ook in my hand. Dinner at four, read about half an hour, then
take to the sofa with a different book, and after a few pages get my
soundest sleep, till summoned to tea at six. My best time during the
winter is by candlelight; twilight interferes with it a little, and in
the season of company I can never count upon an evening's work. Supper
at half past nine, after which I read an hour, and then to bed. The
greatest part of my miscellaneous work is done in the odds and ends of
time."

Shelley rose early in the morning, walked and read before breakfast,
took that meal sparingly, wrote and studied the greater part of the
morning, walked and read again, dined on vegetables (for he took neither
meat nor wine), conversed with his friends (to whom his house was ever
open), again walked out, and usually finished with reading to his wife
till ten o'clock, when he went to bed. This was his daily existence. His
book was generally Plato, or Homer, or one of the Greek tragedians, or
the Bible, in which last he took a great interest. Out of twenty-four
hours he frequently read sixteen. "He wrote his Prometheus," says
Willis, "in the baths of Caracalla, near the Coliseum." It was his
favorite haunt in Rome.

The poet Campbell thus describes his labors, when in London, at the age
of fifty-five: "I get up at seven, write letters for the Polish
Association, until half past nine, breakfast, go to the club and read
the newspapers till twelve. Then I sit down to my studies, and, with
many interruptions, do what I can till four. I then walk round the Park
and generally dine out at six. Between nine and ten I return to
chambers, read a book or write a letter, and go to bed always before
twelve." "His correspondence," says his biographer, "occupied four hours
every morning, in French, German, and Latin. He could seldom act with
the moderation necessary for his health. Whatever object he once took in
hand, he determined to carry out, and found no rest until it was
accomplished." Whatever he wrote during his connection with the New
Monthly and the Metropolitan was written hurriedly. If a subject was
proposed for the end of a month, he seldom gave it a thought until it
was no longer possible to delay the task. He would then sit down in the
quietest corner of his chambers, or, if quiet was not to be found in
town, he would start off to the country, and there, shut in among the
green fields, complete his task. When sixty-two years old, he says: "I