As a somewhat different opinion has been expressed by others, the reader will observe the testimony borne by Jacobs, not only to Mezzofanti’s scholarship and philological attainments in a department but little cultivated, but also to the “selectness and appropriateness” of his German vocabulary, the “facility with which he spoke,” and the general purity and correctness of his conversational style.
He proceeds to describe another peculiarity of Mezzofanti’s extraordinary faculty which is equally deserving of notice, but which no other visitor whom we have hitherto seen, has brought out so strongly.
“Not less remarkable are the ease and readiness with which he passes in conversation from one language to another, from the north to the south, from the east to the west, and the dexterity with which he speaks several of the most difficult together, without the least seeming effort; and whereas, in cognate languages, the slightest difference creates confusion;—so that, for instance the German in Holland or the Dutchman in Germany, often mixes the sister and mother tongues so as to become unintelligible;—Mezzofanti ever draws the line most sharply, and his path in each realm of languages is uniformly firm and secure.”
We may also add Professor Jacobs’ description of the personal appearance of the great linguist at this period of his life.
“Mezzofanti,” he says, “is of the middle size, or rather below it; he is thin and pale, and his whole appearance indicates delicacy. He appears to be between fifty and sixty years old [he was really, in 1825, fifty-one]; his movements are easy and unembarrassed; his whole bearing is that of a man who has mixed much in society. He is active and zealous in the discharge of his duties, and never fails to celebrate mass every day.”[414]
I have thought it necessary to draw the reader’s attention to these points, in reference to Mezzofanti’s German, in order that he may compare them with the observations of Dr. Tholuck, Chevalier Bunsen, Guido Görres, and other distinguished Germans, who visited him at a later period.
All his later letters to the Abate Cavedoni, which are filled with apologies for his tardiness as a correspondent, tell the same story of ceaseless occupation.
“A Franciscan friar of the Bosnian province,” he writes, November 23rd, 1825, “who has been learning Turkish with me for the purposes of his mission in Bosnia, being on his way to Modena, has called to inquire whether I have any occasion to write to that city. The remorse which I feel at not having written to you for so long a time, makes it impossible for me to give a denial; and I write this letter, into which I wish I could crowd all the expressions of gratitude which I owe to you for your constant and faithful remembrance of one, who, although he certainly never forgets you, yet rarely gives you, at least in writing, the smallest evidence of his remembrance.
The truth is that I should only be too happy to do so, and that it would seem to me but a renewal of the pleasant literary discussions which we used to hold with one another here. But unfortunately, I am too much occupied to indulge myself with this relaxation. I say this, however, only to excuse myself; for I assure you that I look eagerly for letters from you, and that it is a great comfort to me to receive one.