tion or subordination, until we read over the pages of the first draft of the completed composition; but we are very certain to detect them if they are displayed even in part in the divisions of an outline of some kind. It scarcely need be added that all departures from logical sequence are likewise easily detected when the thought-order is represented on paper.

But probably the greatest single advantage in making a plan lies in the opportunity it affords to harmonize emphasis and symmetry. When we write, we are not free to devote as much space to a division of our subject as we may desire, or as it seems to merit when considered alone; nor may we always give it the prominence of position which for the moment it seems to demand. We must keep in mind its comparative importance and the part which it must contribute to the symmetry of the whole composition. The problem is the same one that the architect encounters in making the plans of a dwelling house. He must have a certain number of rooms, they must be of different sizes according to the uses to which each is to be put, and they must be so arranged in a group that they shall serve the convenience of everyday life. The kitchen must be close to the dining room, the dining room must be close to the living room, the library must be convenient to the living room, and the parlors must not be far from either the living room or the dining room. With a due regard for all these demands, the architect must plan a house pleasant to behold. Its exterior must be as complete and artistic as its interior is convenient. In a similar way, the writer must harmonize proportion and position with symmetry.

IV. THE ACT OF WRITING

The putting of ideas on paper is such a complex activity that it leads many people to believe that the genius alone can write at least write well. The genius is the man who sees an infinite number of relations at once. When he directs his mental powers upon a subject which comes within the range of his interest, ideas crowd upon him for expression until his pages are rich

with the aptness and completeness of his thinking. Because of his interest in his subject, his whole being is aglow. But he never lets the heat break forth into a flame. Now this power of concentration tempered with this sympathetic restraint is the fundamental demand in reducing thought to paper. We must see things in the large; we must be able to look at the whole range of our proposed piece of writing and see at a glance all the relations of the coördinate and subordinate parts, so that, as we write, everything we have in mind on the subject will come into our full consciousness when it is needed. The ability to do this, the ability which the genius possesses conspicuously, all of us possess in some degree. It depends, let it be observed, upon alertness and a complete command of our mental powers; and these, in turn, depend largely upon conditions that we can control.

A. THE TIME TO WRITE

The first of these conditions is time. Unquestionably we are ready to write at some times and are not at others. When are we ready? To begin with, we are ready only after a period of time has elapsed since we first thought on the subject, and if possible, since we finished the plan of our work. Young writers are often misled into believing that they are full of ideas on a subject as soon as it is suggested to them; and all of us, regardless of age, occasionally have the feeling immediately after a subject has been presented to us in a fresh way that we have much to say on that subject. But we are rarely ever ready to write at these times when the mind seems full and the way seems clear. The stimulation of the new thought is beguiling. The truth is, our first ideas on a subject, though they may be essentially sound, are usually covered with very much light froth and foam. If we hope to have a full, clear stream of thought, we must give it time to flow away from its immediate origin and take into its own existence a hundred tributary streams. Or, to change the figure, we must brood over our

ideas until they become self-sustaining and vigorous. Almost without exception, writers of full experience testify that they carry their "seed ideas ” in mind for months and years before they put pen to paper in an effort to express them. "We say,

I will walk ' abroad' and the truth will take form and clearness to me. We go forth but cannot find it. It seems as if we needed only the stillness and composed attitude of the library to seize the thought. But we come in and are as far from it as at first. Then, in a moment and unannounced, the truth appears. A certain wandering light appears and is the distinction, the principle, we wanted. But the oracle comes because we had previously laid siege to the shrine." 1 Of course, it may be said that hurried composition is frequently necessary, as in writing for daily newspapers. But writing of this kind, though it may serve its immediate purpose admirably, always leaves an impression of its transient nature. Writers who hope to have a more permanent consideration of their work usually try to have their original ideas and their original plans enriched and reënforced by the sure increase which comes with the mere passing of time.

Moreover, the time to write must be considered from another point of view. After we have enriched our material by holding it in mind and thinking over it for a period, there is still for each of us a best time to write, some time when our minds are fresh and free. For most people, this best creative period is in the morning. Occasionally we learn of a writer who does his work in the quiet of the night, but most writers who "burn the midnight oil " exist only in the imagination. As much may be said, too, about the authors who write only when the "mood " leads them irresistibly to their desks. The creative mind, whether it gives itself to mechanical or electrical invention or to writing, must depend for its sustenance on the same physical food and rest that give renewed vigor to the mind busied with bookkeeping or farming. We ought not to be surprised, then, to learn that writers who live regular lives get up in the morning and begin their work very much as other people do. On some 1 Emerson, Intellect.

days they find that work goes easily, and on others that it drags heavily, just as it does in other occupations. Nevertheless, they work on. Of the half hundred writers who contributed their experience to this chapter, all except one said they did their work regularly in the morning. The one exception said he learned to write at night while he was in a newspaper office, and had not changed his practice. He thought, however, that the practice he had followed was a bad one and that it should be avoided. Only two of these fifty writers said they were directed to their work by a "mood," and these two were writers of poetry. With these exceptions, all said they took little account of moods. After they were once fully convinced that they had mastered their material, they went to their work morning after morning until it was finished. 'I am an unfortunate creature who cannot indulge in the leisure and luxury of moods." "I have no time to recognize moods of any sort." "I take little account of moods." "After I have begun, moods play very little part." "I never wait for 'mood.'" Waiting for a mood is useless, at least for me." These are representative testimonials from men and women who write as their chief business in life. To be sure, they were unanimous in saying that their effectiveness varied noticeably, that on some days the result of their efforts required very little revising, while on others it was very unsatisfactory; yet they were, with the two exceptions previously noted, equally a unit in saying that they did not for this reason confine their work to the times when they felt as if they could do unusually well. By their testimony we are brought to the conclusion that consciously or unconsciously they follow Dr. Johnson's advice not to "wait for the afflatus," but, when their minds are renewed through sleep, " to sit down doggedly." Such a method tends to create the very state of mind necessary to the most effective writing.

B. THE PLACE TO WRITE

Likewise the place in which we do our writing must be regarded as a circumstance of some importance. Although it is folly

to confuse absence of thinking with an inauspicious room or desk, some consideration of place is necessary. In writing, as in the doing of other kinds of work, we should have good light, reasonable quiet, and plenty of fresh air. These conditions, too often regarded solely as subject-matter for committees on hygiene, are sometimes as important to a student as his knowledge of the cardinal principles of composition. If he would work most advantageously, he must have regard for them.

Other conditions are sometimes developed to serve as special inducements to easy expression, but they usually embody only some one's mere whim, or supply some self-created demand. They are, then, of comparatively little importance. It probably does not help the student of composition very much to know that Dickens and Ibsen always kept idols on their tables in order that they might visualize more clearly; that Schiller kept overripe apples in his desk and frequently sat with his feet in a basin of cold water; or that Young stuck a candle in a skull before him for the purpose of producing the desired "atmosphere." Knowledge of this kind is for the curiosity seeker, not the young writer. If we have distributed the study of our subject over a reasonably long period of time, if we make ourselves comfortable and write when we are normally at our best, we may feel that we have met the important external conditions of the act of writing.

C. THE PROPER ATTITUDE TOWARD THE PRINCIPLES
OF COMPOSITION

A perplexing problem which confronts the learner when he sits down to write is that of making the principles of composition, unity, coherence, emphasis, and variety, — serve him in any practical way. He supposes that they are of some value since he is required to study them laboriously; but when he tries to think of the principles while he is writing, he finds that he is thereby hindered in what he wants to say, and is in almost as sorry a plight as if he had never heard of them. This state