possible movements in politics for the next two or three years, the consolidation of railway systems, the prices of wheat and stocks and bonds, the progress of important legal contests, the work of Congress, the guests at the White House, the policy of our leading institutions of learning, the new books published, the prominent passengers on every arriving or departing ocean steamship, the newest fashions in dress, the serious losses of life and property, the number of hits and errors in the baseball games of the day before, and the latest feats in aviation. The quickened life which grows out of this wide range of interest creates new demands for greater skill of every kind.

As a part of this general demand, there is an insistent cry for more effective writing. People who in their wider and richer experience have learned that it is possible to have all things done well are weary of legislators who cannot write laws, of business correspondents who cannot write letters, and of friends who offend because through crudity they say what they do not mean. Perhaps in other days a man who was too indolent to give attention to his writing might have avoided the necessity; crude expression might have served him. But to-day, under the influence of our quickened civilization, a man can scarcely hope to become an important factor in society unless he can express himself with some degree of adequacy. People will not stop to listen to him if he cannot explain his wants clearly and without unnecessary hesitation; and they will not do what he desires if he cannot convince them and move them to action. And if a man is unable to use his mother tongue accurately, he not only turns many away from him day by day because of his obvious habits of carelessness, but when a supreme opportunity comes, he is, through his lack of power, unable to reach a large part of his audience of readers. Unless he is content to be a third-rate lawyer, minister, business man, or scientist, and is willing to be forever classed as uneducated, he must be able to increase the value of his thoughts by expressing them skillfully.

II. CURRENT OBJECTIONS TO TRAINING
IN COMPOSITION

Not always, however, do we agree upon the means to an end when we have agreed that the end is desirable. Thus students sometimes admit the importance of a mastery of composition, but allow little objections to keep them from the full benefit of training designed to lead to that mastery. Such objections should not take us far aside; yet, because they represent a condition of mind that should not be disregarded, we shall be better fitted to pursue our way if we determine whether they are well founded. They are not wholly unnatural in character, for it must be remembered that unless we are exceedingly conscientious, we almost invariably object to doing anything that may prove to be a little unpleasant or wearisome, or that does not promise immediate results. Consequently, when we come face to face with a course of study and practice which requires many weeks of patient labor, it is not altogether surprising that some of us wonder if there is not an easier way, or if there are not many good reasons why we should ignore every way proposed. With students who falter in the performance of difficult tasks, three or four of these objections have become traditional.

A. IMPOSSIBLE: WRITING IS WHOLLY A GIFT

The first of these is that writing is wholly a gift and therefore cannot be learned; that some persons write well without training, and that all others are doomed to failure even if they devote their entire lives to constant effort. Usually the champions of this objection dismiss the whole question by quoting with an air of finality the much-abused words, " Poets are born, not made." The quotation reveals their erroneous conception of writing and emphasizes the fact that the objection is based upon a false or a narrow definition. Writing, they would have us believe, embraces only the loftiest kind of literature, the very

rare kind that sometimes seems to transcend all human knowledge and all law. In other words, they assume that in matters of written expression only the higher, incommunicable power exists. In all other fields of creative work we know that both the incommunicable and the communicable are normally present. For example, the great architect, the one who plans buildings that are permanent monuments to his ability, possesses, we assume, the incommunicable power; yet there are many other excellent architects who do their work well not because of unusual native endowments, but because they have mastered their art and its craft through rigorous training and patient labor. The ability of the former may be necessary in designing a great cathedral, but the highly developed lesser power of the latter may render equally important service by planning attractive cottages, fireproof factories and office buildings, and comfortable apartment houses. In the field of composition there is a like division of ability. The highest, rarest kind of writing, we may believe, results only from a power that cannot be communicated; but most of it requires only reasonable and persistent intelligence.

As soon as we see that there are two kinds of creative power and that the more ordinary kind, the communicable, is valuable in doing a large part of the world's work, this objection loses its force. At once it seems surprising that an intelligent person should believe that the literary deities, through some irrevocable decree, had prevented him forever from exercising his intelligence in just one respect, that of making himself understood. Yes, poets, - that is, great poets, are born, not made; but as much may be said of great blacksmiths, great athletes, great engineers, great musicians, great sculptors, great architects. The highest ability of any sort is inborn. Nevertheless, most of the world's blacksmithing, most of its sport, most of its engineering, most of its music, most of its sculpture, and most of its architecture will always be the product of ability that is not unusual. If, then, we believe that our ability is very ordinary, this objection that writing is wholly a gift should not influence us away from painstaking effort.

Assuredly a course in writing will not make a man speak wisdom if he is not wise; neither will it make him say anything well when he has nothing to say. We cannot make a fifty horsepower engine pull a hundred horse-power load. But we can make it pull a fifty horse-power load. Many people who really have something to say have not mastered the English language well enough to gain a hearing. Every college student, unless he has already become skilled in expression, ought to be included in this class. If from daily contact with other students, with teachers, with books, and with the variety of life which usually surrounds a college community, he is not stimulated to say something which, if said well, would be of interest to somebody, he is scarcely qualified to pursue studies of any kind in a higher institution of learning. He ought to find it worth while to express himself accurately and interestingly, if he is full of nothing more than doubt and uncertainty. Any state of mind, any opinion sincerely held, let it be remembered, is interesting if it is presented faithfully.

But what of those who possess the unusual gift? Although the authors of this book are writing it primarily for the many who have only ordinary ability, it doubtless will fall into the hands of some who feel that they are especially favored. These may believe that since they write promisingly, systematic practice is unnecessary. Let us see what genius itself has said about the matter:

"This [constructive] ability is based, to be sure, in great part, upon the faculty of analysis, enabling the artist to get full view of the machinery of his proposed effect, and thus work it and regulate it at will; but a great deal depends upon properties strictly moral; for example, upon patience, upon concentrativeness, or the power of holding the attention steadily to one purpose, upon self-dependence and contempt for all opinion which is opinion and no more in especial, upon energy and industry. So vitally important is this last, that it may be well doubted if anything to which we have been accustomed to give the title of a' work of genius' was ever accomplished without it." 1

1 Poe, Marginalia.

From this expression of belief and the scores of others of which it is typical, we may safely assume that at least a large part of genius is aptitude for labor.

B. UNNECESSARY: SKILL IS GAINED INCIDENTALLY

Another objection is sometimes heard: the study of composition is unnecessary, since other college courses furnish the intellectual fiber which must be the foundation of all effective writing and provide many opportunities for incidental practice. The first part of this objection requires no answer, inasmuch as brain sinew may be as easily developed in a course of writing as in a course of any other kind. In answer to the second part, it should be said in the first place that the amount of writing required in other studies is comparatively small — too small to be of much value as training in composition. Even if the amount were large, its value would not be increased greatly, since the criticisms which teachers in other departments offer must be directed mainly to the subject-matter. Whenever they turn their chief attention to matters of expression, they defeat the real purpose of their own courses. It is undeniably true that every piece of writing which a student does as a part of any college requirement ought to be criticized as English by the teacher directly concerned; but there should be an opportunity for the student to practice writing and have it criticized primarily, and not incidentally, as expression. We should devote some time to the mastery of technique, in order that when we write solely for the purpose of instructing or interesting or convincing others, we may give our time freely to the subject in hand, with only incidental thought about form. "In your own art, bow your head over technique. Think of technique when you rise and when you go to bed. Forget purpose in the meanwhile; get to love technical processes; to glory in technical successes; get to see the world entirely through technical spectacles, to see it in terms of what you can do.