his villa on the shore of the Adriatic. 'At such a season,' says he,
in a retrospect of the day's work, 'one is apt to reflect _how much of my
life has been lost in trifles_! At least it is a reflection that
frequently comes across me at Laurentum, after I have been employing
myself in my studies, or even in the necessary care of the animal
machine; for the body must be repaired and supported if we would preserve
the mind in all its vigour. In that peaceful retreat I neither hear nor
speak anything of which I have occasion to repent. I suffer none to
repeat to me the whispers of malice; nor do I censure any man, unless
myself, when I am dissatisfied with my compositions. There I live
undisturbed by rumour, and free from the anxious solicitudes of hope or
fear, conversing only with myself and my books. True and genuine life!
Pleasing and honourable repose! More, perhaps, to be desired than the
noblest employments! Thou solemn lea and solitary shore, best and most
retired scene for contemplation, with how many noble thoughts have you
inspired me! Snatch then, my friend, as I have, the first occasion of
leaving the noisy town with all its very empty pursuits, and devote your
days to study, or even resign them to ease. For, as my ingenious friend
Attilius pleasantly said, 'It is better to do nothing than to be doing
nothings!''

The great Cardinal Ximenes, in the zenith of his power, built with his
own hands a hut in a thick unfrequented wood, where he could retire
occasionally from the busy world. Here he used to pass a few days, every
now and then, in meditation and study. These he was wont to describe as
the happiest days of his life, and declared that he would willingly
exchange all his dignities for his hut in the chestnut wood. Thomas
Aquinas, coming to visit the learned Bonaventura, asked him to point out
the books which he used in his studies. The monk led him into his cell
and showed him a few common volumes upon his table. Thomas explained that
the books he wished to see were those from which the learned master drew
so many wonders. Thereupon Bonaventura showed him a small oratory.
'There,' he said, 'are my books; that is the principal book from which I
draw all that I teach and write.'

To the thoughtless and those of shallow intellect solitude is inseparable
from loneliness. There is, for them, something terrible in the thought of
being debarred, even temporarily, from the society of their
fellow-beings. 'Retir