At the beginning of this particularly active book season, reviewing the publishers’ announcements, I wrote:  “There are one or two promising items, including a novel by Henry James.  And yet, honestly, am I likely at this time of day to be excited by a novel by Henry James?  Shall I even read it?  I know that I shall not.  Still, I shall put it on my shelves, and tell my juniors what a miracle it is.”  Well, I have been surprised by the amount of resentment and anger which this honesty of mine has called forth.  One of the politest of my correspondents, dating his letter from a city on the Rhine, says:  “For myself, it’s really a rotten shame; every week since ‘Books and Persons’ started have I hoped you would make some elucidating remarks on this wonderful writer’s work, and now you don’t even state why you propose not reading him!” And so on, with the result that when “The Finer Grain” (Methuen, 6s.) came along, I put my pride in my pocket, and read it. (By the way, it is not a novel but a collection of short stories, and I am pleased to see that it is candidly advertised as such.) I have never been an enthusiast for Henry James, and probably I have not read more than 25 per cent. of his entire output.  The latest novel of his which I read was “The Ambassadors,” and upon that I took oath I would never try another.  I remember that I enjoyed “The Other House”; and that “In the Cage,” a short novel about a post-office girl, delighted me.  A few short stories have much pleased me.  Beyond this, my memories of his work are vague.  My estimate of Henry James might have been summed up thus:  On the credit side:—­He is a truly marvellous craftsman.  By which I mean that he constructs with exquisite, never-failing skill, and that he writes like an angel.  Even at his most mannered and his most exasperating, he conveys his meaning with more precision and clarity than perhaps any other living writer.  He is never, never clumsy, nor dubious, even in the minutest details.  Also he is a fine critic, of impeccable taste.  Also he savours life with eagerness, sniffing the breeze of it like a hound....  But on the debit side:—­He is tremendously lacking in emotional power.  Also his sense of beauty is oversophisticated and wants originality.  Also his attitude towards the spectacle of life is at bottom conventional, timid, and undecided.  Also he seldom chooses themes of first-class importance, and when he does choose such a theme he never fairly bites it and makes it bleed.  Also his curiosity is limited.  He seems to me to have been specially created to be admired by super-dilettanti. (I do not say that to admire him is a proof of dilettantism.) What it all comes to is merely that his subject-matter does not as a rule interest me.  I simply state my personal view, and I expressly assert my admiration for the craftsman in him and for the magnificent and consistent rectitude of his long artistic career.  Further I will not go, though I know that bombs will