In no country are knaves so cunning as in Italy, Greece ancient and modern excepted.

When I got to the best inn at Leghorn they told me that there was a theatre, and my luck made me go and see the play.  I was recognized by an actor who accosted me, and introduced me to one of his comrades, a self-styled poet, and a great enemy of the Abbe Chiari, whom I did not like, as he had written a biting satire against me, and I had never succeeded in avenging myself on him.  I asked them to come and sup with me—­a windfall which these people are not given to refusing.  The pretended poet was a Genoese, and called himself Giacomo Passano.  He informed me that he had written three hundred sonnets against the abbe, who would burst with rage if they were ever printed.  As I could not restrain a smile at the good opinion the poet had of his works, he offered to read me a few sonnets.  He had the manuscript about him, and I could not escape the penance.  He read a dozen or so, which I thought mediocre, and a mediocre sonnet is necessarily a bad sonnet, as this form of poetry demands sublimity; and thus amongst the myriads of sonnets to which Italy gives birth very few can be called good.

If I had given myself time to examine the man’s features, I should, no doubt, have found him to be a rogue; but I was blinded by passion, and the idea of three hundred sonnets against the Abbe Chiari fascinated me.

I cast my eyes over the title of the manuscript, and read, “La Chiareide di Ascanio Pogomas.”

“That’s an anagram of my Christian name and my surname; is it not a happy combination?”

This folly made me smile again.  Each of the sonnets was a dull diatribe ending with “l’abbate Chiari e un coglione.”  He did not prove that he was one, but he said so over and over again, making use of the poet’s privilege to exaggerate and lie.  What he wanted to do was to annoy the abbe, who was by no means what Passano called him, but on the contrary, a wit and a poet; and if he had been acquainted with the requirements of the stage he would have written better plays than Goldoni, as he had a greater command of language.

I told Passano, for civility’s sake, that he ought to get his Chiareide printed.

“I would do so,” said he, “if I could find a publisher, for I am not rich enough to pay the expenses, and the publishers are a pack of ignorant beggars.  Besides, the press is not free, and the censor would not let the epithet I give to my hero pass.  If I could go to Switzerland I am sure it could be managed; but I must have six sequins to walk to Switzerland, and I have not got them.”

“And when you got to Switzerland, where there are no theatres, what would you do for a living?”

“I would paint in miniature.  Look at those.”

He gave me a number of small ivory tablets, representing obscene subjects, badly drawn and badly painted.

“I will give you an introduction to a gentleman at Berne,” I said; and after supper I gave him a letter and six sequins.  He wanted to force some of his productions on me, but I would not have them.