The Grand Duke was certainly not a great or a wise man.  He was one of those men of whom their friends habitually say that they are “no fools,” or “not such fools as they look,” which generally may be understood to mean that the individual spoken of cannot with physiological accuracy be considered a cretin.  Nevertheless, in his case the expression was doubtless accurately true.  He was not such a fool as he looked, for his appearance was certainly not that of a wise, or even an intelligent man.

One story is told of him, which I have reason to believe perfectly true, and which is so characteristic of the man, and of the time, that I must not deprive the reader of it.

It was the custom that on St. John’s Day the Duke should visit and inspect the small body of troops who were lodged in the Fortezza di San Giovanni, or Fortezza da Basso, as it was popularly called, in contradistinction from another fort on the high ground above the Boboli Gardens.  And it was expected that on these occasions the sovereign should address a few words to his soldiers.  So the Duke, resting his person first on one leg and then on the other, after his fashion, stood in front of the two or three score of men drawn up in line before him, and after telling them that obedience to their officers and attachment to duty were the especial virtues of a soldier, he continued, “Above all, my men, I desire that you should remember the duties and observances of our holy religion, and—­and—­” (here, having said all he had to say, His Highness was at a loss for a conclusion to his harangue.  But looking down on the ground as he strove to find a fitting peroration, he observed that the army’s shoes were sadly in want of the blacking brush, so he concluded with more of animation and significance than he had before evinced) “and keep your shoes clean!”

I may find room further on to say a few words of what I remember of the revolution which dethroned poor gran ciuco.  But I may as well conclude here what I have to say of him by relating the manner of his final exit from the soil of Tuscany, of which the malicious among the few who knew the circumstances were wont to say—­very unjustly—­that nothing in his reign became him like the leaving of it.  I saw him pass out from the Porta San Gallo on his way to Bologna among a crowd of his late subjects, who all lifted their hats, though not without some satirical cries of “Addio, sai” “Buon viaggio!” But a few, a very few, friends accompanied his carriage to the papal frontier, an invisible line on the bleak Apennines, unmarked by any habitation.  There he descended from his carriage to receive their last adieus, and there was much lowly bowing as they stood on the highway.  The Duke, not unmoved, bowed lowly in return, but unfortunately backing as he did so, tripped himself up with characteristic awkwardness, and tumbled backwards on a heap of broken stones prepared for the road, with his heels in the air, and exhibiting to his unfaithful Tuscans and ungrateful Duchy, as a last remembrance of him, a full view of a part of his person rarely put forward on such occasions.