M. Baffo, a man of sublime genius, a most lascivious, yet a great and original poet, was therefore instrumental in bringing about the decision which was then taken to send me to Padua, and to him I am indebted for my life.  He died twenty years after, the last of his ancient patrician family, but his poems, although obscene, will give everlasting fame to his name.  The state-inquisitors of Venice have contributed to his celebrity by their mistaken strictness.  Their persecutions caused his manuscript works to become precious.  They ought to have been aware that despised things are forgotten.

As soon as the verdict given by Professor Macop had been approved of, the Abbe Grimani undertook to find a good boarding-house in Padua for me, through a chemist of his acquaintance who resided in that city.  His name was Ottaviani, and he was also an antiquarian of some repute.  In a few days the boarding-house was found, and on the 2nd day of April, 1734, on the very day I had accomplished my ninth year, I was taken to Padua in a ‘burchiello’, along the Brenta Canal.  We embarked at ten o’clock in the evening, immediately after supper.

The ‘burchiello’ may be considered a small floating house.  There is a large saloon with a smaller cabin at each end, and rooms for servants fore and aft.  It is a long square with a roof, and cut on each side by glazed windows with shutters.  The voyage takes eight hours.  M. Grimani, M. Baffo, and my mother accompanied me.  I slept with her in the saloon, and the two friends passed the night in one of the cabins.  My mother rose at day break, opened one of the windows facing the bed, and the rays of the rising sun, falling on my eyes, caused me to open them.  The bed was too low for me to see the land; I could see through the window only the tops of the trees along the river.  The boat was sailing with such an even movement that I could not realize the fact of our moving, so that the trees, which, one after the other, were rapidly disappearing from my sight, caused me an extreme surprise.  “Ah, dear mother!” I exclaimed, “what is this? the trees are walking!” At that very moment the two noblemen came in, and reading astonishment on my countenance, they asked me what my thoughts were so busy about.  “How is it,” I answered, “that the trees are walking.”

They all laughed, but my mother, heaving a great sigh, told me, in a tone of deep pity, “The boat is moving, the trees are not.  Now dress yourself.”

I understood at once the reason of the phenomenon.  “Then it may be,” said I, “that the sun does not move, and that we, on the contrary, are revolving from west to east.”  At these words my good mother fairly screamed.  M. Grimani pitied my foolishness, and I remained dismayed, grieved, and ready to cry.  M. Baffo brought me life again.  He rushed to me, embraced me tenderly, and said, “Thou are right, my child.  The sun does not move; take courage, give heed to your reasoning powers and let others laugh.”