of the night she awoke, saying, "Williams--Talcott Williams." The
subconscious, which has charge of her memories, had been at work while
she slept.

The history of literature abounds in stories of under-the-surface
work. The man of genius usually waits until the mood is on, until the
muse speaks; then all his lifeless material is lighted by new
radiance. He feels that some one outside himself is dictating. Often
he merely holds the pen while the finished work pours itself out
spontaneously as if from a higher source.

But it is not only the man of genius who makes use of these unseen
powers. He may have readier access to his subconscious than the rest
of us, but he has no monopoly. The most matter-of-fact man often says
that he will "sleep over" a knotty problem. He puts it into his mind
and then goes about his business, or goes to sleep while this unseen
judge weighs and balances, collects related facts, looks first at one
side of the question and then at the other, and finally sends up into
consciousness a decision full of conviction, a decision that has been
formulated so far from the focus of attention that it seems to be
something altogether new, a veritable inspiration.

We must infer the subconscious from what it does. Things
happen,--there must be a cause. Some of the things that happen
presuppose imagination, reason, intelligence, will, emotion, desire,
all the elements of mind. We cannot see this mind, but we can see its
products. To deny the subconscious is to deny the artist while looking
at his picture, to disbelieve in the poet while reading his poem, and
to doubt the existence of the explosive while listening to the report.
The subconscious is an artist, a poet, and an explosive by turns. If