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