5. Studied from books, but not known to have been spoken,—fourteen.
6. Dialects spoken, or their peculiarities understood,—thirty-nine dialects of ten languages, many of which might justly be described as different languages.
This list adds up one hundred and eleven, exceeding by all comparison every thing related in history. The Cardinal said he made it a rule to learn every new grammar and apply himself to every strange dictionary that came within his reach. He did not appear to consider his prodigious talent so extraordinary as others did. “In addition to an excellent memory,” said he, “God has blessed me with an incredible flexibility of the organs of speech.” Another remark of his was, “that when one has learned ten or a dozen languages essentially different from one another, one may with a little study and attention learn any number of them.” Again he remarked, “If you wish to know how I preserve these languages, I can only say that when I once hear the meaning of a word in any language I never forget it.”
And yet it is not claimed for this man of many words that his ideas at all corresponded. He had twenty words for one idea, as he said of himself; but he seemed to agree with Catharine de Medicis in preferring to have twenty ideas for one word. He was remarkable for the number of languages which he had made his own, but was not distinguished as a grammarian, a lexicographer, a philologist, a philosopher, or ethnologist, and contributed nothing to any department of the study of words, much less that of science.
LITERARY ODDITIES.
Racine composed his verses while walking about, reciting them in a loud voice. One day, while thus working at his play of Mithridates, in the Tuileries gardens, a crowd of workmen gathered around him, attracted by his gestures: they took him to be a madman about to throw himself into the basin. On his return home from such walks he would write down scene by scene, at first in prose, and when he had written it out, he would exclaim, “My tragedy is done!” considering the dressing of the acts up in verse as a very small affair. Magliabecchi, the learned librarian to the Duke of Tuscany, on the contrary, never stirred abroad, but lived amid books and upon books. They were his bed, board, and washing. He passed eight-and-forty years in their midst, only twice in the course of his life venturing beyond the walls of Florence,—once to go two leagues off, and the other time three and a half leagues, by order of the Grand Duke. He was an extremely frugal man, living upon eggs, bread, and water, in great moderation. Luther, when studying, always had his dog lying at his feet,—a dog he had brought from Wartburg and of which he was very fond. An ivory crucifix stood on the table before him, and the walls of his study were stuck round with caricatures of the Pope. He worked at his desk for days together without going out; but when fatigued, and the ideas began to stagnate in his brain, he would take his flute or his guitar with him into the porch, and there execute some musical fantasy, (for he was a skilful musician,) when the ideas would flow upon him as fresh as flowers after summer’s rain. Music was his invariable solace at such times. Indeed, Luther did not hesitate to say that, after theology, music was the first of arts. “Music,” said he, “is the art of the prophets: it is the only art which, like theology, can calm the agitation of the soul and put the devil to flight.” Next to music, if not before it, Luther loved children and flowers. The great, gnarled man had a heart as tender as a woman’s. Calvin studied in his bed. Every morning, at five or six o’clock, he had books, manuscripts, and papers carried to him there, and he worked on for hours together. If he had occasion to go out, on his return he undressed and went to bed again to continue his studies. In his later years he dictated his writings to secretaries. He rarely corrected any thing. The sentences issued complete from his mouth. If he felt his facility of composition leaving him, he forthwith quitted his bed, gave up writing and composing, and went about his outdoor duties for days, weeks, and months together. But as soon as he felt the inspiration fall upon him again, he went back to his bed, and his secretary set to work forthwith. Rousseau wrote his works early in the morning; Le Sage at mid-day; Byron at midnight. Villehardouin rose at four in the morning, and wrote till late at night. Aristotle was a tremendous worker: he took little sleep, and was constantly retrenching it. He had a contrivance by which he awoke early, and to awake was with him to commence work. Demosthenes passed three months in a cavern by the seaside, laboring to overcome the defects of his voice. There he read, studied, and declaimed. Rabelais composed his Life of Gargantua at Bellay, in the company of Roman cardinals, and under the eyes of the Bishop of Paris. La Fontaine wrote his fables chiefly under the shade of a tree, and sometimes by the side of Racine and Boileau. Pascal wrote most of his Thoughts on little scraps of paper, at his by-moments. Fénélon wrote his Telemachus in the Palace of Versailles, at the court of the Grand Monarque, when discharging the duties of tutor to the Dauphin. That a book so thoroughly democratic should have issued from such a source and been written by a priest may seem surprising. De Quincey first promulgated his notion of universal freedom of person and trade, and of throwing all taxes on the land,—the germ, perhaps, of the French Revolution,—in the boudoir of Madame de Pompadour! Bacon knelt down before composing his great work, and prayed for light from Heaven. Pope never could compose well without first declaiming for some time at the top of his voice, and thus rousing his nervous system to its fullest activity. The life of Leibnitz was one of reading, writing, and meditation. That was the secret of his prodigious knowledge. After an attack of gout, he confined himself to a diet of bread and milk. Often he slept in a chair, and rarely went to bed till after midnight. Sometimes he spent months without quitting his seat, where he slept by night and wrote by day. He had an ulcer in his right leg, which prevented his walking about even had he wished to do so.
CULTURE AND SACRIFICE.
The instruction of the world has been carried on by perpetual sacrifice. A grand army of teachers, authors, artists, schoolmasters, professors, heads of colleges—have been through ages carrying on war against ignorance; but no triumphal procession has been decreed to it, nor spoils of conquered provinces have come to its coffers; no crown imperial has invested it with pomp and power. In lonely watch-towers the fires of genius have burned, but to waste and consume the lamp of life, while they gave light to the world. It is no answer to say that the victims of intellectual toil, broken down in health and fortune, have counted their work a privilege and joy. As well deny the martyr’s sacrifice because he has joyed in his integrity. And many of the world’s intellectual benefactors have been martyrs. Socrates died in prison as a public malefactor; for the healing wisdom he offered his people, deadly poison was the reward. Homer had a lot, so obscure at least, that nobody knew his birthplace; and, indeed, some modern critics are denying that there ever was any Homer.
Plato traveled back and forth from his home in Athens to the court of the Syracuse tyrant, regarded indeed and feared, but persecuted and in peril of life; nay, and once sold for a slave. Cicero shared a worse fate. Dante all his life knew, as he expressed it,
“How salt was a stranger’s bread,