In Florence, where people did not take life _au grand sérieux_, there was no end of chaffing and jesting on the subject, which could not be said to be a jest to Paris and the Parisians. All the princes and princesses, all the counts and countesses, sometimes good-humouredly, sometimes spitefully, were addressed as _Citoyens_ and _Citoyennes_. I heard of an incident at the club, which only just escaped having an unpleasant termination. A Russian nobleman, who, for some reason or another, was not on good terms with a Frenchman of decided Legitimist tendencies, approached him and, in rather a provocative tone, said, “Bon jour, Citoyen.” The Frenchman looked at him with some disdain, and turning on his heel, exclaimed, “Adieu, esclave,” which retort elected a laugh from the bystanders. 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. Footnote 45: Leopold II., died at Rome, 1870. [Sidenote: 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.