doing in an indirect manner that which he had fully determined not to do; and he refused.  And then came the end, and that memorable April morning (the 27th) when the present writer witnessed a revolution such as the world had not seen before, and such as, it may be feared, it is not likely soon to see again.  Revolutions, we have over and over again been told, “cannot be made with rose-water.”  The Tuscan revolution may have “proved the rule by the exception,” but it assuredly proved it in no other way.  The revolution by which poor old Ciuco lost this throne was essentially a rose-water revolution.  The history of that day, of the negotiations respecting the proposed abdication of the duke, of the conduct and bearing of the people, has already been told by the present writer, when he was fresh from witnessing the events, in a little volume published in 1859.  He will not therefore repeat them now, but will conclude this paper with an account of the manner of the last grand duke’s farewell to Florence which is not given in the volume spoken of.

It was at six o’clock in the evening that the carriages containing the grand duke and his family passed through the Porta San Gallo, from which proceeds the road to Bologna, and thence to Vienna.  The main preoccupation of the people at that moment was to assure themselves by the evidence of their own senses that the duke and dukelings were really gone.  An immense crowd of people assembled round the gate and lined the road immediately outside it.  Along the living line thus formed the cortege of carriages proceeded at a slow pace.  There was no fear of violence.  The Tuscan revolution had cost no drop of blood—­not so much as a bloody nose—­to any human being thus far, and there was no danger whatever that any violence would be shown to the departing and totally unprotected prince.  But there might have been danger that the populace would tarnish their hitherto blameless conduct by some manifestation of insult or exultation.  There was not one word of the sort spoken in all the crowd, or indeed a word of any sort.  The carriages, carrying away those who were never to see the banks of the Arno and fair Florence again, passed on in perfect—­one might almost say in mournful—­silence.  Of course the masses of the crowd were soon passed, and the grand ducal heart, if it had beat a little quickly while his unguarded carriage was passing between the lines of those who declined to be any longer his subjects, resumed that “serenity” supposed to be the especial property of royal highnesses.  But some half dozen carriages, containing a score or so of those whose positions had brought them into personal acquaintance with the sovereign, accompanied the royal cortege as far as the Tuscan frontier between the grand ducal state and the dominions of the Church.  Arrived at that spot—­it is on the top of a high, bleak ridge among the Apennines—­there was a general alighting from the carriages for the mutual saying of the last words of farewell.  Of