writings that ideal wish ever recurs in the
shape of a friendly walk, followed by a meal in a garden-house. It is
found as an opening scene of the _Antibarbari_, in the numerous
descriptions of meals with Colet, and the numerous _Convivia_ of the
_Colloquies_. Especially in the _Convivium religiosum_ Erasmus has
elaborately pictured his dream, and it would be worth while to compare
it, on the one hand with Theleme, and on the other with the fantastic
design of a pleasure garden which Bernard Palissy describes. The little
Dutch eighteenth-century country-seats and garden-houses in which the
national spirit took great delight are the fulfilment of a purely
Erasmian ideal. The host of the _Convivium religiosum_ says: 'To me a
simple country-house, a nest, is pleasanter than any palace, and, if he
be king who lives in freedom and according to his wishes, surely I am
king here'.

Life's true joy is in virtue and piety. If they are Epicureans who live
pleasantly, then none are more truly Epicureans than they who live in
holiness and piety.

The ideal joy of life is also perfectly idyllic in so far that it
requires an aloofness from earthly concerns and contempt for all that is
sordid. It is foolish to be interested in all that happens in the world;
to pride oneself on one's knowledge of the market, of the King of
England's plans, the news from Rome, conditions in Denmark. The sensible
old man of the _Colloquium Senile_ has an easy post of honour, a safe
mediocrity, he judges no one and nothing and smiles upon all the world.
Quiet for oneself, surrounded by books--that is of all things most
desirable.

On the outskirts of this ideal of serenity and harmony numerous flowers
of aesthetic value blow, such as Erasmus's sense of decorum, his great
need of kindly courtesy, his pleasure in gentle and obliging treatment,
in cultured and easy manners. Close by are some of his intellectual
peculiarities. He hates the violent and extravagant. Therefore the
choruses of the Greek drama displease him. The merit of his own poems he
sees in the fact that they pass passion by, they abstain from pathos
altogether--'there is not a single storm in them, no mountain torrent
overflowing its banks, no exaggeration whatever. There is great
frugality in words. My poetry would rather keep within bounds than
exceed them, rather hug the shore than cleave the high seas.' In another
place he says: 'I am always most pleased by a poem that does not differ