The man who reads by topics has an eye for the make-up of books. From an index, or table of contents, or preface, he can guide himself unerringly to the main or minor point that gives the consultation present significance. He comes naturally, by this ability, to have touch with bibliographical matters, to know what is reputable in book-making, to have acquaintance with publishers and their specialties, to discriminate between the authoritative and the second-hand in authorship. In addition to the knowledge he already possesses he comes insensibly to be aware where knowledge is to be looked for and found.1 He is at home in a library, and can accumulate rapid information from a large number of books as easily as from one. Books, in short, become his companions and familiar friends.

IV.

Disposal of Results. As one's meditation and reading become more quickened by the inventive spirit, some method of preserving results is naturally sought. This leads to the taking of notes, the devising of indexes for reference, the preserving of cuttings, the keeping of commonplace books, and the like. The tendency to such things, and the ability to carry on a system once adopted or to profit by what is thus

1 "No sooner had we made our bow to Mr. Cambridge, in his library, than Johnson ran eagerly to one side of the room, intent on poring over the backs of the books. Sir Joshua observed, (aside), ' He runs to the books, as I do to the pictures: but I have the advantage. I can see much more of the pictures than he can of the books.' Mr. Cambridge, upon this, politely said, ' Dr. Johnson, I am going, with your pardon, to accuse myself, for I have the same custom which I perceive you have. But it seems odd that one should have such a desire to look at the backs of books.' Johnson, ever ready for contest, instantly started from his reverie, wheeled about, and answered, 'Sir, the reason is very plain. Knowledge is of two kinds. We know a subject ourselves, or we know where we can find information upon it. When we enquire into any subject, the first thing we have to do is to know what books have treated of it. This leads us to look at catalogues, and the backs of books in libra ries.'"- BOSWELL, Life of Johnson (G. B. Hill's edition), Vol. ii, p. 417.

temperament that nothing Some read and meditate stores of information in

preserved, is so largely a matter of whatever can be prescribed for all. for immediate use, and carry their more or less digested form in memory. Others trust much to accumulated materials and to systematic storing. As in style and planning, so here, every one must evolve his own best way, from his powers and habits of mind.

Some practical remarks may, however, here be given, especially to indicate the relation of these customs to invention. Taking Notes. Two objects, in the main, are had in view in the taking of notes: the recording of suggestions that come to one's own mind at times when finished composition is not practicable; and the securing, in abstract or in particular data, of material read or heard. This latter material may best be cared for in the same system as are references and citations, to be mentioned presently; it belongs like them to the unworked data of the writer's mind. The former, the record of one's own thoughts, is of special value as a stimulus and practical support to one's processes of thought; a tangible means of developing the habit of seeking clearness and order. A note-book may thus be a workshop, where lines of thought have their germination and first shaping, and where currents of obscure meditation run themselves clear. Of course one is continually outgrowing such a record; but this is one great element of its value, the inventive mind is thus kept in a state of growth, and has something to outgrow.

An important feature of utility in the taking of notes is this notes should not be heedlessly taken, or consist merely of catchwords. They should have all the finish that the time permits. Then if they are referred to afterward, they will be formed enough to yield their original flavor without painful and doubtful supplementing from memory; and further, the very putting of them down will have marked a step forward in composition. It is doubtful if an original note which does

not represent the author's best is worth preserving; doubtful, too, if the inventive ardor will continue to attend it if the note-taking evinces less than the high water mark of his thinking at the time.

References and Citations. The keeping of some kind of index rerum, for fugitive notes, references, and citations, is sure to commend itself at some time in a writer's career; and not unlikely many starts and failures may be made before the writer finds his most practicable method. This perhaps cannot well be avoided, nor is it necessarily a reproach. It will probably be found, however, that the method that works best at last is the simplest. To plan for as little machinery as possible has the best promise of success; even though the plan adopted may be very imperfect, as compared with others advocated.

Whatever the system, the success of it depends mainly on the writer's closeness of touch with it. For this reason the kind of material preserved is most fitly such as belongs to the writer's most specialized sphere of study, the kind of fact and truth with which his mind is most constantly occupied.

Commonplace books, on account of the labor of transcribing passages, are much more liable than any other undertaking to be discontinued. The same value attaches to them as to indices rerum; there is the necessity also of keeping in touch with them, in fact, more good comes, probably from the making of them than from their contents when they are made. For this reason no one can make a commonplace book for another; it must have something of the personal quality of a journal intime. Like a note-book, a commonplace book is speedily outgrown ; but likewise it may when wisely used be made a practical instrument. Its value consists in keeping one's readings vital; and this is undeniably great.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE COMPOSITION AS A WHOLE.

BEFORE entering upon the discussion of the specific forms that invention may adopt in literary discourse, we need to note the typical framework, or inventive system, that, with whatever modifications, exists under all forms. The principle of this has already been anticipated on the smaller scale of the single paragraph1; it remains here to consider the problems and procedures that come into view when the field of operations is broader.

in

In two opposite directions invention, as a devising act, works to bring its design to pass. It is first concentrative; it thinks its material inward to one controlling, comprehensive proposition, which we call the theme. Then, secondly, it is distributive: from this theme as a centre it thinks outward along the various lines and radiations of the thought, other words, it makes the outline or plan. So much for the inventive process in its severe narrow sense. But, having proceeded thus far, this same devising activity, still at the work of rounding its design, takes to its aid imagination, emotional glow, and the sense of style, in the finishing process called amplification. Here at last the artistic enterprise is complete; invention and style, no longer separate, have united in one vital yet ordered product.

These three stages of work determine the articulation of the present chapter.

1 See The Paragraph in Structure, pp. 364 sqq., above.

I. THE THEME.

Definition. The theme, or thesis, which in some form underlies the structure of every literary work, may be briefly defined as the working-idea of the discourse.

As a working-idea, that is, as something to serve for point of departure and nucleus of organism, the theme is not a thing caught up arbitrarily; it gets its status as the result of a vigorous mental process of concentration and packing, reducing what at first was vague and diffused from nebulous to orbic form. When, therefore, it is thus determined, it has derived suggestion from a large tract of thought; it is, in fact, the whole discourse reduced to one comprehensive proposition. When the body of thought has been called in from its diffused state to this organic centre, and not before, it is in condition for working.1

I.

As related to the Subject. What is thus concentrated must begin somewhere, must have something to condense. This something from which the theme is derived presents itself to the mind first in that large and unshaped mass of material which we call the subject.

The subject, then, may be defined as the material of discourse before meditation; the theme as the phrase or proposition that represents the material after the first stage of meditation, when the range and bounds of treatment are determined. Subject and theme stand to each other much in the relation of class and individual. The theme is not

1" To give the phrase, the sentence, the structural member, the entire composition, song, or essay, a similar unity with its subject and with itself:- style is in the right way when it tends toward that. All depends upon the original unity, the vital wholeness and identity, of the initiatory apprehension or view."- PATER, Appreciations, p. 19.