ance!--gives room for but a
hint or two; but, first of all, an author should know before the
actual constructure of his creation begins to rise, how long it is to
be. Of course he would like to say he cannot tell; that he is in the
hands of his muse, and all that; but the truth is, his "artistic
temperament" is trying to shirk the drudgery of the engineering
problem involved. It is far better for him as an artist that he should
thoroughly solve that problem; it will take time and labor, but it
need not waste them. The length of his work will, or should, depend
upon the breadth of it; by which we mean that a certain fulness of
treatment involves a certain length. For instance, one cannot
reasonably hope to keep a story short if it is about several persons
and involves a conflict of their characters or fates. That is the
second necessity; the length must be planned in proportion to the
breadth. But, thirdly, both length and breadth should be governed by
the importance, the dignity, the substantial value, the business, the
substance, the spiritual stuff, of which the projected book is to
consist. Hence the writer of true literary conscience will put the
first, as above named, last, and the last first: spiritual substance,
then breadth, then length.

In order to make fairly sure of these essentials, as well as for other
reasons, the author should have a clear determination of all the main
features of the structure he proposes to raise. Especially the bridge
should not be itself begun until its builder knows very definitely
where and how it is to reach the other shore; nothing between the
beginning and the end is so important to be sure about from the
beginning, as the end. There is a great difference among writers as
to the sense of need for a complete preliminary framework on which to
build. But beyond doubt many feeble, many abortive, results come of
having too little preparatory framework, too slender a scenario, to
use a playwright's word which authors and editors are borrowing more
and more.

It seems good that a literary artist should always write for himself.
Yet, of course, he should write unselfishly; we may say he would do
well always to aim at the entertainment of the noblest minds, even
when he does not exhort their loftiest moods. But he certainly
achieves much besides if, while he does these things, at the same time
and in the same doing he entertains the great commonalty of readers.
If he does this, and al