These two cities have always appeared to me to bear a strong family likeness to each other, the same river running through the principal streets, although the buildings on the quays are very different. They are like two sisters: Pisa, the elder, the more sedate, the graver of the two, while Florence, the younger, is all smiles and gladness. But in one respect we were very fortunate, for we saw Pisa under a most cheerful aspect. There is, or was (for I do not know if it continues), a triennial festival in honour of her patron saint, St Ranieri, on which occasion the whole town is illuminated, not, after the fashion of an English illumination, with crowns and stars and badges and devices, but by the marking out of the architecture of palaces, churches, and bridges with lines of light, so that the city bears the appearance of being built in fire. Beautiful as this effect would be in almost all cities, it is doubly so in Pisa, more especially on account of that noble group of buildings, the Cathedral, the Baptistery, and the Leaning Tower. The last edifice, in particular, presents a most singular and beautiful aspect with the spiral lines of light, which define so vividly the peculiar and fantastic form of the erection.

We walked about the streets during the greater part of the night, amid the most amiable and good-humoured crowd with which it was ever my lot to mingle.

I cannot help recording here a curious story which was told me by an English lady at Pisa. A countrywoman of hers, a young girl, said to her one day when they were standing together in the Baptistery, admiring the celebrated pulpit, which is supported on the backs of four lions:

“That reminds me of such a curious dream I had last night. I thought I was standing here where we are now, and that I put my hand into the lion’s open mouth, when he bit it off.” Suiting the action to the word, the girl thrust her hand into the marble creature’s jaws, uttered a cry of agony, and pulled it out hurriedly. The lion’s mouth contained a nest of scorpions, one of which had stung her so severely as to necessitate immediate measures to ensure the safety of her injured hand.

Our winter season^[35] at Florence was as brilliant as that at Rome, and, to me, more delightful in one respect, as I obtained a theatrical engagement. On the walls of Florence stood a large and commodious house (I know not if it still exists). It then belonged to Mr Rowland Standish, and was called by his name; it had a large garden and a very pretty theatre. The mistress—the lessee, the manageress, the friend of all who came near her, whether professionally or socially—was Lady Lucy Standish,^[36] beneath whose auspices the little theatre became the resort of a happy company, both before and behind the curtain.

How excellent were some of our actors and actresses! Ah! I fear very few survive to read this feeble tribute. Among other performances, we gave an ambitious representation of the old comedy, A Cure for the Heartache, in which the Secretary of our Legation, Mr George Edgcumbe,^[37] especially distinguished himself as the “yokel” of the piece. He had lately become engaged to Miss Shelley, a fair friend and countrywoman of mine, but however preoccupied his heart may have been, it did not interfere with the rare skill with which he played a difficult, and some would have considered ungrateful, rÔle. The villain of the play, who had designs on the sister of the ploughman, lays a scheme by which to get the latter into his power. He places a purse full of money (one of those large elongated purses with which in old melodramas the wicked peer always tempted the virtuous peasant) within the grasp of the poverty-stricken brother, when summoned on some pretext to the great house. After a short soliloquy, lamenting his penury and the like, the ploughman looks round, sees the golden bait, and chinks the guineas. Then follows a silent pause. The temptation at first appears irresistible; you see the struggles which are passing in the poor fellow’s mind, the difficulty of resistance, the final victory over himself, and the well-expressed air of reproach and indignation with which he hands the purse to his tempter on his entering the room.

May I be forgiven for adding a little incident concerning my own performance? I played the rich heiress whose betrothed lover throws her over at the end of the piece, in favour of her penniless rival. I thought it would be neat and appropriate at such a juncture to make my exit in violent hysterics, and in that state I repaired to my dressing-room, where I was calmly employed in changing my dress for the after piece, when the door burst open and my sister rushed in, terror-stricken.

“O Mary,” she said, “you will kill yourself; this dreadful excitement is too much for you!”

I looked up and she looked down. I was certainly the calmer of the two, but my vanity had received a most flattering compliment.

How well I remember the night of our first rehearsal. At its termination, the gentleman who had kindly undertaken the onerous office of prompter thus addressed us from his hooded seat on the stage:-“Ladies and gentlemen, I am most anxious to give you all satisfaction, and in order to do so, I have taken down every separate direction given me by each member of the company, as to the especial manner in which he or she wishes me to prompt, such as, When I look at you, not before. Will you run on in a low voice the whole time?” “Never mind if I substitute one small word for another,” etc.

He then read each order, with the name of the giver, and summed up the total. There were twenty-two entirely different, most specific orders!

“May I enquire,” he continued, “what I am to do to content you all?”

His harangue was received with a burst of laughter, and the resolution was carried nem. con. that we must all be “letter perfect.” We very often beat for recruits when we heard of any new English arrival in Florence, and as we were about to cast a play of which one of the characters was a decided plunger, I was deputed to ask a certain gallant hussar, when I next danced with him, if he would help us. I did so, he gladly accepted, and I made an appointment with him to come to Casa Standish the next evening at rehearsal hour, when his part would be read for him. When he arrived, I repeated mine, which contained many tender passages with my Plunger; but each time I approached him he gazed at me in a more and more threatening manner, till at last I fancied that he was more likely to strike than to caress me. The effect was peculiar—the prompter reading declarations in the most affectionate and insinuating terms, while the lover looked daggers, not to say swords and pistols, at the unoffending jeune premiÈre. At length the crisis came. I had to recline gracefully on his shoulder (he was six feet two), and to confess how entirely I reciprocated his ardent love.

He bent over me, and in a stage whisper, with a look of thunder that might have shattered nerves less strong than mine, said:—

“If you keep me to my promise, I leave Florence to-night.”

This was the second time I had been thrown over, but this time if I had become hysterical, it would have been through laughter. The Inamorato did not explain why he broke his engagement, but he had never trod the stage till then, and I suppose the prompter’s box, the footlights and the whole dramatic apparatus produced an unmitigated stage fright.

Neither will I omit to make mention of a favourite member of our troupe, who distinguished himself in more ways than one: this was the clever pony belonging to the son of the house, whose stable was in the garden. Often in the intervals of our day rehearsal it was the delight of the then schoolboys to mount me on “Hotspur’s” back, and slipping the rein, he would dash off at the word of command, taking the bit in his mouth, and making the circuit of the garden at the fullest of all speeds. I well knew that those boys fondly hoped that the day would come when they would see their playfellow (myself) dismounted from her exalted position, but I am proud to think I disappointed them.

On one occasion a magnificent ballet d’action was in preparation. The daughter of General de Courcy, a leading member of the Anglo-Florentine society, was to represent “Fatima” in a gorgeous Eastern costume, which became her beauty well, while I took the scarcely less responsible rÔle of “Sister Anne.”

Standishes of all ages and both sexes took part in this brilliant spectacle, while the part of “Selim,”,the rescuer of the lovely Fatima, was acted by the young Marquis Talleyrand de Perigord, eldest son of the Duc de Dinon, who had lately become a resident in Florence. We were very glad to secure the services of the young Marquis, who was handsome, accomplished and agreeable, and who, moreover, was not likely to be unwilling to enact the part of rescuer to the fair Fatima, seeing he appeared in no way insensible to the charms of our prima ballerina. I was the originator of the noble idea of introducing an equestrian element into the ballet, and mounting the gallant soldier on young Standish’s favourite pony. The effect was thrilling. The clattering of the hoofs on the stage recalled visions of international circuses. The final tableau, with the equine element in the back-ground, could not be surpassed for grandeur or originality; but—alas for the vanity of earthly ambition!—no power on earth could induce the pony to leave the stage—him to whom the slightest wish of his master was usually law. Threats, blows, caresses, all were in vain—he stood perfectly still—stock still, though, as grooms say, a little “handy with his heels.” Here was a contretemps. I had to answer for the proposition, everybody was cross, supper waiting—that delightful banquet which we had honestly gained. I felt my honour was at stake. I entreated to be left alone with the rebellious charger, and my patience was put to no small test. I bandaged Hotspur’s eyes, I led him round and round, and backwards and forwards, patting and coaxing him all the time, till my efforts were crowned with success, and I backed him off the stage. The horse had evidently had an attack of stage fright, as severe as that of the hussar. A long discussion ensued between all the members of the company, as to the advisability of repeating the experiment on the next evening, when the public were to be admitted; but I pleaded so hard, taking for my text, “nothing hazard, nothing have,” that the pony made “his first appearance on any stage,” and despite the thunders of applause which rewarded his efforts, walked off when required to do so, as quietly as a lamb!

Ah! those were merry days at Casa Standish, and the boys and girls of that bygone time are still affectionately remembered by me, and that dear mother, Lady Lucy Standish, who presided over all our revels. I trust that any members of the family who may chance to read these lines, will not be displeased by this slight allusion to those happy days.

It was about this time, at Florence, that I first made the acquaintance and formed the friendship of the celebrated novelist of the day, G. P. R. James, whose historical romances were then in the highest favour with the reading public. I was one of his great admirers, and was delighted to be made known to him, but it was reserved for me in future days to fathom the depths of that high and generous nature, and that warm and noble heart. He had hired a beautiful villa in the environs of the city, which afterwards became the property of the Countess of Crawford, Villa Palmieri, and which has been occupied by our beloved Queen Victoria. It was on one of Florence’s golden afternoons that my mother and I drove out to dine with Mr and Mrs James, and I pressed for the first time those hands which were ever afterwards stretched out to me in kindness and hospitality.

Amongst the residents at this season in Tuscany’s fair capital was Caroline Bonaparte, the widow of Joachim Murat, the favourite sister of the Emperor Napoleon I., whom he described as having the head of a great man on the shoulders of a pretty woman. Ex-Queen of Naples, she was living at that time on the Lung’arno, under the anagrammatic title of Countess Lipona (Napoli), and supposed, with little doubt, to be the wife of Marshal Macdonald. I think the epithet “captivating” might well be applied to her; she was small and fair, and, although advanced in years, bore the traces of great comeliness. I found in her a strange resemblance to our dear Princess Mary of England, Duchess of Gloucester, and she was in no wise displeased when I told her so.

Countess Lipona was much beloved and respected at Florence, and had a great liking and admiration for FÉlicie de Fauveau, in spite of their political antagonism, and it was owing to the last-mentioned friend that I had the privilege and delight of making her acquaintance. I always approached her as a royal personage, remembering what she had been, and made what I considered a conscientious compromise by using the title of altesse. On one occasion, at a masquerade, where I personated a “Marchande de Coeurs,” and carried a basket full of hearts, dramatic, poetical, diplomatic, and the like, I constructed a gigantic golden heart inscribed “Coeur de Caroline,” on which I paid an honest tribute to the extraordinary courage and equanimity with which she had borne the vicissitudes of a cruel destiny. This golden heart had no price; it was to be given up to the august Caroline for the value of a single smile, and kneeling at the feet of the Princess I so much admired, I presented her there and then with the greatest treasure in my basket. I can remember her appearance well; she was dressed in a domino of light green silk, trimmed with costly lace, green and white, the colours of the Legitimist party, and she laughingly called on FÉlicie de Fauveau to account for her selection of that combination. Now, FÉlicie was a genuine woman, and was never at a loss for an answer, and this was her gracious and loyal reply:

“Madame,” she said, “c’est pour nous les faire aimer de toutes les maniÈres.”

How well I recall that night. Some of the English and Scotch guests arranged to dance a reel, and I had the good fortune to perform my part immediately before the spot where Countess Lipona was sitting. At the termination of the dance, she beckoned to me, and, with a kind kiss, presented me with her fan, “as a reward,” she said, “for the manner in which I had danced the Écossaise.”

It may well be imagined how dearly I cherish this relic of bygone days, and even more so the small bracelet of hair which she sent me the ensuing year by my cousin, Lady Clinton, who was travelling in Italy shortly after her second marriage with Sir Horace Seymour. By the way, the coupling of these two names, I was assured, caused some animadversions among the society of a city where you would not have expected the inhabitants to be extra strait-laced. But our peculiar English custom of widows retaining the rank of the first husband, if superior to that of the second, is very perplexing to the mind of a foreigner, as in other European countries the wife is naturally expected to bear the name of the suitor whom she accepts.

The last visit I paid to Caroline Bonaparte was deeply interesting to me. She showed me the portrait of her brother Napoleon, when quite young, a calm and gentle countenance, with fair complexion and golden hair. How different from the well-known picture painted in later days by David, of the dark, menacing warrior of the passage of the Alps. Then Madame Lipona pointed out to me another portrait, that of her husband Joachim Murat, answering to the description that I had heard and read of him—what we should call in England a “fine specimen,” with a perfect mane of dark hair and flashing eyes, broad-shouldered, with an imperious aspect, in full and gorgeous uniform, grand in his way, but lacking refinement. His wife spoke of him with tenderness, and then said to me:

“I have a treat in store for you. Go into the next room, and there, scattered all around, you will find arms of all sorts and kinds, which were once the property of the King of Naples.”

I obeyed her, and gazed with delight and interest on the accumulated treasures which met my eye. I had often heard that Murat had an especial taste for military weapons of all kinds, and that in the days of his prosperity those potentates or authorities who thought it advisable to win his favour, usually selected some ornamental implement of warfare as a stepping-stone thereto. Here were pistols richly set with precious stones, which sparkled as I held them in my hand, muskets with the butts inlaid in particoloured wood, and swords and sabres, the gorgeous mountings of their scabbards out-done by the delicate flexibility of their Damascus blades. But what riveted my attention most, was a sword lying on the ground beside the Marshal’s bÂton of black velvet sÉmÉ with golden eagles, for the sword in question, hilt and scabbord, bore small and well-painted miniatures of the wife and children Murat loved so dearly. As I held the weapon reverently in my hand, I recalled the last pathetic scene of the ex-king’s life, how, when about to receive his death wound, he bade his executioners pause for one instant, while he drew a locket from his bosom, and, raising the image of his beloved Caroline to his lips, gave the order to fire, in as steady a voice as he would have bade his cavalry charge.

That was the last time I saw that kind and gracious princess—now upwards of half a century ago—but still, in the secret recesses of an old box, I have a faded rose which one day bloomed on her table, and was given to me by a devoted admirer of us both.

Another friend, of a widely opposed class and calling, was Geppina, the flower-girl of Florence, a well-known character for many succeeding years in the beautiful city. When I first knew her, she too, was young, and from a peculiar waywardness and eccentricity in her manner, had obtained the nickname of pazzina, which would answer to the Scotch appellation of “daft.” There were also some strange stories afloat respecting her being a Court spy, a rumour to which I disdained to give credit, for Geppina and I became great friends, and the origin of that friendship I will describe, as I did at the time, in verse:—

Of Geppina, I shall have more to say in future pages. Our connection and friendship were by no means confined to my first visit to Florence.