a name, but
we know that it will come to us if we think about something else.
Presently, out of somewhere, there flashes the word we want. Where was
it in the meanwhile, and what hunted it out from among all our other
memories and sent it up into consciousness? The something which did
that must be capable of conserving memories, of recognizing the right
one and of communicating it,--surely a real mind.

[Footnote 16: Writers of the psycho-analytic school use the word
"unconscious" to denote the lower layers of this region, and
"fore-conscious" to denote its upper layers. Morton Prince uses the
terms "unconscious" and "conscious" to denote the different strata. As
there is still a good deal of confusion in the use of terms, it has
seemed to us simpler to use throughout only the general term
"subconscious."]

One evening my collaborator fumbled unsuccessfully for the name of a
certain well-known journalist and educator. It was on the tip of her
tongue, but it simply would not come, not even the initial letter. In
a whimsical mood she said to herself just as she went to sleep,
"Little subconscious mind, you find that name to-night." In the middle
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 t