lege exercises and his own trusting efforts are leading. It is not good for him to be satisfied with the old, lazy saying that "it all trains the mind." Even the freshman in his green cap, as one supposed to know his place and take life as it comes, should wish to be more truly conscious of his work than that sort of talk implies. I mean that he should be more keenly alive to the fact that even the report he writes on an issue in history enables him to see, if he but look, the enlargement of mind in the great historian who has endeavored to encompass and compress a hundred details of the issue; or that the plan which his professor makes him draw of the Roman Forum, brings him into relation with the vastness of an empire; that his mechanical and imitative skill in handling the algebra of calculus can grow directly into the imagination of the engineer he may some day be when calculus is the bridge over a river or the range of a fortress beyond a hilltop; that the stanza he may have composed as a mere exercise gives him a new inkling of what kind of energy brought Spenser's poem to its completion; that the story he has invented about storm and shipwreck, if he has at all realized the elements he is dealing with, puts him more keenly in touch with humanity and nature; and that all of these matters lead straight out into the complex world which is shortly to require of him whatever expansion of mind and power of analysis he is capable of.

To the man interested in writing, such relationships are the chief source of inspiration. They both idealize his tasks and make them more obviously practical. For one cannot, with a sweep of the arm and a fine phrase about culture, proceed very far or very sincerely with the studies of a modern university. The freshman in his green cap understands more than that of the matter, more than the vague

principle that every little court in the hall of knowledge has its further door. He wishes already to see himself approaching, if not actually in the presence of, greatness. From the start he must compare his mind and his acts with those of greatness and have some basis for the comparison. Only thus, if he is to be a thinker and a writer, can he best cultivate his originality-through seeing the further possibilities, the wide importance, of what he is doing. And only thus is he apt to realize the necessity for thoroughness.

Originality in thought about any subject nearly always means a comprehensive thoroughness. Or, if you put it the other way round, a comprehensive thoroughness leads to originality.

Let me take, first, an illustration that applies directly to such practical writing as every undergraduate is asked to do. You have read, let us say, about the execution of Mary Queen of Scots, and you are to write a report on the significance of that historical fact. Now the drift of the report, if it is only a mechanical effort, may be something as follows: "Mary was very beautiful and also rather indiscreet. When she was driven from Scotland she fled to England. She was a Catholic, which stirred up trouble. Philip, France, and the Pope had a good deal to do with this. Elizabeth may have had nothing against Mary personally, but she yielded to her counsellors and permitted Mary's execution. This brought on the vengeance of Philip, France, and the Pope. The result was the Armada." This report may be two pages long, or twenty, and anybody might have written it. What is the matter with it? How can one be original on such a hackneyed topic?

In the first place, I think you have probably read, in preparation, one of those books nearest to your elbow,

which is itself simply a report, concise or flimsy, as the case may be, but which, in any event, carefully avoids doing anything for the subject that would surely make you think about it. If, on the other hand, you should read a great account, such as Froude has written a great account, because it is vivid, complex, simple, comprehensive, all at once you will take the first step toward writing an "original" report on the subject. For Froude is thorough, in spite of a few inaccuracies, and is sure to give you, even in a rather hurried reading, some notion of the infinite ramifications of this one fact, the execution of Mary Stuart. It will then perhaps occur to you rather sharply how interesting is the old truth that everything that happens on earth is connected with everything else that happens there, and that this one fact is a wonderful illustration of it. In order to see the matter originally, this is a fundamental idea to keep in mind. After reading such an account as Froude's, ask yourself what were the causes of Mary's execution, and you will be led at once into most complex and seemingly endless chains of influence. These chains of events are, however, just because of their complexity, reasonable and comprehensible; they always lead you back to central connections. Now you probably observe that certain links in each chain of cause and effect are forged more definitely than the rest, or that they seem to join together several chains. What sort of force is it that forges most of these links? That is obviously the important matter. If you can determine that, you will have a point of view about the whole subject. So you begin to compare the links for similarities: Mary's early relations with the French court; her marriage with Darnley; Rizzio; her treachery; Bothwell; her conflict with John Knox; her conflict with her brother; Elizabeth's jealousy; Eliza

beth's failure to marry the Duke of Alençon; the excommunication of Elizabeth; the Northern Rising; the massacre of St. Bartholomew; popular enthusiasm for Francis Drake; the Babington plot. You examine them all, and as you find more and more traces of the same forces at work, you begin to see how you will answer any phase of the question. A force that forges a great many of these links in the chain of circumstance that surrounds Mary appears to be her own wayward, rather "indiscreet" disposition. Another force forges links out of the conflict between Rome and John Knox, and joins them to those formed in the conflict between Rome and Elizabeth. Again appears the mischievous force of Elizabeth's own frowardness. Mary's fate wears many chains, and, as you perceive in reading Froude, there is something ominous in the way these chains are slowly welded together. Any aspect of her fate inevitably suggests the others.

When you have reached this comprehensive point of view, you may safely take up any phase of the subject without a constant tendency to produce a mere imitation of the facts. It is in seeing a thing thoroughly, or from many angles, that you choose a point of view of your own and begin to see originally. You decide, let us say, to show how far John Knox and the growth of Calvinism may be said to have brought about Mary's tragic end. This will perhaps involve, first, a description of the contrast between Mary's character, which was formed in the French court before she came to Scotland, and the austerity of Scotch opinion. Then might follow a discussion of John Knox as the originator and representative of this opinion, his conception of his duty, and his attitude toward Romanism. Next, the shock felt by the nation at Mary's unscrupulous behavior, and the effects of this in driving her into England

and in dissuading Elizabeth from any attempt to restore her to the throne and from any other step that would offend the Scotch in the crisis which was threatening abroad.

From this special point of view, you thus look at nearly all the phases of the subject. You introduce nothing not well known; but your arrangement of details expresses your own opinion, and you are seeing the thing for yourself —not just through somebody else's eyes. Seeing a thing thus thoroughly implies an expansion of mind, without which one hardly writes well on any subject. For it is expansion that clear thinking demands as much as concentration. This is the same principle that we noted in regard to the musician and his technique. There, Doctor Fite pointed out that "art aims above all things to be free," and that freedom comes from a mastery of detail. In regard to writing he puts the case as follows: "Every one who attempts to put his thoughts into writing has his days when words are mere words and nothing more. We speak at such times of the difficulty of concentration. But it is equally a difficulty of expansion. You cannot get your thoughts together because you cannot cover your field of thought. Like the traveller in a fog, your vision is limited to the region just about you, and you find it difficult to make out whence your argument has come and whither you intend it to go. And when you afterwards review what you have written you find there a string of formal literary phrases expressing not so much what you meant as what was the correct thing to say. Contrast this with the rarer occasions when you are truly and certainly yourself. Then, in a mental atmosphere of serene clearness, the whole field of your argument lies extended before you in perfect distinctness of outline. And then, just because of your expanded field of vision, you know at each moment just where