now, to degrade the whole remainder of one's life. I spoke of the "moral equivalent" of war. So far, war has been the only force that can discipline a whole community, and until an equivalent discipline is organized, I believe that war must have its way. But I have no serious doubt that the ordinary prides and shames of social man, once developed to a certain intensity, are capable of organizing such a moral equivalent as I have sketched, or some other just as effective for preserving manliness of type. It is but a question of time, of skillful propagandism, and of opinion-making men seizing historic opportunities.1

C. IMAGINATIVE QUICKENING

Finally, if a writer is to master his material in the fullest sense, he must give it a certain imaginative quickening. To be sure, the writer who knows his subject thoroughly and has thought it over until it has become crystal clear can do much useful writing. What he says will be reliable and intelligible. But as there is no full intellectual power without imagination, so there can be no real mastery of material without it. When the need of an imaginative touch is urged upon the scientist or the historian, he sometimes interprets the counsel as sanctioning a degree of untruth in his work. Of course nothing of the sort is intended. The real point is that unless the writer who presents facts has the imagination to catch a larger view of these facts, to see them in their larger relations, he must miss their larger significance. Although he can offer an accurate and clear record, he can help his reader to no new vision. In the same way, the narrative writer who has merely brought a few characters into interesting situations may be able to afford his reader some amusement. But unless he has mastered his characters in the sense that they have become for him real persons fitting into the drama of life, he cannot tell a story that will be the source of abiding inspiration. In any kind of composition the fullest effectiveness demands that the writer bring his imagination to bear on the material until it is illumined and vitalized. Only then is he ready to address his reader.

1 William James, The Moral Equivalent of War.

II. THE WRITER AND THE READER

Readiness to write avails nothing, however, unless a writer conveys to some one else the material he has mastered; communication of any sort is "a double-ended process." In reality every piece of composition constitutes a problem in applied psychology. It is by the writer's personal attitude and skillful methods of presentation that he must succeed in making whatever he has to say reach his reader. The words, "Get your man!" which football and basketball coaches are continually ringing out in practice, might well be adopted by the writer. It may be that in rare instances a reader's voluntary attention can be taken for granted; in such cases, accuracy and clearness will be enough to make the writing acceptable. For instance, one who reads an article in an encyclopedia must get certain information, and he is satisfied if he finds it in intelligible form. But far more often a writer has to earn his right to be read. Whether he tell a tale of personal experience, or sketch his impression of a winter landscape, or urge some plan for civic betterment, he must make what he has to say concern some one other than himself. Much writing goes unread simply because authors feel neither inclination nor obligation to consider their readers. The common fault with the writing which scientists and other experts do for the general public is that it either bores or confuses. And occasionally a novelist like Henry James, or a dramatist like Ibsen, or a poet like Browning, who has a really valuable idea to convey, fails to make himself understood because he does not hold his reader in mind as he writes. On the other hand, the need of winning the reader may be so imperative that the writer is betrayed into serious compromises of good taste, or into loose handling of truth. The business writer who must keep his sales letter out of the wastebasket until his prospective customer has read it, the editor who must get his newspaper read widely enough to attract advertising, the magazine writer who wants to popularize the facts of science, all these are in constant danger of losing full

effectiveness because they think too much of catching their reader's passing interest. There is, then, a very nice balance to be struck between indifference and catering. The effective writer must win and hold his reader, but he must do it without sacrificing either material or good form.

A. THE ATTITUDE OF THE WRITER

Without doubt a writer's attitude has much to do with his success in reaching readers. Any conscientiousness, any enthusiasm, any high seriousness, any strength on his part will be subtly but unmistakably communicated to the reader and will inspire in him an eager and confident attentiveness. On the contrary, just as soon as the writer shows any disposition to treat his work indifferently or any tendency to handle his ideas or situations inadequately, the reader feels it and becomes correspondingly more difficult to reach. Every writer, therefore, must ascertain how his own spirit of work can aid him in enlisting his reader's attention.

1. Devotion to clearness. Usually the first thing that impresses a reader favorably is the writer's devotion to clearness. Brunetière has characterized the good writer as one who says all he means to say, says only what he means to say, and says it exactly as he means to say it; and Mr. Arnold Bennett has remarked that "the great convenience of masterpieces is that they are so astonishingly lucid." And yet this quality of transparency, this "electric communication from writer to reader, with the least possible resistance," is by no means easy of attainment. Anyone who has had the slightest experience with serious composition knows that the English language can prove itself a very stubborn and even inadequate medium. To succeed at all in presenting his material, a writer must have a devotion to clearness amounting almost to a passion. He insists on eliminating all obscurity, not alone because he craves exact self-expression, but also because he wants to convey his idea to his reader with the utmost accuracy and lucidity.

And to attain this crystal clearness he is willing to take infinite pains. He will hold himself to the closest thinking. He will wrestle with the language to make it convey his meaning unmistakably. But more than all else, he will strive to understand his reader. The very foundations of clearness lie in intelligent | sympathy. When by conscientious endeavor he can take his reader's point of view, think with his reader's mind, and realize the interests which grow out of his reader's experiences, his writing will go straight to the mark. Thus Dr. Charles Cuthbert Hall, who spoke with notable effectiveness in India on certain aspects of Christianity, spent several months at Oxford studying the literature of the Orient in order that he might understand the mental attitude of the people whom he was to address. The same careful effort to meet the intellectual needs of the audience is evident in the following statement which appears in the preface of William James's Talks to Teachers on Psychology: "I have found by experience that what my hearers seem least to relish is analytical technicality, and what they most care for is concrete practical application. So I have gradually weeded out the former and left the latter unreduced; and now, that I have at last written out the lectures, they contain a minimum of what is deemed 'scientific' in psychology, and are practical and popular in the extreme. Some of my colleagues may possibly shake their heads at this; but in taking my cue from what has seemed to me to be the feeling of the audiences, I believe that I am shaping my book so as to satisfy the more genuine public need." Indeed this full conscientiousness, this thoroughgoing devotion to clearness on the writer's part, must lie back of all successful communication.

1

2. Sincerity. Another quality which is sure to aid a writer in "getting his man " is sincerity. Mr. Kipling has said that every effort of art is an effort to be sincere "; and it certainly is true that all of us expect a writer to be fair and frank in the expression of his thought. Thackeray knew this, and in the preface of Pendennis met the reader's natural attitude squarely:

1 Henry Holt and Company.

"As we judge of a man's character, after long frequenting his society, not by one speech, or by one mood or opinion, or by one day's talk, but by the tenor of his general bearing and conversation, so of a writer, who delivers himself up to you perforce unreservedly, you say, Is he honest? Does he tell the truth in the main? Does he seem actuated by a desire to find out and speak it? Is he a quack, who shams sentiment, or mouths for effect? Does he seek popularity by claptraps or other arts? . . . I have no right to say to these [readers], You shall not find fault with my art, or fall asleep over my pages; but I ask you to believe that this person writing strives to tell the truth. If there is not that, there is nothing."

Neither agile thinking

The first element of sincerity, then, is honesty. But for a writer to believe what he writes is only the commonest kind of fairness. Fairness in the fullest sense demands more than truth-telling of the obvious sort. It is just as much a part of honesty for a writer to hold an open, unprejudiced mind, not twisting his data to make out a case or forcibly interfering with his characters as they live out the story in their own way, as it is for him to avoid an outright lie. Without this full truthfulness he cannot satisfy his reader. nor skilled technique can possibly make writing ring true or atone for its inevitable hollowness if it is not honest. But sincerity also includes frankness. It requires a writer to say what he believes as well as believe what he says. This is sometimes dangerous, to be sure, but it usually commands attention and it often wins a reader permanently. Burke involved himself in some temporary unpopularity by his spirited plea for conciliation with the American Colonies, but undoubtedly his bold frankness had much to do with giving his famous speech its lasting power. Similarly, frankness contributes to the rugged strength of Emerson's essays, and makes the graceful self-revelations of Lamb and Stevenson altogether charming. In truth, every manifestation of sincerity in a writer inspires confidence in the reader and helps materially to enlist his interested

attention.