I was in the habit, especially during the hot weather, of sitting in the palace gardens to meditate. Now, in my case, this daily custom of meditation supplied the place of reading, and with constant practice it was interesting to find how excellent a substitute for books it became in course of time. For I had gradually grown to appreciate the luxury of solitary thought to such an extent that I should have lamented the cessation of these opportunities as many an earth-born mortal would regard his deprivation of all printed matter. "He is never alone who is accompanied by noble thoughts," and inasmuch as I felt myself in the cue for tragedy, poetry, comedy or pure fantasy, so I had grown an adept in attaching my prevailing humour to the trend of my musings. Thus I passed long hours of solitary communing in a world of my own peopled with my intimate aspirations, ideals, conceits and fancies. My favourite spot for the practice of these cerebral gymnastics, if I may so describe them, was a certain shady corner of the palace gardens which terminated in a semicircular marble bench backed by a close-clipped hedge of bay and daphne. The path leading hither was likewise lined with thick walls of aromatic verdure, so that the air was often odorous with the clinging scent of aleagnis and allspice. Overhead the branches of taller trees had been artfully pleached, whilst the young leaves of the topmost boughs in opposition to the fierce beams of the invading sunlight caused a soft golden haze to brood in the sylvan vaulting of this green alley. As I lay on my marble couch I used to note the penetrating shafts of sunshine discover the knots of golden wire that bound together these over-arching limbs, exposing the artificial origin of the bower and reminding me of Leonardo da Vinci's _Arbour of Love_ with its gilded true-lovers' knots that still flourishes in one of the vaulted chambers of the Sforzas' gloomy citadel in Milan. True, I used to miss in my leafy Meleagrian lair the mocking fauns and nymphs of Boboli and Borghese, who seemed set on their stone pedestals to watch with sly glances as to whether Christian mortals would behave with more decorum than themselves in those delicious and provocative groves, where in primitive days they were "Wont to clasp their loves at noontide, Close as lovers clasp at night," with none to call aloud Halt! or Fie! To make amends for the absence of these simulacra of the jolly pagan life of Herthus, there was a fountain hidden somewhere behind the bosky screens, which allowed its water to flow in a series of cadences and pauses and arpeggios, so that it sung a lullaby that was by no means monotonous to the surrounding thickets and to any stray inhabitant thereof. Here I used to expend many an hour in perfect solitude, seeking repose and release from the canker of anxiety, trying more or less effectually to emulate the advice of the poet and to annihilate my entity to a green thought in a green shade.