business in the world. No one can say precisely what constitutes good literature, because, no matter how you may classify and tabulate its characteristics, some new genius is sure to break out in a fresh place; and no one can lay down a definite course of training that can be relied on to meet even the average requirements of the average case.

You can set the instrumentalist to work at scales and studies for technique; the dressmaker can practise stitchery and the application of scientific measurement; the art student can study the laws governing perspective, balance of design, the juxtaposition of colour, and a dozen other topics relative to his art.

And more than this, in most businesses (and I include the professions) you can demonstrate to the students, in a fairly convincing manner, when their work is wrong. You can show the girl who is learning dressmaking the difference between large uneven stitches and small regular ones; the undesirability of having a skirt two inches longer at one side than it is at the other. You can indicate to the art student when his subject is out of drawing, or suggest a preferable choice of colours. And though these points may only touch the mechanical surface of things, they help the student along the right road, and are invaluable aids to him in his studies. True, such advice cannot make good a lack of real genius, yet it may help to develop nearly-genius, and that is not to be despised.

But with literature, there is so little that is tangible, and so much that is intangible. Beyond the bare laws that govern the construction of the language, only a fraction of the knowledge that is necessary can be stated in concrete terms for the guidance of the student. And because it is difficult to reduce the art of writing to any set of rules, the amateur often regards it as the one vocation that is entirely devoid of any constructive principles; the one vocation wherein each can do exactly as he pleases, and be a law unto himself, no one being in a better position than himself to say what is great and what is feeble, since no one else can quote chapter and verse as authority for making a pronouncement on the merits—and more particularly the demerits—of his work.

And yet, nearly all the English-speaking race want to write. The craving for "self-expression" is one of the characteristics of this century; and what better medium is there for this than writing? Hence the lure of the pen.

It is partly because so many beginners do not know where to turn for criticism, or an opportunity to measure their work with that of others, that some send their early, crude efforts to editors, hoping to get, at least, some opinion or word of guidance, even though the MS. be declined. Yet this is what an editor cannot undertake to do. Think what an amount of work would be involved if I were to set down my reasons for declining each of those eight thousand and more MSS. that I turn down annually! It could not be done, in addition to all the other claims on one's office time.

But though life would be too short for any editor to write even a brief criticism on each MS. rejected, certain defects repeat themselves so often that it is quite possible to specify some outstanding faults—or rather, qualities which are lacking—that lead to the downfall of one MS. after another, with the automatic persistency of recurring decimals.

Speaking broadly, I generally find that the MS. which is rejected because it has no marketable value betrays one or more of the following deficiencies in its author:—

The majority of such defects can be remedied with study and practice; and even though the final result may not be a work of genius, it will be something much more likely to be marketable than the MS. that has neither knowledge nor training behind it.

Three Essentials in Training

"How am I to set about training for literary work?" is a question that is put to me most days in the year.

Training comes under three headings: Observation, Reading, and Writing.

The majority of beginners make the mistake of putting writing first; but before you can commit anything to paper, you must have something in your head to write down. If you have but little in your brain, your writing will be worthless.

Just as a plant requires special fertilisers if it is to develop fine blossoms and large fruit, so the mind requires food of exceptional nourishment if it is to produce something out of the ordinary, something worth reading.

It is one of the great laws of Nature that, as a general rule, we get out of life about what we put into it. If a farmer wants bumper crops, he must apply manure liberally to his land; if a man wants big returns from his business, he must devote much time and thought and energy to it. And in the same way, if you want good stuff to come out of your head, you must first of all put plenty of good stuff in.

But—and this is very important—it is not supposed to come out again in the same form that it went in! This point beginners often forget. When sweet peas are fed with sulphate of ammonia, they don't promptly produce more sulphate of ammonia; they utilise the chemical food to promote much finer and altogether better flowers. The same principle governs the application of suitable nourishment to all forms of life—the recipient retains its own personal characteristics, but transmutes the food into the power to intensify, enlarge, and develop those personal characteristics.

In like manner, the food you give your mind must be used to intensify and enlarge and develop your individuality; and what you write must reflect your individuality (not to be confused with egoism); it should not be merely a paraphrase of your reading.

All this is to explain why I put observation and reading before writing. They are the principal channels through which the mind is fed. And, in the main, the value of your early literary work will be in direct ratio to the keenness and accuracy of your observation, and the wisdom shown in your choice of reading.

You think this sounds like reducing writing to a purely mechanical process, in which genius does not count?

Not at all. It is