The national leader., 1889-02-09
my saddest. All things seem open then
to that giant Imagination.

to that giant Imagination.
Here, lying in the dark, with as yet
no glimmer OF the coming dawn, no
faintest light to show where the closed
curtains join, too indolent to rise and
light the lamp, too sleepy to put ones
foot out of the well-warmed bed, pray
ing fruitlessly for that sleep that Will
not comet Is at such moments as
these that my mind lays hold of the
novel now in hand, and works away at
1t with vigor, against which the nat
ural desire for sleep hopelessly makes
battle.
JUST born this novel may be, or half
completed; however it is. off goes ones
brain at q tangent. Scene follows
scene, one touching the other, the
characters unconsciously fall into
shape; the villain trkes ruddy hue;
the hero dons white robe; as for the
heroine, who shall say what dyes from
Olympia are not hers? A conversation
suggests itself, an act thrusts itself into
notice. Lightest OF skeletons all tEese
must necessarily be, yet they make up
eventually the big whole, and from the
brain-wanderings of one wakeful night
three or four chapters are created for
the next mornings work.
AS for the work itself. mine is per-
haps strangely done, for often have
written the last chapter first, and
founded my whole story on the one
episode that it contained.
Asa rule, too. l never give more time
to my writing than two hours out of
every day. But l write quickly, and
have my notes before me, and l can do
a great deal in a short time. Not that
give these two hours Systematically;
when the idle vein is in full flow l
fling aside the pen and rush gladly into
the open air, seeking high and low for
the children, who delighted thought)
will be sure to help me toward that
state of frivolity to which the sunshine
outside has tempted me to aspire.
To make literary work a methodical
thing is, 1 think, a mistake. To COM
may at the moment revolt is surely a
Straining of the mental powers both
rash and cruel. Mr.. Anthony Trollope
in his delightful memoirs tells us that
he did so many words at such an hour
every morning without fail; and one
cannot help admiring the obstinacy of
the mind that could drive itself to get
through SO arduOus task without any
noticeable tagging of the genius any
where.
Many other authors, I fancy, would
find it Impossible so to fog the literary
spirit into shape. AS have said, even
the two hours in the day that / feel it
my duty to give up to pen and paper
are not always accorded, There have
been moments when, having tried vain
ly to round my sentences to my salts
faction. L have risen in quick wrath
and flung my unoffending pen into a
far corner, and turned my back reso-
lutely for that day upon the virgin page
that should have been covered with my
scrawling letters.
To force the mind is, in my opinion,
bad business. What comes Spontane-
ously is of untold value. 1t is always
fresh, always the best of which the
writer may be capable. These un-
solicited outbursts Of the mind are as
the wild sprays sent heavenward at
times by calm and slumbering ocean
"a promise of the power that relgns in
The now quiet breast.
Thus dreams are of value and to
dreams (those most spontaneous and
unsought of all things) owe much.
THE DUCHESS.