We may fairly assume that, except for a few short absences such as the visits to York and Lindisfarne, his whole life was spent in the monastery. It must have been a life of unremitting toil. His writings, numerous as they are, covering a wide range of subjects and involving the severest study, can only have been a part of his work; he had, besides, his duties as priest, teacher, and member of a religious community to fulfil. Even the manual labour of his literary work must have been considerable. He did not employ an amanuensis, and he had not the advantages with regard to copyists which a member of one of the larger monasteries might have had. “Ipse mihi dictator simul notarius (= shorthand writer) et librarius (= copyist),” he writes. Yet he never flags. Through all the outward monotony of his days his own interest remains fresh. He “takes delight” (“dulce habui”) in it all. It is a life full of eager activity in intellectual things, of a keen and patriotic interest in the wider life beyond the monastery walls, which shows itself sadly enough in his reflections on the evils of the times, of the ardent charity which spends itself in labour for the brethren, and, pervading the whole, that spirit of quiet obedience and devotion which his own simple words describe as “the observance of monastic rule and the daily charge of singing in the Church.” We can picture him, at the appointed hours, breaking off his absorbing occupations to take his place at the daily offices, lest, as he believed, he should fail to meet the angels there. Alcuin records a saying of his, “I know that angels visit the canonical hours and the congregations of the brethren. What if they do not find me among the brethren? May they not say, ‘Where is Bede?’ ”