My visits to Casa Guidi were daily, or rather nightly, for my mother’s health at this time compelled her to retire early to rest; and the moment I had bidden her good-night, I would fly to Casa Guidi and spend the early evening, or _prima sera_, as the Italians call it, with my poets. How delightful were those moments—how swiftly did they pass! how rich was the wit, the wisdom, the knowledge, the fancy, in which I revelled with those dear companions! And then a ring would come at the bell just at the proper moment to save my sweet hostess from fatigue, and I would go downstairs to greet another friend who had kindly allowed me to go into society under her wing. Madame de Manny, to all the vivacity and charm of a Frenchwoman, added some of the dignity and steadiness of the English nature—a rare and valuable combination amid the frivolity and laxity of manners then prevalent in the Florentine capital. The name of de Manny also had a charm for me in the historical associations connected with Froissart and the Carthusian Monastery, for my friend’s husband was a lineal descendant of Sir Walter de Manny, or Many, in those famous chronicles. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXIV LAST DAYS AT FLORENCE—RETURN TO ENGLAND—MILLARD’S HILL, LONDON 1848. While we were at Florence the popular mind had become so excited by passing events, by the Revolution in France, and by the outbreaks in the north of Italy, that disturbances on a modified scale were of almost daily occurrence in the streets or on the walls of the city. I was amused one day at a comic manifestation of the Florentine horror of the Austrian by overhearing a peasant who was beating his donkey, cry out to him in a tone of objurgation: “Oh, Maiter Nick-ee—oh, Maiter Nick-ee.” I could not but intercede for the poor beast, and represent to his master that he could not well be called a foreigner. Another time, as I was returning from a drive to a neighbouring villa with my mother, our carriage was stopped and surrounded by some men, who desired us to alight and proceed on foot, as we had no more right to go in a carriage than they had. Their words were menacing, but their looks were by no means threatening, and trusting to the Italian’s love of a jest, I told them that it was out of the question for my mother to walk, for she was not strong, and that for myself I did not care how many miles I walked, but I had on a pair of beautiful new thin boots (in those days we wore a dainty _chaussure_ called _brodequins_), and it would break my heart to spoil them in the muddy road. Oh those good-humoured Tuscans! They laughed, shook their heads, bade the coachman drive on, and showed no ill-will to the little foreigner who had turned aside their wrath with a joke.