London to Berlin | Page 6

direction, grumbling as he went.
On the way I informed the officer of the very good reasons I had for
treating Pocchini as a rogue, and he agreed that I had been perfectly
right. "Unfortunately," he added, "I am in love with one of his
daughters."
When we were in the midst of St. James's Park we saw them, and I
could not help laughing when I noticed Goudar with one of them on
each side.
"How did you come to know these ladies?" said I.
"Their father the captain," he answered, "has sold me jewels; he
introduced me to them."
"Where did you leave our father?" asked one.
"In Hyde Park, after giving him a caning."
"You served him quite right."
The young Englishman was indignant to hear them approving my ill-
treatment of their father, and shook my hand and went away, swearing
to me that he would never be seen in their company again.
A whim of Goudar's, to which I was weak enough to consent, made me
dine with these miserable women in a tavern on the borders of London.
The rascally Goudar made them drunk, and in this state they told some
terrible truths about their pretended father. He did not live with them,
but paid them nocturnal visits in which he robbed them of all the
money they had earned. He was their pander, and made them rob their
visitors instructing them to pass it off as a joke if the theft was
discovered. They gave him the stolen articles, but he never said what he
did with them. I could not help laughing at this involuntary confession,
remembering what Goudar had said about Pocchini selling him jewels.
After this wretched meal I went away leaving the duty of escorting

them back to Goudar. He came and saw me the next day, and informed
me that the girls had been arrested and taken to prison just as they were
entering their house.
"I have just been to Pocchini's," said he, "but the landlord tells me he
has not been in since yesterday."
The worthy and conscientious Goudar added that he did not care if he
never saw him again, as he owed the fellow ten guineas for a watch,
which his daughters had probably stolen, and which was well worth
double.
Four days later I saw him again, and he informed me that the rascal had
left London with a servant-maid, whom he had engaged at a registry
office where any number of servants are always ready to take service
with the first comer. The keeper of the office answers for their fidelity.
"The girl he has gone with is a pretty one, from what the man tells me,
and they have taken ship from London. I am sorry he went away before
I could pay him for the watch; I am dreading every moment to meet the
individual from whom it was stolen."
I never heard what became of the girls, but Pocchini will re-appear on
the scene in due course.
I led a tranquil and orderly life, which I should have been pleased to
continue for the remainder of my days; but circumstances and my
destiny ordered it otherwise, and against these it is not becoming in a
Christian philosopher to complain. I went several times to see my
daughter at her school, and I also frequented the British Museum,
where I met Dr. Mati. One day I found an Anglican minister with him,
and I asked the clergyman how many different sects there were in
England.
"Sir," he replied in very tolerable Italian, "no one can give a positive
answer to that question, for every week some sect dies and some new
one is brought into being. All that is necessary is for a man of good
faith, or some rogue desirous of money or notoriety, to stand in some

frequented place and begin preaching. He explains some texts of the
Bible in his own fashion, and if he pleases the gapers around him they
invite him to expound next Sunday, often in a tavern. He keeps the
appointment and explains his new doctrines in a spirited manner. Then
people begin to talk of him; he disputes with ministers of other sects;
he and his followers give themselves a name, and the thing is done.
Thus, or almost thus, are all the numerous English sects produced."
About this time M. Steffano Guerra, a noble Venetian who was
travelling with the leave of his Government, lost a case against an
English painter who had executed a miniature painting of one of the
prettiest ladies in London, Guerra having given a written promise to
pay twenty-five guineas. When it was finished Guerra did not like it,
and would not take it or pay the price.