st me, but there were already signs that this would
disappear before long, and in sooth it came to an end after the lapse of
another year."[220]

During this portion of his life at Bologna, Cardan seems to have lived
comparatively alone, and to have spent his weary leisure in brooding over
his sorrows. He began his long rambling epilogue to the _De Libris
Propriis_, and, almost on the threshold, pours out his sorrow afresh over
Gian Battista's unhappy fate. After affirming that Death must necessarily
come as a friend to those whose lives are wretched, he begins to speculate
whether, after all, he ought not to rejoice rather than mourn over his
son's death. "Certes he is rid of this miserable life of danger and
difficulty, vain, sorrowful, brief, and inconstant; these times in which
the major part of the good things of the world fall to the trickster's
share, and all may be enjoyed by those who are backed up by wealth or
power or favour. Power is good when it is in the hands of those who use it
well, but it is a great evil when murderers and poisoners are allowed to
wield it. To the ill-starred, to the ungodly, and to the foolish, death is
a boon, freeing them from numberless dangers, from heavy griefs, from
fatal troubles, and from infamy; wherefore in such cases it ought not to
be spoken of as something merely good or indifferent, but rated as the
best of fortune. Shall I not declare to God (for He willed the deed), to
myself, and to my surviving family, that my son's death was a thing to be
desired, for God does all justly, wisely, and lovingly? He lets me stand
as an example to show others that a good and upright man cannot be
altogether wretched. I am poor, infirm, and old; bereaved by a cruel wrong
of my best-loved son, a youth of the fairest promise, and left only with
the faintest hope of any ray of future good fortune, or of seeing my race
perpetuated after my death, for my daughter, who has been nine years
married, is barren.

"At one time I was prosperous in every relation of life: in my
friendships, in my children, and in my health. In my youth I seemed to be
one raised up to realize the highest hopes. I was accustomed to all the
good things--nay, to all the luxuries of life. Now I am wretched,
despised, with foes swarming around me; I not only count myself miserable,
I feel I am far more miserable now than I was happy aforetime. Yet I
neither lose my wits nor make any boast, as my actions prove. I do my work