ll
their contents as readily as though the pages were open before me. I
could recite you the whole of Thucydides, Xenophon, Plutarch, Titus
Livius, Tacitus, Strada, Jornandes, Dante, Montaigne, Shakespeare,
Spinoza, Machiavelli, and Bossuet. I name only the most important."

"You are, doubtless, acquainted with a variety of languages, so as to
have been able to read all these?"

"Yes, I speak five of the modern tongues--that is to say, German,
French, Italian, English, and Spanish; by the aid of ancient Greek I
learned modern Greek--I don't speak it so well as I could wish, but I am
still trying to improve myself."

"Improve yourself!" repeated Dantes; "why, how can you manage to do so?"

"Why, I made a vocabulary of the words I knew; turned, returned, and
arranged them, so as to enable me to express my thoughts through
their medium. I know nearly one thousand words, which is all that is
absolutely necessary, although I believe there are nearly one hundred
thousand in the dictionaries. I cannot hope to be very fluent, but I
certainly should have no difficulty in explaining my wants and wishes;
and that would be quite as much as I should ever require."

Stronger grew the wonder of Dantes, who almost fancied he had to do
with one gifted with supernatural powers; still hoping to find some
imperfection which might bring him down to a level with human beings, he
added, "Then if you were not furnished with pens, how did you manage to
write the work you speak of?"

"I made myself some excellent ones, which would be universally preferred
to all others if once known. You are aware what huge whitings are served
to us on maigre days. Well, I selected the cartilages of the heads of
these fishes, and you can scarcely imagine the delight with which
I welcomed the arrival of each Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, as
affording me the means of increasing my stock of pens; for I will freely
confess that my historical labors have been my greatest solace and
relief. While retracing the past, I forget the present; and traversing
at will the path of history I cease to remember that I am myself a
prisoner."

"But the ink," said Dantes; "of what did you make your ink?"

"There was formerly a fireplace in my dungeon," replied Faria, "but it
was closed up long ere I became an occupant of this prison. Still, it
must have been many years in use, for it was thickly covered with a
coating of soot; this soot I dissolved in a portion of the wi