Our new residence in Florence consisted of a very pretty apartment on the ground floor of the Casa Lagerschwerd, opening on a bright little garden, which was a perfect sun-trap, and where, even on cold days, my dear mother could bask in safety. We had not been there very long ere I received a letter from our friend G. P. R. James, recommending his friend, the bearer, Charles Lever, to our especial notice.

Him he thus describes:-“One of the most genial spirits I ever met; his conversation is like summer lightning—brilliant, sparkling, but harmless. In his wildest sallies I never heard him give utterance to an unkind thought.”

The old advice, “If you like his works, do not make acquaintance with the author,” would have been misplaced as regards him. He essentially resembled his works, and whichever you preferred, that one was most like Charles Lever. He was the complete type and model of an Irishman—warm-hearted, witty, rollicking, of many metres in his pen, but never unrefined, imprudent and often blind to his own interests—adored by his friends, the play-fellow of his children and of the gigantic boar-hound he had brought from Tyrol.

I well remember his first visit, his chivalrous, deferential manner to my mother, and the hearty, cordial way in which he claimed my friendship. He gave me a most amusing description of his entry into Florence, with his three children, two girls and a boy, with whom he had performed the journey from the Tyrol on horseback. They had spent the summer among hardy mountaineers, and had imbibed many of the tastes, and had adopted the greater part of the costume of the Tyrolese—such as the conical-shaped hat with its golden cord and peacocks’ feathers. Altogether, his appearance, with that of his young companions, followed by their brindled boar-hound, attracted great attention as they passed slowly through the Porto San Gallo. The crowd which gathered round them were impressed by the belief that they formed part of a company of a circus or hippodrome, and Charles Lever, in great glee, even assured me that he had been accosted on his road with a view to an engagement. Our first interview, on the whole, was most satisfactory, and all the more so when my new friend informed me that he had rented Casa Standish for the winter, and that he counted upon me to resume the post of prima donna, which he had heard, so ran his courteous words, “I had already filled with so much honour.”

It did not take Charles Lever long to be installed as tenant of Casa Standish, manager and lessee of the little theatre; and then began a series of rehearsals and dramatic representations, the frequent reunion of kindred spirits, the merry suppers and joyous dances in which my soul delighted. Our company was excellent, and foremost in the troupe, and in my recollection, since we generally played the two leading characters of the “Juvenile Caste,” was Captain Elliott, who, with his charming wife, was located for the time in an apartment in Piazzi Pitti. Good-looking, graceful in deportment, courteous in manner, with great flexibility of countenance, Captain Elliott was well qualified to play first lover, although he occasionally condescended to take a part in low comedy. We shared some bright laurels on several occasions, especially in two or three detached scenes from the School for Scandal, particularly in the famous Screen scene; Captain Elliott distinguished himself as “Joseph Surface,” while our host and lessee gave a decided and Irish colouring to the reckless humour of his namesake “Charles.” But the latter was still more in his element in the then favourite farce of The Irish Tutor, a part lately rendered famous by the impersonation of Tyrone Power, the best “Irishman” that ever walked, or rather tripped, the stage—he whose untimely fate made so deep an impression on the lovers of the drama, when all hope was relinquished of the safety of that vessel in which he had been a joyous passenger. Charles Lever was no unworthy rival in the character of “Doctor O’Toole,” and the jig which we danced together laid good claim to be called an “Everlasting,” its duration being so prolonged by repeated plaudits of the audience.

Dear old friend! We met twice again after a separation of many years, once, as a glad surprise, when arriving rather late for dinner, I turned round and found him as my neighbour at one of those delightful banquets at Charles Dickens’ table, where all that was eminent in Literature and Art, or endowed with social and intellectual gifts, was sure to find a place and a welcome.

In the year 1870, during the first Viceroyalty of Earl Spencer in Ireland, Lever paid a visit to Dublin,^[43] where he made friends with my nephew Courtenay Boyle, and was a frequent and welcome visitor at the Castle and Viceregal Lodge. From Ireland he came to London, and I had the pleasure of entertaining him at my little house in South Audley Street, where Lady Spencer gladly agreed to meet him. On the table lay a volume of Bret Harte’s parodies^[44] of popular novelists, and I, volunteering to read a passage aloud, asked if he could recognise the authorship. It was the narrative of a cavalry officer who, in the heat of an engagement, took a flying, but unwilling, leap over a horseman in a dark cloak, cocked hat and white feathers. As far as I can remember the words-“My horse cleared the obstacle well, I lifted my eyes, and found myself for the first time in the presence of Field-Marshal The Duke of Wellington!”

Never shall I forget Lever’s burst of laughter, which seemed to flood the whole room with sunshine. “Upon me soul, I believe it’s meself; it’s uncommonly like me.” That was the last time we ever met. The wife to whom he was deeply attached died shortly afterwards, and Charles Lever did not long survive her.

That was an eventful time for Florence, for Italy, for the whole of Europe. The spirit of revolution was abroad, and France had set a startling example to other nations. In the month of February, 1848, the Carnival was at its height, and the youth, beauty and fashion of Florence were assembled in a splendid ball-room in one of her principal palaces. I was sitting beside my dear friend FÉlicie de Fauveau, who had been rebuking me for dancing with cette canaille—for so she designated Baron Ward, Prime Minister and ex-groom of the Duke of Parma—and I had excused myself on the ground that it amused me to become acquainted with celebrities—perhaps, in this case, I had better have said notorieties—when we were all startled by the rapid entrance of a stranger. There was a pause, a hush, and then he became the centre of a little crowd that gathered round him, evidently the bearer of some strange intelligence. FÉlicie and I rose together to inquire the cause. It was soon told—a Revolution in France, and Louis Philippe and his whole family driven from the capital. To my companion, the news was of deep interest, for was she not devoted heart and soul to the cause of Henri Cinq? In that assembly, which contained many nationalities among the company, the intelligence was listened to with varying degrees of excitement, pleasure or indifference, while to the younger portion of the community, who cared little for the destiny of kings and governments, the paramount thought was that the bal masquÉ at the French Embassy would not take place.

The downfall of the Orleans dynasty naturally led to a renewal of hope among the more devoted and sanguine of the Legitimists, which proved, however, but short-lived. One morning, soon after the ball already alluded to, FÉlicie de Fauveau called upon me and asked if I could undertake a commission for her. Any messenger she could send, she explained to me—indeed, any Frenchman or Frenchwoman who was the bearer of a letter to the Duchesse de Berri—would be an object of suspicion. “Have you any fellow-countryman whom you could safely trust to carry a communication from me to that Princess?” Most fortunately, a friend of ours, an Englishman, had the day previously expatiated to me on his delight at the prospect of seeing Venice for the first time. I summoned him to our assistance, entrusted FÉlicie’s packet to his care, enjoined prudence and secrecy, and thus, for the first and last time in my life, played the part of conspirator, though, sooth to say, with no important or successful result.

In Florence, where people did not take life au grand sÉrieux, there was no end of chaffing and jesting on the subject, which could not be said to be a jest to Paris and the Parisians. All the princes and princesses, all the counts and countesses, sometimes good-humouredly, sometimes spitefully, were addressed as Citoyens and Citoyennes. I heard of an incident at the club, which only just escaped having an unpleasant termination.

A Russian nobleman, who, for some reason or another, was not on good terms with a Frenchman of decided Legitimist tendencies, approached him and, in rather a provocative tone, said, “Bon jour, Citoyen.” The Frenchman looked at him with some disdain, and turning on his heel, exclaimed, “Adieu, esclave,” which retort elected a laugh from the bystanders.

Meanwhile, as we jested and acted and danced, the Tuscan Revolution was proceeding slowly on its course. The Grand Duke^[45] whose reign had been marked by a mild paternal sway, and who was as popular as an Austrian well could be in those anti-Austrian days, endeavoured at first to make a compromise with the Tuscans by granting them a charter for the Civic Guards. This was made an occasion of great rejoicing in the city, and the Italians, who always turn a festivity into a pageant, organised a procession, which defiled for the space of three hours beneath the windows of the Palazzo Pitti, where, on the balcony, Leopold II. appeared, surrounded by his family. It was not to be expected that he should wear a very cheerful aspect, for although the air rang with vivas, in recognition of his Civic grant, and although he affected to advocate the cause of United Italy, yet it was easy to know that the compact between the Prince and the people was hollow and fragile, and that “Leopoldo essendo straniero,” must sooner or later come under the cry for the expulsion of the foreigner.

On the morning appointed for the procession in question, I went, accompanied by my sister and my future sister-in-law, to a house in the Piazza Pitti, the name of which has now become classical; for the walls of Casa Guidi bear a tributary inscription to the memory of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who, with the “heart of a woman, the knowledge of a professor, and the spirit of a poet, formed a link between Italy and England.” These are Florence’s grateful words to our English poetess, and well did she deserve the tribute, for no one ever participated more cordially in the aspirations of Italy’s future, or gave utterance to those aspirations in so musical a form.

I would gladly transcribe verbatim the lines in which that noble spirit described the scene I witnessed, in her dear company, and that of her husband, from Casa Guidi windows; for how cold and colourless must my words appear compared with her surpassing eloquence. But space will not allow of the whole transcript, and I therefore unwillingly confine myself to fragments—

Then followed a concourse of foreigners of all nations, lovers of Italy—

And so it had, for that day was a forerunner of better days to come, though many a reverse was in store for the House of Savoie, and many a check was to be given to the brave Sardinians in the battle-field. Still, that day, commemorated by our English poetess, shadowed forth the time when the King of Sardinia became the King of Italy, and Imperial Rome the capital of his kingdom.

And now that I have had occasion to speak of that poet pair, the Brownings, let me recall the hours of enchantment which I passed beneath their roof. I was the bearer of a letter from a common friend, and well do I remember knocking at the door, which was opened to me by the poet in person. How kindly they received me! how truly they welcomed me, stranger as I was, whose very name was unknown to them. How one-sided seemed the advantages of that acquaintance; for I had known and loved them long, and when I went up to the sofa where the poetess lay, half bird, half spirit, as a loving hand described her, I felt inclined to address her by the name of “Bar,” the pet name of her own sweet poem, which her brother gave her