s.

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 sp