I accompanied M. de Voltaire to his bedroom, where he changed his wig and put on another cap, for he always wore one on account of the rheumatism to which he was subject. I saw on the table the Summa of St. Thomas, and among other Italian poets the ‘Secchia Rapita’ of Tassoni.
“This,” said Voltaire, “is the only tragicomic poem which Italy has. Tassoni was a monk, a wit and a genius as well as a poet.”
“I will grant his poetical ability but not his learning, for he ridiculed the system of Copernicus, and said that if his theories were followed astronomers would not be able to calculate lunations or eclipses.”
“Where does he make that ridiculous remark?”
“In his academical discourses.”
“I have not read them, but I will get them.”
He took a pen and noted the name down, and said,—
“But Tassoni has criticised Petrarch very ingeniously.”
“Yes, but he has dishonoured taste and literature, like Muratori.”
“Here he is. You must allow that his learning is immense.”