It would be absurd to argue gravely against Trollope's simple-minded views; to appeal to the demigods of literature who have thought, like George Eliot, that there was a difference between 'tallow chandling' and bookwriting; and that, if inspiration be a daring word, some time must at least be allowed for ideas to ripen and harmonise, and that it may be well to await some overmastering mood that will not come regularly when an old groom calls you at 5.30 a.m. It is more to the purpose to admit frankly that some great writers have been almost equally productive. Scott took almost as businesslike a view as Trollope. Lockhart tells us how an idle youth was irritated by the shadow of a hand behind a window-blind; and by noting the provoking pertinacity with which it added sheet to sheet with the regularity of a copying machine, and how it afterwards appeared that the sheets were those of Waverley. Scott, it may be replied, was only pouring out the stores of imagery which had been accumulating for many years, when as yet he had no thought of bringing them to market. Moreover, in some twelve years of excessive production even Scott's vein was pretty nearly exhausted. What stores, one may ask, had
