. I cursed and swore, but they let me curse and swear as much as
I liked. At last I discovered that there was no help for it, and I paid a
second time, laughing at the clever rascal who had taken me in so
thoroughly. Such are the lessons of life; always full of new experiences,
and yet one never knows enough. From that day I have always taken care
not to pay for posting except to the proper persons.

In no country are knaves so cunning as in Italy, Greece ancient and
modern excepted.

When I got to the best inn at Leghorn they told me that there was a
theatre, and my luck made me go and see the play. I was recognized by an
actor who accosted me, and introduced me to one of his comrades, a
self-styled poet, and a great enemy of the Abbe Chiari, whom I did not
like, as he had written a biting satire against me, and 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