a 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 book