but that somehow lead us on thereafter. There is also a sense of security, of a watcher and helper, of 'nature' that carries us though in spite of our efforts; not end, nor yet origin, but being (cf. 'the god who made things as they are'). We have, too, a notion of harmony behind strife; of value behind valuation. This is all romanticism (yet of a realistic sort), and may be compared with furgen, which is much more romantic and gives far less sense of actuality.

Kenneth Grahame achieves this sense of actuality in many ways. For instance, among his animals we find the notion of servants, of foreigners, of tradesmen and all sorts of specialists just as we find them in real life. Yet over the whole work he casts a poetic spell, perhaps because he gives such lively expression to our own longings for 'adventure'. It is interesting to see how he treats adventure itself in the four main characters of the book. Mole embarks upon it from ignorance and interest; Rat from poetry (romance) and because he enjoys it; Toad from vanity and Badger from necessity—he is quite willing to undertake adventures when they have to be undertaken, but he is fundamentally fond of peace and security. As Arnold Bennett says, 'they are human beings, and they are meant to be nothing but human beings.… The superficial scheme of the story is so childishly naive, or so daringly naive, that only a genius could have preserved it from the ridiculous'; and it is 'no more to be comprehended by youth than The Golden Age was to be comprehended by youth'. It is, in fact, an unusual and wonderful work, and both in it and in The Golden Age, Kenneth Grahame, although his output his output is so small, shows himself an artist of very great ability.