Here are assembled a hundred and fourteen students from forty-one different countries. At my request, the Rector caused the Pater Noster to be written by sixteen foreign students in their respective languages. Here, in the evening, in the midst of these various nations, I met Mezzofanti, who seemed to belong to each of them. He spoke Chinese with Leang of Canton, as easily as he spoke Dutch with Mr. Steenhof[459] of Utrecht. I will never forget the instructive hours which I spent there. The natural frankness of Mezzofanti, his free and communicative conversation, his easy tone, his gay disposition, all rendered my farewell visit, which I twice repeated, very painful to me. Amidst so many grave employments, Mezzofanti goes twice each week to the house of the orphans, to teach them the catechism, and to the barracks of the Swiss soldiers to instruct them in the principles of religion. The library requires his care twice in the week, for several hours in the morning; in the afternoon he gives lessons to the pupils of the Propaganda, whose studies he superintends; to his care are confided the public discourses delivered on the Epiphany: almost all foreigners come to visit him; in fine, he pays his visits in his humble equipage, and attends at the Pope’s court when pressing affairs requires his presence; and, notwithstanding many duties and occupations, he still finds time to assist at the divine offices. Who will not feel profound respect and sincere admiration for such a man? I will here subjoin some lines which I wrote _extempore_ in Mezzofanti’s album, together with his immediate reply. ‘Wie ooit de Pinkstergaaf in twijfel durfde trekken. Sta hier beschaamd, verplet voor Mezzofanti’s geest, Hij eere in hem den man, die de aard ten tolk kan strekken. Wiens brien in ’t taalgeheim van alle volken leest. Aanvaard, ô Telg van’t Zuid, den eerbiedgroet van’t Noorden, Maar denk, terwijl nu oog mijn nietig schrift beziet, Al mist der Batten spraak Italjes zang akkoorden, Hun tongval of hun ziel leent zich tot vleijen niet.’ My veritable impromptu instantly called forth this beautiful answer from Mezzofanti:— ‘Mynheer! als uw fraaj schrift kwam heden voor mijne oogen, Door Uw’ goedaardigheid was ikheel opgetogen, En zooveel in mijn geest zooveel in’t hart opklom, Dat mijne tong verbleef med vijftig taalen stom. Nu, opdat ik niet schijn U een ondankbaar wezen, Bid ik U in mijn hart alleen te willen lezen.[460] Joseph Mezzofanti. _Rome, den 17 April, 1837._’