oing, and bought all the books I judged necessary for Clementine,
who only knew Italian. I bought numerous translation, which I was
surprised to find at Lodi, which hitherto had been only famous in my mind
for its cheese, usually called Parmesan. This cheese is made at Lodi and
not at Parma, and I did not fail to make an entry to that effect under
the article "Parmesan" in my "Dictionary of Cheeses," a work which I was
obliged to abandon as beyond my powers, as Rousseau was obliged to
abandon his "Dictionary of Botany." This great but eccentric individual
was then known under the pseudonym of Renaud, the Botanist. 'Quisque
histrioniam exercet'. But Rousseau, great man though he was, was totally
deficient in humour.

I conceived the idea of giving a banquet at Lodi the day after next, and
a project of this kind not calling for much deliberation I went forthwith
to the best hotel to make the necessary arrangements. I ordered a choice
dinner for twelve, paid the earnest money, and made the host promise that
everything should be of the best.

When I got back to St. Angelo, I had a sackfull of books carried into
Clementine's room. She was petrified. There were more than one
hundred volumes, poets, historians, geographers, philosophers,
scientists--nothing was forgotten. I had also selected some good novels,
translated from the Spanish, English, and French, for we have no good
novels in Italian.

This admission does not prove by any means that Italian literature is
surpassed by that of any other country. Italy has little to envy in other
literatures, and has numerous masterpieces, which are unequalled the
whole world over. Where will you find a worthy companion to the Orlando
Furioso? There is none, and this great work is incapable of transalation.
The finest and truest panegyric of Ariosto was written by Voltaire when
he was sixty. If he had not made this apology for the rash judgement of
his youthful days, he would not have enjoyed, in Italy at all events,
that immortality which is so justly his due. Thirty-six years ago I told
him as much, and he took me at my word. He was afraid, and he acted
wisely.

If I have any readers, I ask their pardon for these digressions. They
must remember that these Memoirs were written in my old age, and the old
are always garrulous. The time will come to them also, and then they will
understand that if the aged repeat themselves, it is because they live in
a world of memories, without a