And, of all pens, your quill for essays that are literature.  There is a subtle informality, a delightful easiness, perhaps even a faint immorality essentially literary, about the quill.  The quill is rich in suggestion and quotation.  There are quills that would quote you Montaigne and Horace in the hands of a trades-union delegate.  And those quirky, idle noises this pen makes are delightful, and would break your easy fluency with wit.  All the classical essayists wrote with a quill, and Addison used the most expensive kind the Government purchased.  And the beginning of the inferior essay was the dawn of the cheap steel pen.

The quill nibs they sell to fit into ordinary pen-holders are no true quills at all, lacking dignity, and may even lead you into the New Humour if you trust overmuch to their use.  After a proper quill commend me to a stumpy BB pencil; you get less polish and broader effects, but you are still doing good literature.  Sometimes the work is close—­Mr. George Meredith, for instance, is suspected of a soft pencil—­and always it is blunter than quill work and more terse.  With a hard pencil no man can write anything but a graceless style—­a kind of east wind air it gives—­and smile you cannot.  So that it is often used for serious articles in the half-crown reviews.

There follows the host of steel pens.  That bald, clear, scientific style, all set about with words like “evolution” and “environment,” which aims at expressing its meaning with precision and an exemplary economy of words, is done with fine steel nibs—­twelve a penny at any stationer’s.  The J pen to the lady novelist, and the stylograph to the devil—­your essayist must not touch the things.  So much for the pen.  If you cannot write essays easily, that is where the hitch comes in.  Get a box of a different kind of pen and begin again, and so on again and again until despair or joy arrests you.

As for a typewriter, you could no more get an essay out of a typewriter than you could play a sonata upon its keys.  No essay was ever written with a typewriter yet, nor ever will be.  Besides its impossibility, the suggestion implies a brutal disregard of the division of labour by which we live and move and have our being.  If the essayist typewrite, the unemployed typewriter, who is commonly a person of superior education and capacity, might take to essays, and where is your living then?  One might as reasonably start at once with the Linotype and print one’s wit and humour straight away.  And taking the invasion of other trades one step further one might, after an attempt to sell one’s own newspaper, even get to the pitch of having to read it oneself.  No; even essayists must be reasonable.  If its mechanical clitter-clatter did not render composition impossible, the typewriter would still be beneath the honour of a literary man.

Then for the paper.  The luxurious, expensive, small-sized cream-laid note is best, since it makes your essay choice and compact; and, failing that, ripped envelopes and the backs of bills.  Some men love ruled paper, because they can write athwart the lines, and some take the fly-leaves of their friends’ books.  But whosoever writes on cheap sermon paper full of hairs should write far away from the woman he loves, lest he offend her ears.  It is good, however, for a terse, forcible style.