observe. A simple matter one, I dare say, which it will seem to you difficult to avoid. You have a pair of eyes; how can you fail to observe? Ah! but eyes can only look, and that is not observing. We must not rest in looking, but must penetrate into things, if we would find out what is there. And to find this out is worth while, for everything when observed is of immense interest. There is no object so remote from human life that when we come to study it we may not detect within its narrow compass illuminating and therefore interesting matter. But it makes a great difference whether we do thus really observe, whether we hold attention to the thing in hand, and see what it contains. Once, after puzzling long over the charm of Homer, I applied to a learned friend and said to him,' Can you tell me why Homer is so interesting? Why can't you and I write as he wrote? Why is it that his art is lost, and that to-day it is impossible for us to awaken an interest at all comparable to his?'

'Well,' said my friend, 'I have often meditated on that, but it seems to come to about this: Homer looked long at a thing. Why,' said he, 'do you know that if you should hold up your thumb and look at it long enough, you would find it immensely interesting?' Homer looks a great while at his thumb. He sees precisely the thing he is dealing with. He does not confuse it with anything else. It is sharp to him; and because it is sharp to him it stands out sharply for us over thousands of years. Have you acquired this art, or do you hastily glance at insignificant objects? Do you see the thing exactly as it is? Do you strip away from it your own likings and dislikings, your own previous notions of what it ought to be? Do you come face to face with things? If you do, the hardest situation in life may well be to you a delight. Observe,

observe, observe in every direction! Keep your eyes open. Go forward, understanding that the world was made for your knowledge, that you have the right to enter into and possess it." 1

Now practice in composition is valuable, in the first place,

1 George Herbert Palmer, The Glory of the Imperfect. Houghton Mifflin Company.

because it usually compels more careful and more complete observation than we should otherwise make. Do you know how many chairs are in your room? Can you make a rough drawing that will really represent the outlines of the house in which you have lived during the past few weeks, or the building in which you are now sitting? How many of your intimate acquaintances have dark eyes? Can you distinguish the songs of birds which you hear every day? How many of your classmates are lefthanded? Doubtless it would make little difference in your life, you may think, whether or not you could answer these questions or others of a similar kind. And it must be admitted that a general, indiscriminate power of observation would be as confusing as it is impossible. But the fact of importance remains: if you were called upon to write about the matters concerned in these questions, you would soon find yourself making the necessary observation. It is surprisingly true that month after month we pass along streets which never become thoroughly familiar to us until we are asked how many houses are in a certain square, or whether J's house is four doors or five from the corner, or whether D's house is yellow or gray. We are not fully alive to the part of the world around us in which we think we are interested until we have tried to communicate to others the results of our observations. Then, in a moment, even before we have written the first word, our minds are directed outward toward the things we have seen, and if we have not seen accurately, we go again to the objects to learn more perfectly what they are and how they look. The continuation of such practice sooner or later makes close observation a habit; and everyone agrees that the ability to see sharply, if without conscious effort, is an invaluable possession.

2. Cultivation by clarifying and stimulating thought. A similarly beneficial effect is produced upon thinking. Although we may never know whether a thought can exist in the mind apart from the words in which thought is expressed, we do know that we cannot have thoughts that are very definite unless they are thus embodied in words. "A beautiful thought and

a beautiful expression either occur as one in a man's mind, or the thought remains as a vague possibility or anticipation only (on the plane of mere feeling) until it finds fitting words."1 Every day we hear discussions of vexing undergraduate problems, of important educational policies, and of urgent public questions. Yet when we are asked to express an opinion on these matters, we say that we have none; that we must think first. And in the strictest sense we do not have any until we have tried to think our thoughts out into words. Language "makes thinking visible." But it does even more. The clarifying of our own minds by attempts at expression provides us with surer ground on which to build new thoughts. Thus every time we try to express ourselves faithfully, we make the outlines of our own lives more distinct and create new opportunities for further mental activity. This relation of thought and expression is well summarized in these words:

66 We doubt whether a man ever brings his faculties to bear with their whole force on a subject until he writes upon it for the instruction or gratification of others. To place it clearly before others, he feels the necessity of viewing it more vividly himself. By attempting to seize his thoughts, and fix them in an enduring form, he finds them vague and unsatisfactory to a degree which he did not suspect, and toils for a precision and harmony of views of which he had never before felt the need. He places his subject in new lights, submits it to a searching analysis, compares and connects with it his various knowledge, seeks for it new illustrations and analogies, weighs objections, and through these processes often arrives at higher truths than he at first aimed to illustrate. The laborious distribution of a great subject, so as to assign to each part or topic its just position and due proportion, is singularly fitted to give compass and persevering force of thought." 2

3. Cultivation by quickening the imagination. — Happily the influence of systematic practice in writing does not end 1 S. S. Laurie, Language and Linguistic Method, p. 100. The Macmillan Company. 2 William Ellery Channing, Remarks on National Literature.

with sharpened observation and clearer thinking; it extends to another power of the mind, the imagination. The importance of this influence we can appreciate only when we consider the nature of imaginative power. Essentially it is, as the term ought to suggest, the ability to form a mental image of an idea, an object, or the real or possible environment of an object. Contrary to popular belief, it is not a facile skill that is useful only in the making of fairy stories and fanciful pictures; it has a large part in all constructive work. Assuredly the story-writer must see his characters in the idealized world in which they are to move; the dramatist while he writes must see and hear every character on the stage; the painter must see his picture on the untouched canvas; and the sculptor must see the finished statue in the block of marble. But it is equally true that the architect must see the airy shape of the building he plans; the inventor must see his machine complete before he makes any part of it; and the business man must see his new enterprise working in all its details before he takes the first step to make it a reality. We are just beginning to appreciate the fact that in every kind of constructive work the difference between mediocrity and superior efficiency is frequently the difference between little imagination and much.

In its lower or more elementary form the imagination merely reproduces the image of former experiences. For example, we may be able to bring vividly to mind the day when we entered the primary or country school, with all the unusual sights and sounds that made up the new experience; or we may see again our first fire or football game or the first audience that we ever tried to address. But in its higher form, it not only reproduces experiences; it makes them into new combinations. This higher power we call the creative or, more accurately, the productive imagination. The cartoonist employs it in an elementary way when he joins the head of some over-ambitious millionaire to the body of a greedy animal. The unifying idea of selfishness brings the apparently unrelated parts into a new composite. Less simply, in the creation of characters for a

story, the writer combines in one person some of the qualities which he has observed in many different people. When the new combinations are made skillfully, subtly, they are so consistent yet so individual that we say they are new or original. But they are new only in combination. One's imagination never goes wholly beyond the limits of one's experience. Sometimes it seems to do so, but when we study the resulting images closely, we always find that they have been made from elements that were at some time in some degree a part of the experience of the one who combined them. The many poetic conceptions of demons and angels, for instance, seem to be quite unlike anything in human life, yet they are only differently proportioned combinations of qualities that are constantly revealed in men and women. The elements from experience may be very small units and they may be so artistically blended that they cannot be distinguished easily, but they are always present.

It ought not to be difficult to see that any activity which sharpens observation and stimulates thought contributes to the basis of a true imagination. Because we are led to see more and to see everything more accurately, we receive impressions that are definite enough for the imagination to use; and as a result of our efforts to think clearly and sharply, we see a wealth of new relations into which objects and ideas may be brought. Writing helps our imagination, therefore, because the enforced mental alertness wakens us thoroughly. We are quickened until we really see, hear, taste, smell, feel, think, and remember. Consequently, all the innumerable images, thoughts, and memories of our past stand ready for appropriate use. For example, when we glance at an old man in worn clothes walking leisurely through the college campus, only the literal fact may remain in our minds. If, however, we are called upon to write an account of his conduct, we might easily see much more than an old man. We might see his smile of recognition as he approaches a small, ivy-covered dormitory; we might see the alternating light and shadow in his face as he stands before it, lost in reverie; and we might see his deep embarrassment when he unexpectedly

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