beginning with Matthias Corvinus, who tried vainly to attract him to Ofen like Argyropulos, were in regular correspondence with him, asked his advice on points of theology and philosophy, and sought his criticism on various works. Amid all these unsought testimonies of honour and confidence, Marsilio Ficino remained simple, unpretending, easily satisfied. His delicate health compelled him to lead a quiet life, and suffices to explain the melancholy humour that often stole over him when alone. Yet in company which he liked, and which afforded food for his mind in unrestrained intercourse, he was cheerful and sympathetic. His musical talents, bringing change and refreshment from serious studies, helped to season his conversation. With his plectrum, an instrument which he himself perfected, he resembled the poet-sages of the mythic age. He was seldom absent from Platonic banquets, and had been an habitual guest of Lorenzo’s grandfather when the latter invited learned men to his house. He loved a country life above all things, and passed a great part of his time on the little estate of Montevecchio. In later years he often went to see Pico della Mirandola and Poliziano, when they were staying in his neighbourhood—the one at Querceto, the other at Fiesole; and still oftener to Lorenzo, when he was living at Careggi. He was received as a welcome guest at the villas of Valori, Canigiani, Cavalcanti, and others. At Montevecchio he instituted a peculiar yearly festival. On SS. Cosmo and Damian’s day he assembled the old tenants (‘coloni’) of his first and greatest patron and entertained them with music and singing. His independence of mind was in no way diminished by intercourse with those who, through birth or a successful career, held a higher position in life. He once wrote thus to Lorenzo de’ Medici, whose fondness for pleasure in his earlier, perhaps also in his later days, appeared to Ficino excessive, and caused him anxiety: ‘In the name of the eternal God I intreat thee, my dearest Prince, to economise every moment of this brief life, lest there come over thee vain remorse for dissipation and irreparable harm. The consciousness of lost time drew deep sighs from the great Cosimo in my presence, when he had reached the age of seventy. Trifling occupations and empty pastimes rob thee of thy true self; they make thee a slave, who art born to be a ruler. Free thyself while thou canst from this miserable servitude; only to-day canst thou do so, for only to-day is thine own; to-morrow it will be too late.’