Soon that mingled murmuring sound which is so well expressed in the Italian language as _bisbiglio_ is heard down the length of the Corso, and heralds the approach of the procession. On it comes in all the correct costumes of the Middle Ages, of the exact period which His Holiness has chosen; horsemen in rich doublets of cut velvet and mantles clasped with jewels, the bridle-rein of each held by an attendant, the costliness of whose dress is scarcely inferior to that of the rider. And now, as the crucifer who immediately precedes the carriage of the Holy Father appears in sight, the whole populace fall on their knees. To my mind, the most imposing personage in the whole pageant is the crucifer, a tall and magnificent-looking man, with a long silken beard, carrying a ponderous cross, of such gigantic dimensions that few arms could have been found capable of bearing it, mounted on a splendid white mule, to find which the whole of Italy had been searched. A magnificent spectacle which I shall never forget. The delights of our winter in Rome were greatly enhanced to my brother Charles and myself by the presence of our dear friend, Adelaide Sartoris, at whose house in the Via Gregoriana we met all that was agreeable and intellectual in the society of Rome. With her and her sister, Fanny Kemble, we took almost daily rides in the Campagna. What enchanting hours of companionship, what exhilarating hours of exercise over that beautiful tract of country, does the mere allusion to those bygone days recall! How swiftly the days passed in the Eternal City! The constant contemplation of the treasures of painting, sculpture and architecture seemed to enrich while it gladdened our minds. All around us beauty—beauty of art, beauty of nature, beauty of sound, of music both sacred and secular! Then the Carnival with its fun and frolic, and the Moccoli, whose twinkling stars still live in the twilight of memory. Rome the beautiful—Rome the eternal—’twas sad to say farewell! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXII SUMMER OF 1847—FLORENCE, VILLA CAREGGI On our arrival in Florence, we took up our abode on the north side of the Arno, in the same house with our friends the de Fauveaus, and many a delightful hour did I pass in Félicie’s studio, watching her beautiful work with deep interest, and sometimes reading aloud to her the works of our best authors, for she was as good an English scholar as I was, although she could not often be tempted to converse in our language. But we did not stay long under the same roof, for it had been arranged that our summer should be spent in Villeggiatura.