andidate must
avoid and points out qualities which every good piece of writing should
have, Stevenson writes a delightful essay on "The Profession of Letters"
or "A Gossip on Romance." These essays are very inspiring. They are too
inspiring. They make the reader feel that he can go out and write like
Stevenson. And then a lot of two-cent stamps are wasted and a lot more
editors are cross when they get home at night.

On the other hand, the result of Miss Klickmann's book is to make the
reader who feels a writing spell coming on stop and give pause. He finds
enumerated among the horrors of manuscript-reading several items which
he was on the point of injecting into his own manuscript with
considerable pride. He may decide that the old job in the shipping-room
isn't so bad after all, with its little envelope coming in regularly
every week. As a former member of the local manuscript-readers' union, I
will give one of three rousing cheers for any good work that Miss
Klickmann may do in this field. One writer kept very busy at work in the
shipping-room every day is a victory for literature. I used to have a
job in a shipping-room myself, so I know.

If, for instance, the subject under discussion were that of learning to
skate, Miss Klickmann might advise as follows:

1. Don't try to skate if your ankles are weak.

2. Get skates that fit you. A skate which can't be put on when you get
to the pond, or one which drags behind your foot by the strap, is worse
than no skate at all.

3. If you are sure that you are ready, get on your feet and skate.

On the same subject, Scribners might bring to light something that
Stevenson had written to a young friend about to take his first lesson
in skating, reading as follows:

"To know the secret of skating is, indeed, I have always thought, the
beginning of winter-long pleasance. It comes as sweet deliverance from
the tedium of indoor isolation and brings exhilaration, now with a swift
glide to the right, now with a deft swerve to the left, now with a deep
breath of healthy air, now with a long exhalation of ozone, which the
lungs, like greedy misers, have cast aside after draining it of its
treasure. But it is not health that we love nor exhilaration that we
seek, though we may think so; our design and our sufficient reward is to
verify our own existence, say what you will.

"And so, my dear young friend, I would say to you: Open up your heart;
sing as you skate; sing inharmoniou