Anthony Magliabechi, who died at the age of eighty, was celebrated for
his great knowledge of books. He has been called the _Helluo_, or the
Glutton of Literature, as Peter _Comestor_ received his nickname from
his amazing voracity for food he could never digest; which appeared when
having fallen sick of so much false learning, he threw it all up in his
"_Sea of Histories_," which proved to be the history of all things, and
a bad history of everything. Magliabechi's character is singular; for
though his life was wholly passed in libraries, being librarian to the
Duke of Tuscany, he never _wrote_ himself. There is a medal which
represents him sitting, with a book in one hand, and a great number of
books scattered on the ground. The candid inscription signifies, that
"it is not sufficient to become learned to have read much, if we read
without reflection." This is the only remains we have of his own
composition that can be of service to posterity. A simple truth, which
may, however, be inscribed in the study of every man of letters.
His habits of life were uniform. Ever among his books, he troubled
himself with no other concern whatever; and the only interest he
appeared to take for any living thing was his spiders. While sitting
among his literary piles, he affected great sympathy for these weavers
of webs, and perhaps in contempt of those whose curiosity appeared
impertinent, he frequently cried out, "to take care not to hurt his
spiders!" Although he lost no time in writing himself, he gave
considerable assistance to authors who consulted him. He was himself an
universal index to all authors; the late literary antiquary, Isaac Reed,
resembled him.[108] He had one book, among many others, dedicated to
him, and this dedication consisted of a collection of titles of works
which he had had at different times dedicated to him, with all the
eulogiums addressed to him in prose and verse. When he died, he left his
vast collection for the public use; they now compose the public library
of Florence.
Heyman, a celebrated Dutch professor, visited this erudite librarian,
who was considered as the ornament of Florence. He found him amongst his
books, of which the number was prodigious. Two or three rooms in the
first story were crowded with them, not only along their sides, but
piled in heaps on the floor; so that it was difficult to sit, and more
so to walk. A narrow space was contrived, indeed, so that by walking
sideways you might extricate yourself from one room to another. This was
not all; the passage below stairs was full of books, and the staircase
from the top to the bottom was lined with them. When you reached the
second story, you saw with astonishment three rooms, similar to those
below, equally so crowded, that two good beds in these chambers were
also crammed with books.
This apparent confusion did not, however, hinder Magliabechi from
immediately finding the books he wanted. He knew them all so well, that
even to the least of them it was sufficient to see its outside, to say
what it was; he knew his flock, as shepherds are said, by their faces;
and indeed he read them day and night, and never lost sight of any.[109]
He ate on his books, he slept on his books, and quitted them as rarely
as possible. During his whole life he only went twice from Florence;
once to see Fiesoli, which is not above two leagues distant, and once
ten miles further by order of the Grand Duke. Nothing could be more
simple than his mode of life; a few eggs, a little bread, and some
water, were his ordinary food. A drawer of his desk being open, Mr.
Heyman saw there several eggs, and some money which Magliabechi had
placed there for his daily use. But as this drawer was generally open,
it frequently happened that the servants of his friends, or strangers
who came to see him, pilfered some of these things; the money or the
eggs.
His dress was as cynical as his repasts. A black doublet, which
descended to his knees; large and long breeches; an old patched black
cloak; an amorphous hat, very much worn, and the edges ragged; a large
neckcloth of coarse cloth, begrimed with snuff; a dirty shirt, which he
always wore as long as it lasted, and which the broken elbows of his
doublet did not conceal; and, to finish this inventory, a pair of
ruffles which did not belong to the shirt. Such was the brilliant dress
of our learned Florentine; and in such did he appear in the public
streets, as well as in his own house. Let me not forget another
circumstance; to warm his hands, he generally had a stove with fire
fastened to his arms, so that his clothes were generally singed and
burnt, and his hands scorched. He had nothing otherwise remarkable about
him. To literary men he was extremely affable, and a cynic only to the
eye; anecdotes almost incredible are related of his memory. It is
somewhat uncommon that as he was so fond of literary _food_, he did not
occasionally dress some dishes of his own invention, or at least some
sandwiches to his own relish. He indeed should have written CURIOSITIES
OF LITERATURE. He was a living Cyclopaedia, though a dark lantern.[110]
Of such reading men, Hobbes entertained a very contemptible, if not a
rash opinion. His own reading was inconsiderable; and he used to say,
that if he had spent as much time in _reading_ as other men of learning,
he should have been as _ignorant_ as they. He put little value on a
_large library_, for he considered all _books_ to be merely _extracts_
and _copies_, for that most authors were like sheep, never deviating
from the beaten path. History he treated lightly, and thought there were
more lies than truths in it. But let us recollect after all this, that
Hobbes was a mere metaphysician, idolising his own vain and empty
hypotheses. It is true enough that weak heads carrying in them too much
reading may be staggered. Le Clerc observes of two learned men, De
Marcilly and Barthius, that they would have composed more useful works
had they _read_ less numerous authors, and digested the better writers.