“I have not made much progress in French; everyone speaks English except the ouvriers. I address a waiter in a splendid sentence, which I expect will strike him with awe, and impress him with my knowledge of the French language, and he takes me down by answering in English; as much as to say, ‘For goodness’ sake speak your own language, and I shall understand you better.’ In such a state of things, one can only listen to the conversation of Frenchmen with one another, and try to imitate their accent. In spite of beard and mustachios, it is Voilà les Anglais wherever we go. The only person who passes for a Frenchman is one of our American fellow-travellers, who has grown a most venerable beard; but, as he pronounces French just as if it were English, and calls Dijon ‘Dee John,’ he is afraid to open his mouth for fear of being convicted as an impostor immediately. I think an Englishman’s walk betrays him; I think there is an unconscious swagger about it, which savours strongly of ‘ros-bif,’ and which the French detect in a moment. However, they are most polite and obliging, and I think they would be glad to do you any service.”
In Italy, he went from city to city, revelling in picture galleries and studios, as his eyes regained strength; taking lessons in Italian, visiting spots of historical interest, and sympathising with, and appreciating, the Italians, while wondering at their patience under the yoke of their Governments. It was the same winter which Mr. Gladstone spent in Italy, and signalized by his pamphlet on the political prisoners at Naples. Fortunately for my brother, he found Mr. Senior and his family at Naples, and again at Rome, and through their kindness, and that of Lady Malcolm, saw as much of Italian society as he cared for. A few selections from his letters will show you how he spent his time, and the impressions which his Italian travel left on his mind:—
“Naples, January 7, 1851.
“There is a party of street-singers, and a Punch, outside under my window, who distract me horribly. They have an eternal tune here, which every ragged boy sings; it is called, I believe, ‘Io ti voglio,’ and is rather pretty, but you may have too much of a good thing. The beggars are most amusing, and certainly work very hard in their vocation. There is an old woman who lies on the ground in a fit all day long; another elderly female stands by her in a despairing attitude, to draw attention to her protracted sufferings, and receive the contributions of the credulously benevolent. But the old lady is nothing to a boy, who lies on the ground and bellows like a bull positively for three or four hours together; I quite admire the energy with which he follows his profession. From the number of crippled and deformed persons one sees, I am inclined to believe that the Neapolitans purposely mutilate themselves in order to succeed better in their favourite calling. They will do anything sooner than work usefully. Punch and the singers have gone, and I am at peace. All that I see of continental countries makes me more glad that I am an Englishman. None of them seem secure. The poor Pope is kept at Rome by the French; and here they say the King is very unpopular, except with the lowest class. This consciousness of insecurity makes them very suspicious and harsh. Two or three days ago an Italian, the legal adviser to our Embassy, was popped into prison on suspicion of correspondence with Mazzini. Fancy Queen Victoria putting an Englishman into Newgate on her own authority for receiving a letter from a Chartist. I suppose they are obliged to be harsh to prevent revolutions; thank Heaven, England is free and loyal.”
“Naples, January 13, 1851.
“I have discovered a cousin on board the English war steamer; he is one of the midshipmen, and on Thursday I took a boat to pay him a visit. I was obliged to obtain permission from the police to go on board. There are a quantity of miserable refugees lying concealed in Naples, watching their opportunity to get on board the English ship, where they are safe under the protection of our flag. Four are on board already, but there are two police-boats constantly on the look-out near our ship, to prevent more from coming. Is it not a miserable state of things?”
“Rome, January 1851.
“My dearest Mother,
“.... Tell my father that I have been very extravagant. I have bought a copy in marble of the Psyche in the Museum at Naples; a very clever artist is executing it for me, and it will be finished about the middle of April. Mr. Senior is also having a copy taken. I do not know if my father knows the statue. It is attributed to Praxiteles. Nothing has pleased me so much, except perhaps the Dying Gladiator; and as it is very simple, the cost of the copy is comparatively trifling. It will look very well against the dark oak of your drawing-room at Donnington, and I hope you will approve of my taste.”