s the
morning. He never makes a skeleton of his work. He has tried the
skeleton method, but found it useless, and broke away from it soon after
starting. He finds that incident suggests incident, and characters
develop themselves. Of course, he starts with a motive (in the technical
sense), and a general drift and color, and the salient points of leading
characters. He uses no stimulant when at work, except tobacco in the
form of cigarettes, which he smokes all the time, whatever he is doing,
even when writing a letter. Pen and cigarette are inseparable; but he
smokes very little when not working, and next to nothing when taking a
holiday. His hours of work depend very much on necessity. He is engaged
on a newspaper from nine A. M. till one P. M. The afternoon and evening
are devoted to fiction or whatever other work he has on hand.
Practically he is at his desk all day, an industry which is rendered
possible by frequent change of work. He constantly forces himself to
work, dead against inclination; and, though it may seem strange, it
constantly happens that the less the original inclination, the better
the result, and _vice versa_. Francillon has no faith whatever in
writing upon inclination, and maintains that even if little comes of
working when disinclined, the little is something and prevents the want
of inclination lasting, besides preventing one from yielding easily. He
is perfectly indifferent to outside noise, and, indeed, to almost
everything that most people find a trial to the nerves--except
conversation in the same room. He has worked with music playing in the
same room, and has not even noticed it.

Hubert H. Bancroft, the historian of the Pacific coast, works day and
evening, with little interruption, except as he takes a walk or rides
for exercise occasionally in the afternoon. He determines that a certain
amount of work shall be accomplished within so many hours, days, and
weeks, and so is always stimulated and successfully accomplishes the
allotted task. He frequently writes when not disposed to work.

Richard Schmidt Cabanis, the German humorist, has often spent whole
nights at the writing-desk. When composing poetry he makes an outline
beforehand, otherwise not. Before his manuscript goes to press he
carefully revises it and strikes out a great deal. He is very fond of
French red wine, which he imbibes occasionally when writing, but which
he must often forego in obedience to the advice of his physic