may be many now who do not know without being told, that Dymock, the last champion, as I am almost afraid I must call him—­though doubtless Scrivelsby must still be held by the ancient tenure—­was a very small old man, a clergyman, and not at all the sort of individual to answer to the popular idea of a champion.  He was sitting in a nook all by himself, and not looking very heroic or very happy as we passed, and nudging my companion’s arm, I whispered, “That is the champion.”  The interest I excited was greater than I had calculated on, for the lady made a dead stop, and facing round to gaze at the old gentleman, said “Why, you don’t tell me so!  I should never have thought that that could be the fellow who licked Heenan! But he looks a plucky little chap!”

Perhaps the reader may have forgotten, or even never known, that the championship of the pugilistic world had then recently been won by Sayers—­I think that was the name—­in a fight with an antagonist of the name of Heenan.  In fact it was I, and not my fair companion, who was a muff, for having imagined that a young American woman, nearly fresh from the other side of the Atlantic, was likely to know or ever have heard anything about the Champion of England.

There happened to be several Lincolnshire men that year in Florence, and there was a dinner at which I, as one of the “web-footed,” by descent if not birth, was present, and I told them the story of my Pitti catastrophe.  The lady’s concluding words produced an effect which may be imagined more easily than described.

The Grand Duke at these Pitti balls used to show himself, and take part in them as little as might be.  The Grand Duchess used to walk through the rooms sometimes.  The Grand Duchess, a Neapolitan princess, was not beloved by the Tuscans; and I am disposed to believe that she did not deserve their affection.  But there was at that time another lady at the Pitti, the Dowager Grand Duchess, the widow of the late Grand Duke.  She had been a Saxon princess, and was very favourably contrasted with the reigning Duchess in graciousness of manner, in appearance—­for though a considerably older, she was still an elegant-looking woman—­and, according to the popular estimate, in character.  She also would occasionally walk through the rooms; but her object, and indeed that of the Duke, seemed to be to attract as little attention as possible.

Only on the first night of the year, when we were all in gran gala, i.e. in court suits or uniform, did any personal communication with the Grand Duke take place.  His manner, when anybody was presented to him on these or other occasions, was about as bad and imprincely as can well be conceived.  His clothes never fitted him.  He used to support himself on one foot, hanging his head towards that side, and occasionally changing the posture of both foot and head, always simultaneously.  And he always appeared to be struggling painfully with the