“The offer is an honourable one so far as you are concerned, but all the other officers might treat me with contempt.  I should be regarded as a kind of fool, and I should probably kill the first man who dared to insult me.  Give me a distinct office, and let me wear your uniform; I will be useful to you.  I know the country for which you are bound, I can speak the language, and I am not wanting in courage.”

“My dear sir, I really have no particular office to give you.”

“Then, count, I wish you a pleasant sail; I am going to Rome.  I hope you may never repent of not taking me, for without me you will never pass the Dardanelles.”

“Is that a prophecy?”

“It’s an oracle.”

“We will test its veracity, my dear Calchus.”

Such was the short dialogue I had with the worthy count, who, as a matter of fact, did not pass the Dardanelles.  Whether he would have succeeded if I had been on board is more than I can say.

Next day I delivered my letters to M. Rivarola and the English banker. 
The squadron had sailed in the early morning.

The day after I went to Pisa, and spent a pleasant week in the company of Father Stratico, who was made a bishop two or three years after by means of a bold stroke that might have ruined him.  He delivered a funeral oration over Father Ricci, the last general of the Jesuits.  The Pope, Ganganelli, had the choice of punishing the writer and increasing the odium of many of the faithful, or of rewarding him handsomely.  The sovereign pontiff followed the latter course.  I saw the bishop some years later, and he told me in confidence that he had only written the oration because he felt certain, from his knowledge of the human heart, that his punishment would be a great reward.

This clever monk initiated me into all the charms of Pisan society.  He had organized a little choir of ladies of rank, remarkable for their intelligence and beauty, and had taught them to sing extempore to the guitar.  He had had them instructed by the famous Gorilla, who was crowned poetess-laureate at the capitol by night, six years later.  She was crowned where our great Italian poets were crowned; and though her merit was no doubt great, it was, nevertheless, more tinsel than gold, and not of that order to place her on a par with Petrarch or Tasso.

She was satirised most bitterly after she had received the bays; and the satirists were even more in the wrong than the profaners of the capitol, for all the pamphlets against her laid stress on the circumstance that chastity, at all events, was not one of her merits.  All poetesses, from the days of Homer to our own, have sacrificed on the altar of Venus.  No one would have heard of Gorilla if she had not had the sense to choose her lovers from the ranks of literary men; and she would never have been crowned at Rome if she had not succeeded in gaining over Prince Gonzaga Solferino, who married the pretty Mdlle.  Rangoni, daughter of the Roman consul, whom I knew at Marseilles, and of whom I have already spoken.