and write as he walked in the fragrant air. Such compositions as his
"Dream of a Madman" he would set about by first seating himself at the
harpsichord, and "fantasying" for a while on it, till the ideas, or
"imaginings," came--which presently they would do with a rush.
Tradition, as we get it through the historian of the Clapham Sect,
informs us that Wilberforce wrote his "Practical View" under the roof of
two of his best friends, in so fragmentary and irregular a manner, that
one of them, when at length the volume lay complete on the table,
professed, on the strength of this experience, to have become a convert
to the opinion that a fortuitous concourse of atoms might, by some
felicitous chance, combine themselves into the most perfect of forms--a
moss-rose or a bird of paradise.
Coleridge told Hazlitt that he liked to compose in walking over uneven
ground, or breaking through the straggling branches of a copse-wood.
Sheridan composed at night, with a profusion of lights around him, and a
bottle of wine by his side. He used to say: "If a thought is slow to
come, a glass of good wine encourages it; and when it does come, a glass
of good wine rewards it."
Lamartine, in the days of his prosperity, composed in a studio with
tropical plants, birds, and every luxury around him to cheer the senses.
Berkeley composed his "Minute Philosopher" under the shade of a rock on
Newport Beach.
Burns wove a stanza as he ploughed the field.
Charlotte Bronte had to choose her favorable days for writing,--sometimes
weeks, or even months, elapsing before she felt that she had anything
to add to that portion of her story which was already written; then some
morning she would wake up, and the progress of her tale lay clear and
bright before her, says Mrs. Gaskell, in distinct vision; and she set
to work to write out what was more present to her mind at such times
than her actual life was. She wrote on little scraps of paper, in a
minute hand, holding each against a piece of board, such as is used
in binding books, for a desk,--a plan found to be necessary for one so
short-sighted,--and this sometimes as she sat near the fire by twilight.
While writing "Jane Eyre" she became intensely concerned in the fortunes
of her heroine, whose smallness and plainness corresponded with her own.
When she had brought the little Jane to Thornfield, her enthusiasm had
grown so great that she could not stop. She went on incessantly for
weeks. At the end of this time she had made the minute woman conquer
temptation, and in the dawn of the summer morning leave Thornfield.
"After Jane left Thornfield, the rest of the book," says Miss Martineau,
"was written with less vehemence and with more anxious care"--the world
adds, "with less vigor and interest."
"Ouida" (Louise de la Ramee) writes in the early morning. She gets up
at five o'clock, and, before she begins, works herself up into a sort of
literary trance.
Professor Wilson, the Christopher North of _Blackwood's Magazine_,
jotted down in a large ledger "skeletons," from which, when he desired
an article, he would select one and clothe it with muscle and nerve. He
was a very rapid writer and composer, but worked only when he liked and
how he liked. He maintained that any man in good health might write an
entire number of _Blackwood's_. He described himself as writing "by
screeds"--the fit coming on about ten in the morning, which he
encouraged by a caulker ("a mere nut-shell, which my dear friend the
English opium-eater would toss off in laudanum"); and as soon as he felt
that there was no danger of a relapse, that his demon would be with him
the whole day, he ordered dinner at nine, shut himself up within triple
doors, and set manfully to work. "No desk! An inclined plane--except in
bed--is my abhorrence. All glorious articles must be written on a dead
flat." His friend, the Ettrick Shepherd, used a slate.
Dr. Georg Ebers, professor at the University of Leipzig, Saxony, who is
known all over the world as the author of novels treating of ancient
Egyptian life, and as the writer of learned treatises on the country of
the Khedives, prefers to work in the late evening hours until midnight
when composing poetry, but favors daylight for labor on scientific
topics. He makes a rough draft of his work, has this copied by an
amanuensis, and then polishes and files it until it is satisfactory to
him, that is, as perfect as he possibly can make it. He finds that
tobacco stimulates him to work, and, therefore, he uses it when engaged
in literary production. When he writes poetry, he is in the habit of
sitting in an arm-chair, supporting a lap-board on his knee, which holds
the paper; in this position he pens his lyrics. He imagines that he is
more at liberty in this posture than when behind a writing desk.
Ordinarily he writes with great ease, but sometimes the composition of a
stirring chapter so mercilessly excites him that great beads of sweat
appear upon his forehead, and he is compelled to lay down his pen,
unable to write another line. He never writes unless he is in a suitable
frame of mind, except it be on business matters. Sometimes, when
laboring on topics of science, he works from ten to twelve hours at a
stretch; he never spends more than three or four hours in succession on
poetry.
Charles Reade's habit of working was unique. When he had decided on a
new work he plotted out the scheme, situations, facts, and characters on
three large sheets of pasteboard. Then he set to work, using very large
foolscap to write on, working rapidly, but with frequent references to
his storehouse of facts, in the scrap-books, which were ready at his
hand. The genial novelist was a great reader of newspapers. Anything
that struck him as interesting, or any fact which tended to support one
of his humanitarian theories, was cut out, pasted in a large folio
scrap-book, and carefully indexed. Facts of any sort were his hobby.
From the scrap-books thus collected with great care he used to elaborate
the "questions" treated of in his novels.
Like Charles Reade, Miss Anna Katherine Green is a believer in
scrap-books, and culls from newspapers accounts of strange events. Out
of such material she weaves her stories of crime and its detection.
Emile Zola, the graphic author of realistic fiction, carefully makes
studies from life for his sensational works. He writes rapidly, smoking
cigarettes the while. He is an inveterate smoker, and, if there is
anything he likes better than tobacco, it is his beautiful country-house
near Paris, where he receives daily a large circle of admiring friends.
Edward P. Roe, who, if we may rate success by the wide circulation of an
author's books, was our most successful novelist, preferred the daytime
for literary work, and rarely accomplished much in the evening beyond
writing letters, reading, etc. When pressed with work he put in long
hours at night. In the preface to "Without a Home," Rev. Mr. Roe
presents some extremely interesting matter in regard to the causes which
led to his authorship, and the methods of work by which he turned out so
many well-constructed stories in so short a time. "Ten years ago," he
says, "I had never written a line of a story, and had scarcely
entertained the thought of constructing one. The burning of Chicago
impressed me powerfully, and, obedient to an impulse, I spent several
days among its smoking ruins. As a result, my first novel, 'Barriers
Burned Away,' gradually took possession of my mind. I did not
manufacture the story at all, for it grew as naturally as do the
plants--weeds, some may suggest--on my farm. In the intervals of a busy
and practical life, and also when I ought to have been sleeping, my
imagination, unspurred and almost undirected, spun the warp and woof of
the tale and wove them together.... I merely let the characters do as
they pleased, and work out their own destiny. I had no preparation for
the work beyond a careful study of the topography of Chicago and the
incidents of the fire. For nearly a year my chief recreation was to
dwell apart among the shadows created by my fancy, and I wrote when and
where I could--on steamboats and railroad cars, as well as in my
study.... When the book appeared I suppose I looked upon it much as a
young father looks upon his first child. His interest in it is intense,
but he knows well that its future is very doubtful." Mr. Roe always
wrote from a feeling that he had something to say; and never
"manufactured" a novel in his life. While writing he was absorbed in his
work; and made elaborate studies for his novels. "I have visited," said
he, in reference to "Without a Home," "scores of typical tenements. I
have sat day after day on the bench with the police judges, and have
visited the station-houses repeatedly. There are few large retail shops
that I have not entered many times, and I have conversed with both
employers and employees."
Mr. Roe did not make "outlines" or "skeletons" to any great extent, and
when he did so, he did not follow them closely. Indeed, he often
reversed his plan, satisfied that following an arbitrary outline makes
both story and characters wooden. He held that the characters should
control the author, not he them. He usually received the suggestion of a
story unexpectedly, and let it take form in his mind and grow naturally,
like a plant, for months, more often for years, before he began to
write. He averred that after his characters were introduced he became
merely the reporter of what they do, say, and think. He imagined that it
was this spontaneity which, chiefly, made his books popular, and said
that to reach intelligent people through fiction, the life portrayed
must seem to them real and natural, and that this can scarcely be true
of his characters if the author is forever imposing his arbitrary will
upon them. Mr. Roe wrote in bound blank-books, using but one side of a
sheet. This allowed ample space for changes and corrections, and the
manuscript was kept in place and order. The novelist used tea, and
especially coffee, to some extent as a stimulant, and smoked very mild
cigars. But he rarely took coffee at his dinner, at six P.M., as it
tended to insomnia. The author of "Barriers Burned Away" worked three or
four hours before and two or three hours after lunch. On this point,
however, he varied. When wrought up and interested in a scene, he
usually completed it. In the after part of the day, when he began to
feel weary, he stopped, and, if hard pressed, began work again in the
evening. Once, many years ago, he wrote twenty-four hours at a stretch,
with the aid of coffee. He did not force himself to work against
inclination beyond a certain point. At the same time he fought against a
tendency to "moods and tenses."
The German lyric poet, Martin Greif, writes only in the daytime, because
he can conceive poetry only when walking in the woods, meadows, and
lanes that form the environs of the Bavarian capital--Munich. During his
excursions into the surrounding country, he notes down his thoughts,
which he elaborates when he reaches his quiet study. He is not a ready
versifier, and is compelled to alter a poem repeatedly before it
receives his approbation. At work in the afternoon, he loves to smoke
moderately; but he never uses stimulants. Generally work is hard to him,
but sometimes--that is, rarely--he writes with unusual rapidity. As a
professional writer, he must sometimes force himself to work and must
mount the Pegasus in spite of disinclination, as when, for instance, a
product of his pen has to be delivered on a certain date.
Emile Mario Vacano composed his writings at all times that gave him the
impulse for doing so: at daybreak or in the night. With him it was the
"whereabouts," not the hour, that made the essence. There was a mill
belonging to a good friend of his, where he found his best inspirations
amidst all the hubbub of horses, peasants, poultry, cows, pigeons, and
country life. And he asserted that the name of his friend, Harry Salzer,
of Stattersdorf, near St. Poelten, Lower Austria, ought to be joined to
his. He said that his friend merited a great share of his "glories" by
his hospitality as well as on account of his bright ideas. Vacano never
made a plan in advance, but penned his novels, stories, essays, etc.,
as one writes a letter,--_prima vista_,--never perusing again what he
had written, be it good or bad. When writing he imbibed a good deal of
beer, and was in the habit of using snuff. He did not regard writing as
work. For him it was like a chat in pen and ink with friends. As for an
inclination to work; as for a feeling that he had something to say, and
_must_ say it, come what will,--there was nothing of the sort in him. He
said he hated romances, tales, and all the like, and wrote only to gain
his "_pain quotidien_" and that he detested the humbug with all his
heart and despised the mob that would read it. He declared that if he
were a millionaire or simply wealthy, "he'd never take a pen in hand for
bullying a stupid public with his nonsense."
Emile Richebourg writes his fascinating novels in a plain style, but,
despite the absence of flowery language, is capable of expressing much
feeling. The novel or drama is completed in his head before he writes a
line. As the plot develops, the dialogues and events suggest themselves.
When he has got to work he keeps right on, seldom re-reading what he has
composed. He makes an outline of his book before beginning. He is in the
habit of noting down on a piece of paper the names, ages, lodgings,
etc., of the persons who are pictured in his novels, also the title of
each chapter. Formerly he worked from eight to twelve hours a day, but
never at night. Now he labors only five or six hours at the most, and
always in the morning. Richebourg is an early riser, and goes to bed
early in the evening. He gets up at six in the morning. At eight o'clock
he drinks a bowl of warm milk without sugar, which constitutes his sole
nourishment until dinner at noon. With him this is the principal meal of
the day; and during its progress, according to his own confession, he
finds a bottle of wine very agreeable. He eats but little in the
evening. When at work he smokes continuously; always a pipe. He works
with difficulty, yet with pleasure, and identifies himself, that is,
when composing, with the personages whom he describes. During the
afternoon he promenades in his garden, attends to his roses and other
flowers, and trims the shrubs.
The study of Maurice Jokai, the great Hungarian romancer, is a perfect
museum of valuable souvenirs and rare antiquities. Books, journals, and
pamphlets cover tables, chairs, and walls; busts and statuettes, which
stand about here and there, give the room the appearance of picturesque
disorder. The portrait of his wife, in various sizes, adorns the space
on the walls not taken up by the books. The top of his writing-table is
full of bric-a-brac, which leaves only sufficient room for the quarto
paper upon which he pens his entertaining romances. He writes with
little, fine pens, of so good a workmanship that he is enabled to write
a four-volume novel with one pen. He always makes use of violet ink, to
which he is so accustomed that he becomes perplexed when compelled,
outside of his house, to resort to ink of another color. He claims that
thoughts are not forthcoming when he writes with any other ink. When
violet ink is not within reach, he prefers to write with a lead pencil,
but he does so only when composing short stories and essays. For the
composition of his romances, which generally fill from one to five
volumes when printed, violet ink is indispensable. He rarely corrects
his manuscripts, and they generally go to the printer as they were
originally composed; they are written in a plain, legible hand; and are
what one of the typographic fraternity would call "beautiful copy." One
of the corners of his writing-desk holds a miniature library, consisting
of neatly-bound note-books, which contain the outlines of his novels as
they originated in his mind. When he has once begun a romance, he keeps
right on till he puts down the final period; that is, he writes day by
day till the novel is completed. Jokai says: "It often happens that I
surround my hero with dangers, that enemies arise on all sides, and
escape seems impossible. Then I often say to myself: 'I wonder how the
fellow will get out of the scrape?'"
In his home, at Hartford, Conn., Mark Twain's workshop is in his
billiard-room, at the top of the house, and when he grows tired of
pushing the pen he rises and eases his muscles by doing some scientific
strokes with the cue. He is a hard worker, and, like Trollope, believes
that there is nothing like a piece of shoemaker's wax on the seat of
one's chair to encourage good literary work. Ordinarily he has a fixed
amount of writing for each day's duty. He rewrites many of his chapters,
and some of them have been scratched out and interlined again and again.
Robert Waldmueller, a leading German novelist, who writes under the
pseudonym of "Charles Eduard Duboc," works mostly from eight, nine, or
ten o'clock in the morning until two o'clock in the afternoon, but never
writes at night. Generally he does not plan his work beforehand. When at
work he must be unmolested. In composition, he loves to change off, now
producing poetry, now plays and essays, as his mood may direct. He
writes with great ease and swiftness; and the many books which he has
composed testify that he cannot justly be accused of indolence. He
attributes his facility of expression to the discrimination which he has
always exercised in the choice of books. In early boyhood he was
already disgusted with Florian's sickly "Guillaume Tell," while
Washington Irving's "Sketch-book" delighted him very much; he was also
deeply impressed by the perusal of Homer's immortal epics. He adopted
authorship when twenty-five years of age, and has followed it
successfully ever since. Until then he was especially fond of composing
music and of drawing and painting, but he lacked the time to perfect
himself in these accomplishments. Yet, even to-day, he practices both
arts occasionally as a pastime and for recreation.
The evening finds Dr. Johann Fastenrath, the poet, who writes as elegant
Spanish as he does German, and who is as well-known in Madrid as he is
in Cologne on the Rhine, at the writing-table. He never makes a skeleton
beforehand of essays in his mother-tongue; but for compositions in
French or Spanish he invariably makes an outline. One peculiarity which
he has is to scribble his poems upon little scraps of paper. When
writing prose in Spanish he divides the manuscript-paper in halves, so
as to be able to make additions and to lengthen any particular sentence,
for in the Spanish language artfully long periods are considered
especially beautiful. He does not regard literary composition as work,
and conceives poems faster than he can write them down. When he is at
work absolute quiet must reign about him; he cannot bear noise of any
kind. During the winter he works day for day at home, but in the summer
he tolerates confinement no longer, and whenever he composes at this
time it is always in the open air. From autumn till spring he writes
from six to seven hours a day.
Adolf Streckfusz, a German novelist, prefers to write in the afternoon
and evening, and attains the greatest speed in composition at night. He
makes no plan beforehand, but revises his manuscript at least twice
after completion. He often allows the cigar which he smokes when at work
to go out, but lights it mechanically from time to time, so that the
floor of his study is sometimes covered with dozens of thrown-away
lucifers after working hours. When writing, his cigar is as
indispensable to him as his pen. He can do without neither. Formerly he
could work with extraordinary facility, but now, with increasing age, a
few hours' work at times tires him out so much that he must, of
necessity, take a rest. As with many other authors, a sense of duty
often impels him to work; but almost always, after a beginning is made,
he composes with pleasure. The time which he devotes daily to literary
work varies. He never works more than eight hours, but rarely less than
three or four hours a day.
The author of "The Lady or the Tiger" and many other short
stories--Frank R. Stockton--always works in the morning, and not at any
other time. In writing a short story, such as is published in a single
number of a magazine, he usually composes the whole story, description,
incident, and even the dialogue, before writing a word of it. In this
way the story is finished in his mind before it is begun on paper. While
engaged in other writing he has carried in his memory for several months
as many as three stories, each ready to be put upon paper as soon as he
should have an opportunity. When he is writing a longer story, he makes
in his mind a general outline of the plot, etc.; and then he composes
three or four chapters before he begins to write; when these are
finished, he stops writing until some more are thought out: he never
composes at the point of the pen. He does not write any of his
manuscripts himself; they are all written from his dictation. Stockton
is very fond of working in the summer in the open air, and a great many
of his stories have been dictated while lying in a hammock. He usually
works from about ten in the morning until one P. M., but he spends no
time at the writing-desk, except when he writes letters, which he never
does in his working hours. Some years ago he used to work very
differently, being occupied all day with editorial work, and in the
evening with literary work; but his health would not stand this, and he,
therefore, adopted his present methods. He works regularly every day,
whether he feels like it or not; but when he has set his mind on a
subject, it is generally not long before he does feel like it.
Dr. Leopold Chevalier de Sacher-Masoch generally used to work at night
in former years, but now writes by daylight only, preferably in the
morning. He is the author of a great many graphic stories about Galicia,
and lives at Leipsic, surrounded by a coterie of admiring friends. He
makes an accurate outline; then pens his novel word for word till it is
finished, whereupon it is handed to the printer as it is, not a word
being altered, added, or erased. He is not in the habit of using
stimulating drinks or tobacco when at work, and leads altogether a
temperate life. He has an innate predilection for fur, and declares that
fur worn by a beautiful woman exercises a magic spell over him. Formerly
he had a pretty black cat that used to lie on his knees or sleep on his
writing-desk when he was at work. Now, when he writes, a red velvet
lady's-jacket, with a fur lining of sable and borders of the same
material, lies near at hand upon a divan. Although he is ordinarily
good-natured, his anger is easily provoked by any disturbance during
working hours. Composition is mere play to him after he has begun, but
the first lines of a new work always are penned with difficulty. When he
writes without an inclination, he is, as a rule, dissatisfied with the
result. Generally he spends from three to four hours at the writing-desk
and devotes the rest of the day to recreation.