ed, figures allegorically as the
convent," says the author, "that word being forbidden to be pronounced
on the Italian stage." "Action and reaction are equal," says the axiom;
and much, if not all, of the present irreverent attitude of Italians
towards religious matters must be attributed to the excessive rigour,
petty and despicable detail, of the regulations in vogue under their
former priestly and priest-ridden rulers in these respects.

Goldoni, during his residence in Paris, had an amusing colloquy with
Diderot, who was furious at an accusation made that he had plagiarised
from Goldoni in his own play, "Le Pere de Famille,"--an absurd idea, as
there is no resemblance, save in name, between the two. It was from the
_Larmoyant_ plays of Diderot and his school, which reflected the false
sentimental tone of the day both in France and Germany, that Goldoni had
liberated his countrymen, quite as much as from the pseudo-classical
plays to which their own land had given birth. Diderot did not perceive
this, and in his fury wrote a slashing criticism of all the Italian's
plays, stigmatising them as "Farces in three Acts." Goldoni, who, with
all his sweetness of temper, was perfectly fearless, simply called on
Diderot, and asked him what cause for spite he had against him and his
works. Diderot replied that some of his compositions had done him much
harm. Duni, an Italian musician, who had introduced them to each other,
at this point interposed, saying that they should follow the advice of
Tasso,--

"Ogni trista memoria ormai si taccia
E pognansi in oblio le andate cose,"

which may be freely rendered as "Let bygones be bygones." Diderot, who
understood Italian well, accepted the suggestion, and the two parted
friends. It is an anecdote creditable to all parties, and not least to
the two Italians.

It is a pity that Goldoni's Memoirs, from which the above sketch of his
life is derived, were written in French instead of Italian, and with
regard to a French rather than an Italian public. Had he written in
his own language and for his own people, he might have produced a work
worthy to rank beside the wondrous tale of Cellini, though of course
of a very opposite character. As it is, the narrative is little known,
though it has been translated into Italian and issued in cheap form.

Such, briefly, the Italian dramatist, whose best works in substance are
the continuation of the ancient plays of Menander and Terence, imita