Now that “Francesca da Rimini” is done,—­all but the polishing,—­I have time to look around and see how I have been neglecting my friends during my state of “possession.”  Of course you wish to know my opinion of the bantling; I shall suppose you do, at all events.  Well, then, I am better satisfied with “Francesca da Rimini” than with any of my previous plays.  It is impossible for me to say what you, or the world, will say of it; but if it do not please you both, I do not know what I am about.  The play is more dramatic than former ones, fiercer in its display of intense passions, and, so far as mere poetry goes, not inferior, if not superior, to any of them.  In this play I have dared more, risked more, than I ever had courage to do before. Ergo, if it be not a great triumph, it will certainly be a great failure.  I doubt whether you, in a hundred guesses, could hit upon the manner in which I have treated the story.  I shall not attempt to prejudice you regarding the play; I would rather have you judge for yourself, even if your decision be adverse.  Am I not the devil and all for rapid composition?  My speed frightens me, and makes me fearful of the merits of my work.  Yet, on coolly going over my work, I find little to object to, either as to the main design or its details.  I touch up, here and there, but I do little more.  The reason for my rapid writing is that I never attempt putting pen to paper before my design is perfectly mature.  I never start with one idea, trusting to the glow of poetical composition for the remainder.  That will do in lyrical poetry, but it would be death and damnation to dramatic.  But just think of it!—­twenty-eight hundred lines in about three weeks!  To look back upon such labour is appalling!  Let me give you the whole history of my manner of composition in a few words.  If it be not interesting to you, you differ from me, and I mistake the kind of matters that interest you.  While I am writing I eat little, I drink nothing, I meditate my work, literally, all day.  By the time night arrives I am in a highly nervous and excited state.  About nine o’clock I begin writing and smoking, and I continue the two exercises, pari passu, until about four o’clock in the morning.  Then I reel to bed, half crazy with cigar-smoke and poesy, sleep five hours, and begin the next day as the former.  Ordinarily, I sleep from seven to eight hours; but when I am writing, but five,—­simply because I cannot sleep any longer at such times.  The consequence of this mode of life is that at the end of a long work I sink at once like a spent horse, and have not energy enough to perform the ordinary duties of life.  I feel my health giving way under it, but really I do not care.  I am ambitious to be remembered among the martyrs.

This letter is not only significant of Boker’s method of workmanship; it is, as well, measure of his charm as a letter writer.  For, in correspondence with his close friends, he was as natural with them, as full of force and brightness, as he was in conversation.  We find Taylor thanking him at one time, when in distress over family illness and death, for his sustaining words of comfort; we find Leland basking in the warmth of his sheer animal spirits.  To the latter, Boker once wrote: