“Oh! rightly, justly named the fair, There is a magic in thine air, A gladness in thine atmosphere, Where floating particles of joy, With hidden hope the spirits buoy, And every feeling cheer.
“Fair city of the myriad towers, How oft my heart will yearn Towards thee and thine and those dear hours Which never can return. No more for me thy suns shall shine, No more, no more thy flowerets twine A garland for my brow!”
The gardener’s family from Careggi came to bid us farewell, and it was only by a violent effort I could wrench myself away from the two weeping sisters, who loaded me with caresses. The separation between the two mothers was more affecting still, for they were both well stricken in years, and knew they could not meet again on this side of the grave. I shall never forget the faithful Italian’s tender look as she pressed my mother’s hand for the last time to her lips, and exclaimed: “A rivederla in Paradiso.” Then there was dear Félicie de Fauveau, of whom to take a sad, and, as it turned out, a lasting farewell, and the good Levers, our friend Charles and his excellent little wife.
Although in the early part of 1848 the whole of Europe was in a state of political turmoil, our travel homeward was unattended by any excitement or adventure. We fell in with no fighting, although we followed closely on its track, and in Milan and many other towns through which we passed we found all inscriptions and insignia in any way connected with Austria, effaced and defaced, while in several streets and thoroughfares were collected groups of citizens, for the most part in fantastic dresses (for Italians generally love to throw a Carnival colouring over all their doings), singing the Italian hymn of _Viva Italia!_ and _Viva Pio Nono!_ for the name of the Pontiff was still beloved, as he had not repudiated his first principles, or taken his flight to Gaeta yet, neither had his name been superseded in the popular cries by _Viva Garibaldi!_
For myself I was in constant correspondence with one of Charles Albert’s most distinguished and confidential officers, the Cavaliere Pietro de Boÿl, of whom I have already spoken in my chapter on Genoa. He well knew how my brother Charles and I sympathised with his patriotic views for Italy’s future, and he would write to me from Turin, or the camp, according to where he was stationed, to enquire news of what was passing in Tuscany, or farther south.