unable to get rid of those whom his enchanter's wand had summoned.[8]
What is even more curious than the story-teller's never dreaming of the
shadowy beings who engross so much of his thoughts, is that (so far as
my own experience goes at least) when a 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,'