“Ah! a poor young lady from your country died in that bed, for the love of the Prince of Capua.”
I think the poor girl must have had the most susceptible heart, for that royal prince had little to recommend him, either in looks or in character, although he shortly afterwards married an English wife. We heard sad stories of him while we were at Naples, and how he persecuted a beautiful young Englishwoman by his attentions, and in revenge for the slight she put upon him, endeavoured to compromise her by causing his empty carriage to stand almost every night at her door. In order to defeat his wicked design, this fair creature would walk up and down the pavement before her own house, sometimes for hours together, until fatigue drove her in. Yet I must confess we were indebted to this reprobate prince for a delightful sail to the island of Capri, he having lent my sailor brother the small yacht in which he made frequent cruises.
It was a glaring hot July day, and going below, to escape the heat of the sun, I was most unpleasantly impressed by the gaudy colouring of the cabin and its fittings. Why on earth, thought I, should a Neapolitan prince sport the Royal Stuart tartan, which, however dear to loyal eyes, looked tawdry and incongruous in such a position. It was some time before I discovered the meaning of the sentiments or the allusions to “Prince Charlie,” as the Prince of Capua bore that name.
Now while we are on the subject of the Bay of Naples, and the yacht is in the harbour, I must mention that the skipper of Lord Anglesey’s charming craft, the Pearl, was an Irishman, but of so refined and educated a class that, avoiding all temptations to brogue, he invariably called the crater of Mount Vesuvius “the creature.”
Bidding adieu to beautiful Naples, we embarked on a French steamer for Leghorn, and had so fine a passage that we were able to sleep both nights on deck, “under the roof of blue Italian weather,” and make our way to Pisa, en route for Florence.
CHAPTER XV
PISA AND FLORENCE
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: