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.
[45]. Leopold II., died at Rome, 1870.
CASA GUIDI
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—
“The day was such a day
As Florence owes the sun. The sky above,
Its weight upon the mountains seemed to lay,
And palpitate in glory, like a dove
Who has flown too fast, full-hearted—take away