Of art I never grow weary, but she calls me over the world.  I suspect the sedentary art worker.  Most of all I suspect the sedentary writer.  I divide authors into two classes—­genuine artists, and educated men who wish to earn enough to let them live like country gentlemen.  With the latter I have no concern.  But the artist knows when his time has come.  In the same way I turned with irresistible longing to the sea, whereon I had been wont to earn my living.  It is a good life and I love it.  I love the men and their ships.  I find in them a never-ending panorama which illustrates my theme, the problem of human folly.

Mr. McFee, you see, has some excuse for being a good writer because he has never had to write for a living.  He has been writing for the fun of it ever since he was an apprentice in a big engineering shop in London twenty years ago.  His profession deals with exacting and beautiful machinery, and he could no more do hack writing than hack engineering.  And unlike the other English realists of his generation who have cultivated a cheap flippancy, McFee finds no exhilaration in easy sneers at middle-class morality.  He has a dirk up his sleeve for Gentility (how delightfully he flays it in Aliens) but he loves the middle classes for just what they are:  the great fly-wheel of the world.  His attitude toward his creations is that of a “benevolent marbleheart” (his own phrase).  He has seen some of the seams of life, and like McAndrew he has hammered his own philosophy.  It is a manly, just, and gentle creed, but not a soft one.  Since the war began he has been on sea service, first on a beef-ship and transport in the Mediterranean, now as sub-lieutenant in the British Navy.  When the war is over, and if he feels the call of the desk, Mr. McFee’s brawny shoulder will sit in at the literary feast and a big handful of scribblers will have to drop down the dumb-waiter shaft to make room for him.  It is a disconcerting figure in Grub Street, the man who really has something to say.

Publishers are always busy casting horoscopes for their new finds.  How the benign planets must have twirled in happy curves when Harold Bell Wright was born, if one may credit his familiar mage, Elsbury W. Reynolds!  But the fame that is built merely on publishers’ press sheets does not dig very deep in the iron soil of time.  We are all only raft-builders, as Lord Dunsany tells us in his little parable; even the raft that Homer made for Helen must break up some day.  Who in these States knows the works of Nat Gould?  Twelve million of his dashing paddock novels have been sold in England, but he is as unknown here as is Preacher Wright in England.  What is so dead as a dead best seller?  Sometimes it is the worst sellers that come to life, roll away the stone, and an angel is found sitting laughing in the sepulchre.  Let me quote Mr. McFee once more:  “I have no taste for blurb, but I cannot refuse facts.”