order to be concluded in
our next, the revolvers ought to prove to be unloaded. I admit that this
invention of mine is odious, and quite un-English, and such as would never
occur to a right-minded subscriber to Mudie's. But it illustrates the mood
caused in me by witnessing the antics of those harrowing dolls.

W.W. JACOBS AND ARISTOPHANES

[_24 Oct. '08_]

I have been reading a new novel by Mr. W.W. Jacobs--"Salthaven" (Methuen,
6s.). It is a long time since I read a book of his. Ministries have fallen
since then, and probably Mr. Jacobs' prices have risen--indeed, much has
happened--but the talent of the author of "Many Cargoes" remains steadfast
where it did. "Salthaven" is a funny book. Captain Trimblett, to excuse
the lateness of a friend for tea, says to the landlady: "He saw a man
nearly run over!" and the landlady replies: "Yes, but how long would that
take him?" If you ask me whether I consider this humorous, I reply that I
do. I also consider humorous this conversational description of an
exemplary boy who took to "Sandford and Merton" "as a duck takes to
water": "By modelling his life on its teaching" (says young Vyner) "he won
a silver medal for never missing an attendance at school. Even the measles
failed to stop him. Day by day, a little more flushed than usual, perhaps,
he sat in his place until the whole school was down with it, and had to be
closed in consequence. Then and not till then did he feel that he had
saved the situation." I care nothing for the outrageous improbability of
any youthful son of a shipowner being able to talk in the brilliant
fashion in which Mr. Jacobs makes Vyner talk. Success excuses it.
"Salthaven" is bathed in humour.

* * * * *

At the same time I am dissatisfied with "Salthaven." And I do not find it
easy to explain why. I suppose the real reason is that it discloses no
signs of any development whatever on the part of the author. Worse, it
discloses no signs of intellectual curiosity on the part of the author.
Mr. Jacobs seems to live apart from the movement of his age. Nothing,
except the particular type of humanity and environment in which he
specializes, seems to interest him. There is no hint of a general idea in
his work. By some of his fellow-artists he is immensely admired. I have
heard him called, seriously, the greatest humorist since Aristophanes. I
admire him myself, and I will not swear that he is not the greatest
hu