From the baths of Lucca we went by vetturino, a charming drive, to Florence. The chief part of the way I travelled with my eldest brother on the box of our large berline, enjoying thus a perfect view of the country through which we passed.

A trifling incident occasioned us much merriment the day we passed the frontier of the little Duchy and entered that of Tuscany. Underneath the carriage was slung a hamper, in which nestled our favourite Scotch terrier, “Boch-Dhu,” so named on account of her black muzzle, together with a small family with which she had lately increased our caravan. My brother had walked on for a stretch, as he often did, and left me in possession of some money to be delicately handed to the custom-house officer, bidding me at the same time to address the official with great civility. Accordingly, when we arrived at the Dogana, out came a little bustling man, whose chief characteristic was a pair of enormous moustaches. I acted up to my orders, and slid the buona mano in his hand. He did not disdain the bribe, but thought to hedge with his conscience by asking in rather a peremptory tone of voice what that curious-looking basket contained, implying that it was his painful duty to be informed on so important a matter. I could not resist the temptation of playing him a little practical joke, so in a meek and obsequious manner I replied that I was not quite sure if the contents were contraband, and requested him to satisfy his scruples by lifting the lid. As he did so my expectations were realised, for the infuriated mother made a dart at his nose, and he incontinently dropped the lid with all haste. I must do the functionary the justice of saying that he was good-humoured enough to bear me no malice. He laughed outright, and the carriage drove on while he was shaking his fist at me in mock anger.

On our arrival in Florence we took up our abode on what I have since called the wrong side of the Arno, although the autumn was not sufficiently advanced for us to find our quarters too cold. The house was situated near the south end of one of the bridges, and we had for fellow-lodgers a French family, consisting of a mother, two daughters and a son, who became ere long our cherished friends and companions.

The youngest daughter was a most remarkable person, and one who was well known in Florence for many years. She had lived a life of romantic adventure, and it was my hope and intention, at one time, to have written a slight sketch of her life, as she described it to me.

The mother, Madame de Fauveau, was a typical Frenchwoman of the ancien rÉgime, whose family had suffered during the Reign of Terror. Her own mother had been a prisoner for some time in the “Conciergerie,” and I was much interested by an incident which my friend related to me of those terrible days.

It seems that the room which Madame de Fauveau’s mother shared with several other lady prisoners had but one window, heavily barred, through which you could see, only by climbing up on a ledge, and straining your neck to look out; but here so slight a communication with the outer world was eagerly sought after by the poor captives, who would daily take it in turn to mount the window-seat. One day it was the turn of Madame de Fauveau’s mother, and her attention was attracted by seeing an old woman in the street make her all sorts of mysterious signs; it was evident she had something of importance to impart. She first made manifold gestures and gesticulations, then taking up her own gown in her hands, and shaking it and pointing to it several times, she proceeded to pick up a stone from the ground, deliberately drew her hand across her throat, and bowed her head, as if to designate the guillotine. Can you not believe with what alacrity the happy prisoner jumped down from the window, and communicated the joyful news to her fellow-captives, in a cautious whisper, however, “Robespierre est mort!” which meant for all in that room life and freedom?

Madame de Fauveau was a witty, kind-hearted woman, and a hero-worshipper, and the hero, or rather heroine, she worshipped was her own daughter, FÉlicie, who was well worthy of all the incense offered her.

FÉlicie, some years before I knew her, had attached herself to the fortunes of the Duchesse de Berri, and had been the fast friend and comrade-in-arms of the brave and noble Madame de la Roche-Jacquelin, Princesse de Talmont. This lady had emulated the example of her ancestor, in the first rising of la VendÉe, by animating her retainers, and raising, as far as I remember, a regiment, which she herself commanded, to uphold the fortunes of their legitimate King, Henri V., in the same locality, so much so that, with a similarity of name and country, the heroines of the two risings have frequently been confounded, and the dates and heroines confused.

As I only heard the account of this short campaign from FÉlicie herself, my allusion to it is naturally vague, but I know that those two friends endured great hardships and dangers in each other’s company, and when the little band of loyalists was dispersed, and the cause lost, they wandered about, suffering from hunger and fatigue, often hiding themselves in dry ditches by day, and continuing their flight by night, till at length they were compelled to separate for a better chance of safety. FÉlicie was taken, and the tattered colours of the VendÉens found under her uniform. She was imprisoned, her captors believing that they had arrested Madame de la Roche-Jacquelin, an error which the faithful friend did not contradict.

On coming out from captivity, FÉlicie was banished from France, together with her mother and the whole family. The little fortune they possessed was confiscated, and thus it came about that they settled in Florence.

What was to be done to gain a livelihood, for the de Fauveaus were too proud to accept pecuniary aid from people whose political sentiments they did not share? FÉlicie was energetic. She became a sculptress, she worked in marble, in alabaster, and in silver, in many branches, brooches, clasps, and wings, which would have done no discredit to Benvenuto Cellini. All her tastes, all her talent turned to the expounding of the genius of the Middle Ages, and all her works breathed the spirit of mediÆval art. One of her chief productions was a group of Francesca di Rimini, chosen at the moment when Paolo falls at her feet, and the fatal book lies on her lap—

Another very beautiful statuette she executed for the Duchesse de Berri; it represented St Elizabeth, at the moment when, upbraided by her husband for carrying provisions to the poor in time of scarcity, she draws aside the cloth which covers her basket, and lo! a miracle, the contents were turned to flowers. I saw this beautiful little statue in the Duchesse de Berri’s palace at Venice, holding fresh white roses, the emblem at once of the Royal Saint and the badge of the Royal owner.

FÉlicie de Fauveau was an excellent scholar as far as reading went, being well acquainted with our literature, but she never could master the language sufficiently to talk in society, and it was amusing to hear the dialogues between her and my mother, each in her native tongue.

Our stay at Florence was not long. We made a preliminary acquaintance with all the treasures of painting and sculpture contained in that beautiful city, and went on our road to Rome, sleeping one night in the Pontine Marshes, when we had for supper a fricassÉe of frogs such as I had heard of all my life and never beheld before or since.

We had had apartments taken for us in the Via della Croce leading out of the Via Babuino, where on our arrival my mother found a letter from her old friend Madame de Bunsen, begging her to come to tea that very evening at the Prussian Legation, situated on the Campidoglio or Capitoline Hill. Accordingly, having divested ourselves of our dusty garments, we proceeded thither in all haste. That was a red-letter day in my calendar, and one that while my life lasts can never be forgotten.

Our repast over, Madame de Bunsen said: “It is a most beautiful night, and I think you and your girl would like to take your first impression of Rome from the window of our balcony.”

So saying she led us out, and lo! in all the silver radiance of a southern moonlight, Rome lay sleeping before us—Rome with its classical ruins, the Coliseum, the Forums of Campo Vaccino and that of Trajan, the Tarpeian Rock, with gorgeous palaces of the Middle Ages, and the towers of manifold periods, while St Peter’s and the Vatican, with the Castle of St Angelo, were visible on the further bank of the yellow Tiber, now, glittering in the moonlight, transmuted into silver; and that was our first sight of Rome the eternal, Rome the beautiful, Rome the sublime—the pilgrims to whose shrine never failed to drink of the magic waters of the fountain of Trevi, in the fond hope that this charm will insure their return.

I shall say very little about my Roman experiences on this occasion, as, making allowances for the different degrees of enthusiasm, the same story would be more or less told by every traveller; suffice it to say, that my cup of happiness seemed overflowing, when I drove with my mother, and walked or rode in the Campagna with my brother and numerous friends, when each day our eyes were gladdened, and our intellects brightened, by some new revelation of beauty in art or nature.

Very shortly after our arrival we went with a large party to see the principal statues in the Vatican by torchlight, an expensive amusement which is generally accomplished by collecting many friends together, each of whom pays a torch-bearer. The effect is most wonderful, for the men who carry the torches are instructed to make the light travel over the marble features until they assume a living aspect, with all the change and expression of breathing humanity.

We mixed frequently this winter in artistic circles, visiting both at the homes and studios of the principal painters and sculptors of the day. To Horace Vernet, in particular, we often paid our respects; at his house one of the most prominent and interesting figures was the venerable Thorwaldsen, whose magnificent work of our Lord and the Twelve Apostles was then on exhibition in his studio, the same which now forms one of the glories of his native city of Copenhagen. He himself was of a commanding presence, with long locks of silver lying on his shoulders, and of the gentlest and most genial countenance I ever beheld.

One evening the French painter invited his guests to come in costume, and I remember the characteristic appearance which he made as a Bedouin, and very like one of his own equestrian pictures, while his lovely daughter, in a splendid dress of gold and coloured brocade, looked as if she had walked out of a Paul Veronese frame. I thought then of the verse in the Psalms of the description of the King’s daughter—“All glorious within, her clothing of wrought gold, brought unto the King in raiment of needlework.” She was indeed, on that evening especially, a vision of delight. No wonder she drove poor Leopold Robert to madness, and captivated the heart of her noble countryman, Paul de la Roche.

With Overbeck we also made acquaintance, and the fine work on which he was then engaged, the “Life of Our Lord,” with regard to which he told us that he had changed the Protestant religion for that of Rome, as he believed none but a Catholic could paint sacred subjects.

Pinelli was also still alive, and we found him at work on one of those terra-cotta groups of Roman peasantry, which were even more admirable than his drawings. He was very handsome, a typical Roman, with gold earrings in his ears, and his hair in small ringlets, such as in old days might commonly be seen among our English sailors. I think he admired himself as much as we did, and it was easy to see that he had taken himself as the model for most of the principal figures in his charming groups.

Another interesting personage was the German painter Reinhardt, a man of very advanced age, who was called at that time the father of the artists.

But this book is not intended as a mere catalogue.

Through the kindness of a friend whose acquaintance we made at Lucca, we had ingress afforded us to many of the religious ceremonies in the Sistine and elsewhere, from which the generality of travellers were usually excluded, and letters of introduction also formed passports to the palaces of the chief Roman nobility, so that the Carnival that year was one continued round of gaiety and festivity for me and mine.

After some delightful Spring days passed in the neighbourhood with the Boddingtons, at Tivoli and Albano, we travelled to Naples, where those dear friends soon rejoined us. Here we took up our abode, in a very pretty apartment on the ground floor of the Palazzo Calabritti, just opposite the entrance to the delightful gardens of the Villa Reale.