in of mighty London,--far from mighty as
the London of George the Second may seem to those with whom the
nineteenth century is waning.

Sarti composed best in the sombre shadows of a dimly-lighted room.

The Monsieur Le Maitre commemorated in Rousseau's autobiography typified
a numerous section in his constant recourse, _en travaillant dans son
cabinet_, to a bottle, which was replenished as often as emptied, and
that was too often by a great deal. His servant, in preparing the room
for him, would no more have thought of omitting _son pot et son verre_
than his ruled paper, ink, pens, and violoncello; and one serving did
for these,--not so for the drink.

The learned artist Haydn could not work except in court-dress, and used
to declare that, if, when he sat down to his instrument, he had
forgotten to put on a certain ring, he could not summon a single idea.
How he managed to summon ideas before Frederick II. had given him the
said ring we are not informed.

Charles Dibdin's method of composition, or, rather, the absence of it,
is illustrated in the story of his lamenting his lack of a new subject
while under the hair-dresser's hand in a cloud of powder, at his rooms
in the Strand, preparing for his night's "entertainment." The friend who
was with him suggested various topics, but all of a sudden the jar of a
ladder sounded against the lamp-iron, and Dibdin exclaimed, "The
lamp-lighter, a good notion," and at once began humming and fingering on
his knee. As soon as his head was dressed he stepped to the piano,
finished off both music and words, and that very night sang "Jolly Dick,
the Lamplighter," at the theatre, nor could he, we are assured on
critical authority, well have made a greater hit if the song had been
the deliberate work of two authors--one of the words, another of the
air--and had taken weeks to finish it, and been elaborated in studious
leisure instead of the distraction of dressing-room din.

XIII.

The Hygiene of Writing.

Edward Everett Hale gives the following description of his mode of life,
which at the same time is full of advice to authors in general:--

"The business of health for a literary man seems to me to depend largely
upon sleep. He should have enough sleep, and should sleep well. He
should avoid whatever injures sleep.

"This means that the brain should not be excited or even worked hard for
six hours before bedtime. Young men can disregard this rule, and do; but
as on