known in two hemispheres; "write new things in an old way or old things
in a new way or new things in a new way. Do not write old things in an
old way; it will be as though you strove to build a fire with ashes."

"And is that all?" asked Richard.

"It is the whole of letters," said the finished one. With that Richard,
nursing a stout heart, began his grind.

Every writer, not a mere bricklayer of words, has what for want of
better epithet is called a style. There be writers whose style is broad
and deep and lucid like a lake. It shimmers bravely as some ray of fancy
touches it, or it tosses in billows with some stormy stress of feeling.
And yet, you who read must spread some personal sail and bring some gale
of favoring interest all your own, to carry you across. There be writers
whose style is swift and flashing like a river, and has a current to
whirl you along. The style seizes on you and takes you down the page,
showing the right and the left of the subject as a river shows its
banks. You are swept round some unexpected bend of incident, and given
new impressions in new lights. Addison was the king of those who wrote
like a lake; Macaulay of those who wrote like a river. The latter is the
better style, giving more and carrying further and tiring less.

Richard belonged by native gift to the Macaulay school. He tasted the
incense of his occupation when, having sent his first story, the night
manager wired:

"Great! Keep it up."

Richard read and re-read the four words, and it must be confessed felt