Pico di Mirandola lies buried in Santa Croce. A modern writer of celebrity, in eulogising the great Humboldt, based his admiration solely on the fact that the Baron had travelled so extensively, and thereby got into so much Good Society — the epitaph upon great Pico's tomb is chiefly based on his conjectured explorations in India!

He was really one of the great scholars of the Renaissance — one, indeed, not only of very many, but of very broad sides, he being "grand in Greek and unequalled among Christians as a Hebraist." There is, indeed, a reference to the latter in the text.

I would here say that, for reasons which I will give anon, I have omitted much of the original and supplied certain details, or rather indulged in certain capriccii, which the reader will readily detect, and, I trust, pardon.

There was anciently in Florence a very old and wealthy family named di Mirandola, and the couple who represented it had a son named Pico. Now, this boy by nature wanted neither wit nor sense, and his father, observing it, wished to have his son well trained in learning, so that he might make a figure at court and in the world.

For in those days learning was made extremely fashionable by the reigning family, and great scholars were sure to come to something — if they had but sense.

Unfortunately, the good man, as regards letters, was like the lawyer whom the people called Necessity, "because he knew no law." And, having grown up between the country and the camp, he had no idea that there was any kind of learning save the clerical. So he put poor Pico under the training of an old-fashioned monk, who regarded everything as tending to sure damnation which was not to be found in Monk-Latin or the Church Fathers.

And he indeed crammed the boy for three or four years with points of doctrine, papal edicts, decretals, lives of saints, dogmatisms and catechisms, schoolmendacities, and similar trash, till his brain buzzed as with a thousand bees — and yet he was, at the end of it all, as regards any true learning, doctor in utroque nihil.

Yet, being clever and gifted, he mastered all this dreary stuff with dire endurance, hoping to see some good come of it all, while marvelling that God had ever made geese.

Old Messer di Mirandola, having heard that monk praise the learning of his pupil, and being informed that in the family of a noble friend of his in Florence there were weekly meetings where scholars and clever people of all kinds were welcomed, resolved that his son should go there — never doubting but that Pico would take the shine out of the most brilliant of them.

He was specially urged not to be backward, because it had been the great end and aim of all his theologic learning:

To confute somebody — to disprove, defeat, invalidate, knock down, disparage, and silence any person who discusses with you any question in culture or literature.

To show superiority — by getting above the comprehension of your adversary (which means anybody who talks to you) and thereby convincing him that you know more than he does.

To deride ignorance — by making broad assertions as to your adversary's stupidity and proving it by exaggerating trifling errors.

With this precious provision of priggery and pedantry, poor Pico was sent to distinguish himself in one of the most brilliant salons in Florence, at a time when Culture and Papism were well-nigh extinguished in Paganism.

But I will not dwell on the dire dégringolade — the fiasco, the affaire flambée — which Pico made of it, when he attempted to take part in a literary discussion. His first assertion was that Greek was all sorry trash which only a fool would learn, that classic mythology was pure rot, and that the volgare or Italian language was unfit for literature.

His chief opponent was a young lady of overwhelming beauty, with whom he fell in love at first sight. But having been carefully trained to believe that all women were only bags of ignorance, vice, deceit, and folly — who adored those who treated them most rudely — he attacked her with specially coarse severity.

Whereupon he was disarmed with wonderful ease and grace by a polished weapon, and made to feel, to his very heart of hearts, what a poor, contemptible, utterly ignorant wretch he was, wallowing in mud in a monkish midnight. After having been most courteously but very severely corrected, he was left alone, and, utterly crushed by shame, left the palazzo without a word to anyone.

Present at this discussion was a very wise man of marvellous learning — a mago withal, much more than well read in books, for he could peruse the human heart from the face. Observing Pico, he saw no want of genius, but merely bad education. Greatly pitying the boy, he resolved to take him in hand.

He followed Pico and found him seated in blank despair in the wood where is now the Cascine. The young are soon touched by tenderness into confidence, and Pico poured forth his sorrow — how, after being flattered into thinking himself a miracle, he had found that he was an ass, cursing his teacher, his birth, the decretals, and all dog-matism.

Then the elderly gentleman said:
"I will speak to thy father and explain that thy tutor does thee more harm than good, and he shall be dismissed. But do thou take this book from me and study it carefully. Let no one know that thou hast it — speak not a word thereof, or it will vanish."

Saying this, he produced a small, ancient, marvellously bound book, which expanded as it came to light. He gave it to Pico, then disappeared with a pleasant smile, leaving the youth amazed.

Opening the book, Pico read:
"Pico di Mirandola, be not cast down, nor ashamed that thou hast had such a rebuff, for the fault is not thine, but thy teacher’s. Now tell me, as to a friend, what thou desirest!"

Pico replied:
"I would fain learn Greek, and whatever also is becoming a gentleman and scholar, and, if it be possible, to become a leader among the learned."

The book answered:
"All this may come to pass, dear Pico, if thou wilt follow my advice, and study me with a good will; nor is there aught on earth in which I will not advise thee."

And it came to pass as the book promised. It taught him Greek by a new method, Hebrew in quarter time, and answered every question. It told tales and rare jests, taught him games and conversation, summoned any book ever written, and even gave him tips for the races and numbers for the lottery.

It was an universal library, an infinite cyclopædia, a daily newspaper, a mentor, guide, philosopher, and friend. It even told him what to say to please ladies.

Pico had never forgotten the young lady scholar before whom he had been humiliated. The thought of recovering grace in her eyes made him study harder. When he was ready, the benevolent book said:

"Now I will shrink into a small volume you can carry in your palm. You need not open me; all will appear on the cover. If you get stuck (tralasciato), just take a peep at me."

This time, Pico entered the palazzo with confidence and modesty, listening carefully and observing the grace with which opinions were exchanged. Encouraged, he joined the conversation.

The young lady remarked:
"It is curious indeed that in the ancient tongues so many words, when reversed, have an opposite meaning. I would ask your opinion, Messer di Mirandola, but I believe that you scorn all tongues save Monk-Latin."

Pico replied:
"It is true that I once hated Greek. But as a Greek writer has said, 'We do not learn to respect a brave enemy till we have fought him,' and I have struggled with Greek, I trust not in vain. As for reversed meanings, let us take Rome — Roma. We go into the idea which it expresses with warlike feeling, but turning it backward we find amor — love."

A buzz of approval followed.

"Perhaps it is only a Platonic love which Rome inspires," she said. "But what do you think of Platonic love?"

Pico answered:
"Truly that, like many things which begin with play, it is apt to end in earnest. And that, like all tonics, it generally inspires a keen appetite — in this case for what is most un-Platonic, or the reverse — just like Rome."

He then spoke of reversed meanings in the Cabala, some believing Hebrew itself was formed on this principle, and that in sorcery, verses that read the same backward and forward were the most powerful spells — one such being seen on the pavement of the Baptistery in Florence.

A young man tried to mock Pico, asking why he had not shared such wisdom on his first visit. Pico smiled and replied, scherzando:

"When Junius Brutus played the idiot
Before the men of Rome, it was to find
The fitting time and season when to speak."

And the end of it all was that in two days all Florence spoke of Pico as of one risen from the dead or transfigured. Some even said he could predict your future husband or recover stolen goods.

But it is certain that the young lady fell in love with him, and that he married her — and that the happy pair talked Greek together to the end of their days.

As for the book, it is said that it was buried with him in his tomb in Santa Croce.

"And now," exclaimed the spiteful Didius of Yorick, "I have got him fast hung up upon one of the two horns of my dilemma — let him get off as he can."

And after all, I am only a little Perraultier than Perrault, Langer than Lang, or Grimmer than Grimm!