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Then when you have anything to say, the language will be apt and copious." 1

Perhaps a word should be added about the relation between reading literature and writing. Sometimes we are told that if we thoroughly saturate ourselves with the writings of others, we thereby learn how to write without submitting to the pains of systematic practice. This view touches the imagination pleasantly, but overestimates the influence of reading. Literature is a powerful ally of composition, but it is not a substitute for it. When we are practicing in our own way, the influence of the movement and the tone of the literature we read will sooner or later reveal itself in our writing. We should remember, however, that there are innumerable matters of technique that must be mastered before this influence can become operative. We can learn to do a thing only by doing it. In music, for example, we do not learn by hearing great artists play and by trying a selection ourselves occasionally; we must learn through almost endless exercises how individual effects are produced. If some one urges that the reading will be sufficient if it is only done closely and with conscious effort, it may be said in reply that reading is usually least valuable when one is striving to be influenced by it. Such a method cultivates imitativeness rather than individuality, and imitativeness is as undesirable in writing as it is in any other art. To be sure, we should read much while we are learning to write, but we should remember that mere association with art does not produce a skilled craftsman.

C. INJURIOUS: DESTROYS SPONTANEITY

Still another objection that students sometimes make to systematic practice in writing is that it destroys spontaneity, the full, free play of their mental powers, especially the imagination. This objection is based chiefly upon a false conception of spontaneity and the place which it legitimately holds in creative

1 Stevenson: A letter to Trevor Haddon, a young art student. The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson. Charles Scribner's Sons.

work. It assumes that whatever is spontaneous is good, and should not be modified. Now the true value of spontaneity lies in its adaptability to some medium that will convey its spirit to others. Unrestrained gush is rarely ever worth writing down. The language of enlightened people is not simply a natural utterance in response to stimulus of some kind; it is spontaneous thought or feeling rendered intelligible; that is, it is spontaneity within the limitations imposed by language. "Let us look at the case in this way: Nature in her loftier and more passionate moods, while detesting all appearance of restraint, is not wont to show herself utterly wayward and reckless; and though in all cases the vital informing principle is derived from her, yet to determine the right degree and the right moment, and to contribute the precision of practice and experience, is the peculiar province of scientific method." The apparent abandon of the master of his art is not freedom from restraint, but easy power of self-direction. Thus it becomes obvious that spontaneity, to be effective, must be reduced to some state of law and order; it must be made to conform to the conventions of language, and it must be adapted to the audience for whom it is written.

Furthermore, this objection does not take into account the necessity of self-conscious processes in all educational training. It assumes that we have thoroughly learned to do a thing before we attempt to do it; and that from the beginning, the execution. of newly designed plans is an easy matter. If this were true, the case would be altered; but it is not true. Everything of consequence that we attempt to do after we have passed the years of early infancy involves conscious attention when we first begin to do it. And if we later find that we did not learn accurately or completely, we must again pass through a selfconscious period until we have relearned or modified the knowledge or skill previously acquired. Thus an effort to learn the touch" system of typewriting for a time makes it impossible for us to write as rapidly as we did when we employed only the

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1 Longinus, On the Sublime, II. Havell's translation. The Macmillan Company.

index finger of each hand; but when we learn the new system, writing becomes an almost unconscious activity and leaves us free to concentrate all our attention on the thought we are trying to express. Likewise, the girl who has learned to play " by ear " finds herself almost hopelessly confused when she is taking her first piano lessons; yet when the awkward, self-conscious period is over, she again plays with ease, and with the ease she possesses a sureness unknown to her before. Or, to take another illustration, the boy who grows up in a community where "American German " is spoken thinks he knows much about the German language; but when he goes to school or college and studies the uncorrupted tongue, he finds that there are scores of things which he must unlearn and relearn before he can really be said to write or speak it correctly. In the same manner we must learn our own language. Because of early association, because of our habits of carelessness, or simply because of immaturity, we are compelled to put ourselves through much rigorous training in order that we may later express our individuality freely, yet in conformity to the demands of the language in which we write. In the process we should have no fear for our spontaneity. If it is vigorous enough to be worth keeping, it will in due time emerge from the mental background in which it has been temporarily obscured. We might well apply the words of Saint-Gaudens to the study of our own art: "You are not going to make or ruin your imagination while here. That is something that will remain if you have it in you; that you cannot acquire if you are not blessed with it. But here you may learn to handle your tools. So measure, copy, plumb." 1

D. UNINTERESTING: A DULL GRIND WITHOUT

PRACTICAL COMPENSATION

A fourth objection is that training in writing is uninteresting; that it requires long hours of grinding work and offers little prac

1 Quoted by Homer Saint-Gaudens in the Century Magazine, Vol. 78, p. 615.

tical compensation. This objection may arise from the failure of the teacher to adapt the course to the needs of the student, or it may grow out of the student's own habitual indifference and deadened feeling of responsibility. In either case the fault is not inherently in the teaching of composition, but in unnecessary attendant circumstances. If a teacher has disregarded the laws of interest in planning a course, he can through careful study of conditions learn what should be done in order to render criticism pointless. Usually, however, the objection grows out of the student's false notion of what is interesting. A thing is interesting not because it is easy or because it is novel, but because it touches our own experience or our own welfare. If, then, we make no effort to put our training in composition to a legitimate use, or if we do not strive to see how it thus might be made serviceable if need should arise, it will, of course, be nothing more than a dry academic exercise. On the other hand, if we try to utilize it in our study of other subjects, in our social recreation, and in the work toward which we are looking for permanent occupation, it will be full of vitality. The indifferent student of mathematics becomes deeply interested in the subject when he decides to become an engineer; the student who dislikes Latin finds it teeming with interest when he becomes a student of Romance literature; and the listless student of chemistry or zoölogy discovers that the subject is a pleasant one after he has fully determined to be a physician. Likewise the student of composition finds new delight in his work when he sees how it increases his opportunities in other academic pursuits, in social life, in business, and in the professions.

III. THE VALUE OF TRAINING

A. CULTIVATION OF THE MIND

With these objections out of the way it ought to become much easier for us to see the value of training in composition. What, then, is this value? What, presupposing at least a submissive

willingness to learn, is a student to gain by giving his time and energy to a course in writing? If we put aside the discipline which results from the study of the comparatively small body of theory necessary in carrying on practice with profit, and

this study is, of course, as valuable as the study of theory in any other subject, we have still to inquire into the effects which regular practice under direction will produce. Let us notice first the value of this practice as educative drill, as a means of increasing one's mental efficiency.

1. Cultivation by sharpening observation. In developing the analytical and creative powers of the mind, it is necessary to have as a basis the power of wide and accurate observation. Too frequently, it is to be feared, students regard the habit of looking at things intently as something that should be suppressed because they think it betrays a childish or rural curiosity. In its stead they cultivate an attitude of condescending indifference. This, unfortunately, always contributes much to the destruction of the spirit of inquiry, and frequently causes the ones who encourage it the humiliating misfortune of experiencing a vague falsehood every time they look at anything. Such an attitude should be discouraged by every self-respecting student. It is no indication of childishness to want to see things as they are. The physician must study his patient; the lawyer, his client or witness or jury; the merchant, his customers; the architect, the surroundings of his proposed building; the newspaper man, the circumstances of his "story." In truth, the man who is capable of doing superior work of any kind is almost invariably a close observer. Ibsen, the dramatist, often revealed this characteristic of mental superiority. It is said that he one day addressed a friend: "You never notice anything. For instance, you don't remember at this moment the color of the wall paper in your own bedroom. But when I enter a strange room, I notice the very smallest details. Nothing escapes me. Yes, I see everything." Hear, too, the words of a great teacher:

"In my judgment, then, your first care should be to learn to

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