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:
MURAT’S MILITARY WEAPONS
“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:—
THE FLOWER-GIRL OF FLORENCE
“It was a bright, gay morning; in the square
Of Holy Trinity, there passed a pair
On horseback; gloomily they went—