story is once written and done with, no matter how forcibly it may have interested and excited the writer during its progress, it fades almost instantly from the mind, and leaves, by some benevolent arrangement of nature, a tabula rasa—­a blank space for the next one.  Everyone must recollect that anecdote of Walter Scott, who, on hearing one of his own poems (’My hawk is tired of perch and hood’) sung in a London drawing-room, observed with innocent approbation, ‘Byron’s, of course;’ and so it is with us lesser folks.  A very humorous sketch might be given (and it would not be overdrawn) of some prolific novelist getting hold, under some strange roof, of the ‘library edition’ of his own stories, and perusing them with great satisfaction and many appreciative ejaculations, such as ’Now this is good;’ ‘I wonder how it will end;’ or ’George Eliot’s, of course!

[8] Speaking of dreams, the composition of Khubla Khan and of one or two other literary fragments during sleep has led to the belief that dreams are often useful to the writer of fiction; but in my own case, at least, I can recall but a single instance of it, nor have I ever heard of their doing one pennyworth of good to any of my contemporaries.

Although a good allowance of sleep is absolutely necessary for imaginative brain work, long holidays are not so.  I have noticed that those who let their brains ‘lie fallow,’ as it is termed, for any considerable time, are by no means the better for it; but, on the other hand, some daily recreation, by which a genuine interest is excited and maintained, is almost indispensable.  It is no use to ‘take up a book,’ and far less to attempt ‘to refresh the machine,’ as poor Sir Walter did, by trying another kind of composition; what is needed is an altogether new object for the intellectual energies, by which, though they are stimulated, they shall not be strained.

Advice such as I have ventured to offer may seem ‘to the general’ of small importance, but to those I am especially addressing it is worthy of their attention, if only as the result of a personal experience unusually prolonged; and I have nothing unfortunately but advice to offer.  To the question addressed to me with such naivete by so many correspondents, ‘How do you make your plots?’ (as if they were consulting the Cook’s Oracle), I can return no answer.  I don’t know, myself; they are sometimes suggested by what I hear or read, but more commonly they suggest themselves unsought.

I once heard two popular story-tellers, A who writes seldom, but with much ingenuity of construction, and B who is very prolific in pictures of everyday life, discoursing on this subject.

‘Your fecundity,’ said A, ’astounds me; I can’t think where you get your plots from.’

‘Plots?’ replied B; ’oh!  I don’t trouble myself about them.  To tell you the truth, I generally take a bit of one of yours, which is amply sufficient for my purpose.’