“A clever man,” said I.
“Who?” said the man in black.
“Mezzofante di Bologna.”
“He! he! he!” said the man in black; “now I know that you are not a Gypsy, at least a soothsayer; no soothsayer would have said that—”
“Why,” said I, “does he not understand five-and-twenty tongues?”
“O yes,” said the man in black; “and five-and-twenty added to them; but—he! he! it was principally from him who is certainly the Prince of Philologists that I formed my opinion of the sect.”
“You ought to speak of him with more respect,” said I; “I have heard say that he has done good service to your see.”
“O yes,” said the man in black; “he has done good service to our see, that is, in his way; when the neophytes of the propaganda are to be examined in the several tongues in which they are destined to preach, he is appointed to question them, the questions being first written down for him, or else, he! he! he! Of course you know Napoleon’s estimate of Mezzofante; he sent for the linguist from motives of curiosity, and after some discourse with him, told him that he might depart; then turning to some of his generals, he observed, ‘Nous avons eu ici un exemple qu’un homme peut avoir beaucoup de paroles avec bien peu d’esprit.’”
“You are ungrateful to him,” said I; “well, perhaps, when he is dead and gone you will do him justice.”
“True,” said the man in black; “when he is dead and gone, we intend to erect him a statue of wood, on the left-hand side of the door of the Vatican library.”