, without noticing any one, stand musing with his
back to the fire, and then hurry off again to his room, no doubt to
commit to paper some thought which had struck him. He was subject to
fits of wakefulness, and read much in bed; if not disposed to read, he
still kept the candle burning; if he wished to extinguish it, and it was
out of his reach, he flung his slipper at it, which would be found in
the morning near the overturned candlestick, daubed with grease. He is
said to have considered four lines of poetry a day good work.

He commenced his poem of "The Traveller" in Switzerland, but long kept
it back from publication, till Johnson's praise of it induced him to
prepare it for the press. It is said that, while for two years previous
to its publication he was employed in the drudgery of laborious
compilations for the booksellers, his few vacant hours were fondly
devoted to the patient revisal and correction of this his greatest poem;
pruning its luxuriances, or supplying its defects, till it appeared at
length finished with exactness and polished into beauty. While writing
his History of England, he would read Hume, Rapin-Thoyras, Carte, and
Kennet, in the morning, make a few notes, ramble with a friend into the
country about the skirts of "Merry Islington," return to a temperate
dinner and cheerful evening, and, before going to bed, write off what
had arranged itself in his head from the studies of the morning. In this
way he took a more general view of the subject, and wrote in a more free
and fluent style than if he had been mousing at the time among
authorities. The influence of this way of composing history is plainly
seen in the entertaining, but not immortal, volumes it produced.

Douglas Jerrold's day of labor may be sketched thus. At eight o'clock he
breakfasts on cold new milk, toast, bacon, watercresses, and perhaps
strawberries. Then he makes long examination of the papers, cutting out
bits of news. The study is a snug room filled with books and pictures;
its furniture is of solid oak. There work begins. If it be a comedy, he
will now and then walk rapidly up and down the room, talking wildly to
himself, and laughing as he hits upon a good point. Suddenly the pen
will be put down, and through a little conservatory, without seeing
anybody, he will pass out into the garden for a little while, talking to
the gardeners, walking, &c. In again, and vehemently to work. The
thought has come; and, in letters small