PART I

GENERAL PRINCIPLES

1. WRITING AN ART

To write effectively is an art that requires skill and practice. No man learns to write quite as he learns. to talk, that is, by instinctively imitating his elders. He must study the art and consciously direct his practice toward the attainment of the end he has in view. To a certain extent, to be sure, every one who learns the art of writing does go through a sort of unconscious imitative process. "In any language that has been used for centuries as a literary instrument, the beginner," as Professor Minto says, "cannot begin

as if he were the first in the field. Whatever he proposes to write, be it essay or sermon or leading article, history or fiction, there are hundreds of things of the same kind in existence, some of which he must have read and cannot help taking more or less as patterns or models." But this unconscious imitation does not, as a rule, carry a writer very far toward the mastery of his art. Study and consciously directed practice are as indispensable in acquiring mastery in this, as in every other art.

The general end of all writing is the communication of thought and emotion. To communicate thought or emotion, now, one must use a language that is intelligible to those addressed. Hence the ability to write well presupposes a knowledge of the facts of the language one uses,-that is to say, its vocabulary and its grammar. If the mere communication of thought or emotion were all that the writer ever concerned himself about, little more would be required of him than a knowledge of such facts as a dictionary and a grammar might teach him. Simply to let others know what we think or feel is not, however, our only object in writing. We wish, usually, to produce some definite effect upon the reader, to stimulate his imagination, to stir his feelings, or to influence his actions or beliefs; but to do this by means of the written word is an art, and an art that must be cultivated.

One way to cultivate this art is by selecting examples of effective writing and deliberately imitating them. Stevenson, for instance, attained his mastery of the pen, as he tells us, only by dint of constant and severe practice and the imitating of good models:

"All through boyhood and youth I was known and pointed out for the pattern of an idler; and yet I was always busy on my own private end, which was to learn to write. As I walked, my mind was busy fitting what I saw by the roadside. I would either read, or a pencil and a penny version-book would be in my hand, to note down the feature of the scene or commemorate some halting stanzas. Thus I lived with words. And what I

thus wrote was for no ulterior use, it was written consciously for practice. It was not so much that I wished to be an author as that I had vowed that I would learn to write. . Whenever I read a book or a passage that particularly pleased me, in which a thing was said or an effect rendered with propriety, in which there was either some conspicuous force or happy distinction in the style, I must sit down at once and set myself to ape that quality." 1

Another way to learn to write is by studying the principles underlying effective discourse and following them out in practice. Hence the use of the textbook in composition. This, perhaps, is the safest way for beginners; but more advanced students ought to try both ways. The study and conscious imitation of good models gives one a standard by which one may measure his achievements, and without a standard of some kind to serve as a guide or point of reference, it is difficult to know whether one is making progress or not. The young student is therefore advised to begin with the study of a few general principles, which are best mastered from a text-book, and from simple exercises illustrating these principles, gradually to attempt the more difficult task of producing effects like those he appreciates and admires in the works of good writers.

2. WRITING IMPLIES THINKING

It may be proper to remind the young writer here that before he begins to learn to write, he ought to 1 See A College Magazine.

begin to cultivate his powers of perceiving and thinking. Invention must always precede composition. It is impossible to write a composition without ideas to start with. Unless one thinks, indeed, it is scarcely worth while trying to learn to write. The mere repetition of what has already been expressed is not composition. Composition is a building up process, and requires as its material either new thought finding expression for the first time, or old thought finding new and fresh expression.

There are two sources whence a writer may derive his ideas; he may derive them from life or nature through his own observation and experience, or he may derive them from the writings of others. The one source is just as legitimate as the other, for reflection upon the thought of others may be just as truly invention as direct observation. The mind invents either by direct contact with phenomena, or by reaction upon the results of the contact of other minds with phenomena. In both cases there is something added to the world's stock of ideas, which is the really important thing in writing.

The beginner should remember, of course, that if he borrows his thought from others he should expect to pay interest; and to do that, he must put his borrowed capital to productive use. That is to say, he must really add something to it; he must assimilate it and give it out again in new combinations, or modified by his own thought. Then, and then only, will his borrowing be legitimate.

The writer must always try to put as much of himself into his work as he can. It is the individuality

of the writer that, in most cases, gives value to a piece of writing. In any case, the chances are that the closer the writer adheres to his own experience the better will his work be. With the beginner, of course, the value of his work lies rather in the discipline it gives him than in the work itself; but even here individuality is to be encouraged. Nothing develops self-confidence like the effort to stand alone, and nothing more quickly gives the beginner that sense of mastery over his material which it is the aim of every writer to possess than the practice of putting his own thought into presentable form.

The difficulty most beginners experience when they try to depend upon themselves for their material is in finding something to say. They have nothing to say, they protest, when urged to make use of their own thought rather than that of others. They are, of course, mistaken. They have something to say if they only knew how to get at it; no mind is an absolute blank. If they can do nothing else, they can at least open their eyes and describe what they see. A little effort will reveal the fact that there are plenty of things worth describing lying right before their eyes. John Burroughs, whose delightful sketches from nature every one knows, speaking of his descriptions, says:

"I wish to give an account of a bird or a flower or of any open-air scene or incident. My whole effort is to see the thing just as it was. I ask myself, 'Exactly how did this thing strike my mind? What was prominent? What was subordinated?' I set the thing down exactly as