Nevertheless, monsignor was an intelligent man, and, what is still better, an honest man.

He told me, much to my surprise, that his bishopric, although not one of little importance, brought him in only five hundred ducat-diregno yearly, and that, unfortunately, he had contracted debts to the amount of six hundred.

He added, with a sigh, that his only happiness was to feel himself out of the clutches of the monks, who had persecuted him, and made his life a perfect purgatory for fifteen years.

All these confidences caused me sorrow and mortification, because they proved to me, not only that I was not in the promised land where a mitre could be picked up, but also that I would be a heavy charge for him.

I felt that he was grieved himself at the sorry present his patronage seemed likely to prove.
I enquired whether he had a good library, whether there were any literary men, or any good society in which one could spend a few agreeable hours.
He smiled and answered that throughout his diocese there was not one man who could boast of writing decently, and still less of any taste or knowledge in literature; that there was not a single bookseller, nor any person caring even for the newspapers.