of gladness were never witnessed.  During three hours and a half the procession wound on past our windows, and every inch of every house seemed alive with gazers all that time, the white handkerchiefs fluttering like doves, and clouds of flowers and laurel leaves floating down on the heads of those who passed.  Banners, too, with inscriptions to suit the popular feeling—­’Liberty’—­the ’Union of Italy’—­the ’Memory of the Martyrs’—­’Viva Pio Nono’—­’Viva Leopoldo Secondo’—­were quite stirred with the breath of the shouters.  I am glad to have seen that sight, and to be in Italy at this moment, when such sights are to be seen.[167] My wrist aches a little even now with the waving I gave to my handkerchief, I assure you, for Robert and I and Flush sate the whole sight out at the window, and would not be reserved with the tribute of our sympathy.  Flush had his two front paws over the window sill, with his ears hanging down, but he confessed at last that he thought they were rather long about it, particularly as it had nothing to do with dinner and chicken bones and subjects of consequence.  He is less tormented and looks better; in excellent spirits and appetite always—­and thinner, like your Flush—­and very fond of Robert, as indeed he ought to be.  On the famous evening of that famous day I have been speaking of, we lost him—­he ran away and stayed away all night—­which was too bad, considering that it was our anniversary besides, and that he had no right to spoil it.  But I imagine he was bewildered with the crowd and the illumination, only as he did look so very guilty and conscious of evil on his return, there’s room for suspecting him of having been very much amused, ‘motu proprio,’ as our Grand Duke says in the edict.  He was found at nine o’clock in the morning at the door of our apartment, waiting to be let in—­mind, I don’t mean the Grand Duke.  Very few acquaintances have we made at Florence, and very quietly lived out our days.  Mr. Powers the sculptor is our chief friend and favorite, a most charming, simple, straight-forward, genial American, as simple as the man of genius he has proved himself needs be.  He sometimes comes to talk and take coffee with us, and we like him much.  His wife is an amiable woman, and they have heaps of children from thirteen downwards, all, except the eldest boy, Florentines, and the sculptor has eyes like a wild Indian’s, so black and full of light.  You would scarcely wonder if they clave the marble without the help of his hands.  We have seen besides the Hoppners, Lord Byron’s friends at Venice, you will remember.  And Miss Boyle, the niece of the Earl of Cork, and authoress and poetess on her own account, having been introduced once to Robert in London at Lady Morgan’s, has hunted us out and paid us a visit.  A very vivacious little person, with sparkling talk enough.  Lord Holland has lent her mother and herself the famous Careggi Villa, where Lorenzo the Magnificent died, and they have been living there among the vines these four months.