always gave me a good position in the paper. He liked me personally,
and always put my name to my reviews; which was a thing against the
rule of the paper--that being that only articles by celebrated persons
were to be signed.

This is a point sometimes questioned. It seems to me that it is a good
thing for the reviewer to have his work signed, particularly for the
young reviewer, whose yet ardent spirit craves a place in the sun. It
contributes to his pleasant conception of reviewing as a fine thing to
do. It makes him more alive than the anonymous thing. He meets people
who brighten at the recollection of having read his name. I know a man
who was a very witty reviewer (when he was young); that fellow used to
get love letters from ladies he had never seen, just like a baseball
pitcher, or a tenor; there was a rich man who ate meals at the Century
Club had him there to dinner, because he thought him funny; he got a
note from a Literary Adviser asking him for a book manuscript; and two
persons wrote him from San Francisco. I myself have had courteous
letters thanking me from authors here and in England. That fellow of
whom I just spoke undoubtedly was on the threshold of a brilliant
career; he was full of courage and laughter, though very poor. Then a
great man offered him a Position as a literary editor. His name ceased
to be seen; I heard of him after a year, and it was said of him that he
was dreadfully bald and had a long beard, I mean of course
metaphorically speaking.

Whether signed reviewers are conducive to honesty I am not sure. There
was a man (I know him well) wrote a book on Alaska or some such place,
claimed he had been there. There was another man, his friend, who was
a reviewer. Now the Alaskaian said to the critic: "Why don't you get
my book from the paper? I'll write the review--I know more about the