Last week I discovered a Frenchman, Claude Tillier, who wrote in the early part of last century a book called Mon Oncle Benjamin, which may be freely translated My Uncle Benjamin. (I read it in the translation.) Eager as I am to be lyrical about it, I shall refrain.  I think that I am probably safer with Tillier than with Butler, but I dare not risk it.  The thought of your scorn at my previous ignorance of the world-famous Tillier, your amused contempt because I have only just succeeded in borrowing the classic upon which you were brought up, this is too much for me.  Let us say no more about it.  Claude Tillier—­who has not heard of Claude Tillier?  Mon oncle Benjamin—­who has not read it, in French or (as I did) in American?  Let us pass on to another book.

For I am going to speak of another discovery; of a book which should be a classic, but is not; of a book of which nobody has heard unless through me.  It was published some twelve years ago, the last-published book of a well-known writer.  When I tell you his name you will say, “Oh yes!  I love his books!” and you will mention so-and-so, and its equally famous sequel such-and-such.  But when I ask you if you have read my book, you will profess surprise, and say that you have never heard of it.  “Is it as good as so-and-so and such-and-such?” you will ask, hardly believing that this could be possible.  “Much better,” I shall reply—­and there, if these things were arranged properly, would be another ten per cent, in my pocket.  But, believe me, I shall be quite content with your gratitude.  Well, the writer of my book is Kenneth Grahame.  You have heard of him?  Good, I thought so.  The books you have read are The Golden Age. and Dream Days.  Am I not right?  Thank you.  But the book you have not read—­ my book—­is The Wind in the Willows.  Am I not right again?  Ah, I was afraid so.

The reason why I knew you had not read it is the reason why I call it “my” book.  For the last ten or twelve years I have been recommending it.  Usually I speak about it at my first meeting with a stranger.  It is my opening remark, just as yours is something futile about the weather.  If I don’t get it in at the beginning, I squeeze it in at the end.  The stranger has got to have it some time.  Should I ever find myself in the dock, and one never knows, my answer to the question whether I had anything to say would be, “Well, my lord, if I might just recommend a book to the jury before leaving.”  Mr. Justice Darling would probably pretend that he had read it, but he wouldn’t deceive me.