Among the gay figures who passed and repassed before me, I remarked a benevolent but rather heavy-looking old gentleman, with a shawl hanging over his arm, and holding a parasol, with which he was gallantly shading a little plain old woman from the November sun.  After them walked two young ladies, simply dressed; and then followed a tall and very handsome young man, with a plain but elegant girl hanging on his arm.  This was the Grand Duke and his family; with the Prince of Carignano, who has lately married one of his daughters.  Two servants in plain drab liveries, followed at a considerable distance.  People politely drew on one side as they approached; but no other homage was paid to the sovereign, who thus takes his walk in public almost every day.  Lady Morgan is merry at the expense of the Grand Duke’s taste for brick and mortar:  but monarchs, like other men, must have their amusements; some invent uniforms, some stitch embroidery;—­and why should not this good-natured Grand Duke amuse himself with his trowel if he likes it?  As to the Prince of Carignano, I give him up to her lash—­le traitre—­but perhaps he thought he was doing right:  and at all events there are not flatterers wanting, to call his perfidy patriotism.

* * * * *

I am told that Florence retains its reputation of being the most devout capital in Italy, and that here love, music, and devotion hold divided empire, or rather are tria juncta in uno.  The liberal patronage and taste of Lord Burghersh, contribute perhaps to make music so much a passion as it is at present.  Magnelli, the Grand Duke’s Maestra di Cappella, and director of the Conservatorio, is the finest tenor in Italy.  I have the pleasure of hearing him frequently, and think the purity of his taste at least equal to the perfection of his voice; rare praise for a singer in these “most brisk and giddy-paced times.”  He gave us last night the beautiful recitative which introduces Desdemona’s song in Othello—­

    “Nessun maggior dolore,
    Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
    Nella miseria!”

and the words, the music, and the divine pathos of the man’s voice combined, made me feel—­as I thought I never could have felt again.

    TO ——­

    As sounds of sweetest music, heard at eve,
    When summer dews weep over languid flowers,
    When the still air conveys each touch, each tone,
    However faint—­and breathes it on the ear
    With a distinct and thrilling power, that leaves
    Its memory long within the raptur’d soul.—­
    —­Even such thou art to me!—­and thus I sit
    And feel the harmony that round thee lives,
    And breathes from every feature.  Thus I sit—­
    And when most quiet—­cold—­or silent—­then
    Even then, I feel each word, each look, each tone! 
    There’s not an accent of that tender voice,
    There’s not a day-beam