omed them to put forth their
finest intellectual efforts at that time of day. But the mind that has
been brought up to rise at seven and go to bed at ten, is undoubtedly at
its best before noon. Night working is not a natural tendency, it is an
acquired habit; and though the expression 'burning the midnight oil' is
taken to be synonymous with the acquisition of learning, yet in the long
run it is but a poor economy of time, for the wisdom so acquired is often
obtained at the cost of health and eyesight.

And what is freedom from interruption but another name for solitude? It
may be temporary, it may be prolonged, it may be permanent, but for the
intellectual man it is absolutely essential. No one would be so foolish
as to deny that literary work of the highest rank can be, and has been
frequently, accomplished amid the bustle and noise of cities; witness the
works of those literary giants who have passed their lives as
town-dwellers. Doubtless they obtained the necessary solitude by
spiritual detachment. But on the other hand, for intense and prolonged
meditation, for the communing with one's innermost soul on the immense
principles of life and nature, for the production of such deep
soul-searching work as we see in the compositions of a Kempis, Dante,
Milton, and Wordsworth, absolute solitude for some seasons is essential.
There must be complete freedom from the daily distractions caused by
one's fellow-beings.

'Believe me, upon my own experience,' wrote St. Bernard, 'you will find
more in the woods than in books; the forests and rocks will teach you
what you cannot learn of the greatest masters.' It is not necessary,
however, for us to take up our abode in a cave that we may meditate
undisturbed. Let us rather follow Wordsworth's example when he pours
forth gratitude

'For my own peaceful lot and happy choice;
A choice that from the passions of the world
Withdrew, and fixed me in a still retreat;
Sheltered, but not to social duties lost,
Secluded, but not buried; and with song
Cheering my days, and with industrious thought;
With the ever-welcome company of books;
With virtuous friendship's soul-sustaining aid,
And with the blessings of domestic love.'

It is sufficient if we can withdraw at will into the solitudes. The
younger Pliny, moralising to his friend Minutius (I should like to think
him the progenitor of Aldo Manuccio), describes the delights of seclusion
at