One's recollections come to resemble those of the spectator of
a phantasmagoric show. Processions of heterogeneous figures, almost
all of them connected in some way or other with more or less pleasant
memories, troop across the magic circle of light, only, alack! to
vanish into uttermost night when they pass beyond its limit. Of course
all this is inevitable from the migratory nature of such a society as
that which was gathered together on the banks of the Arno.
Some fixtures--comparatively fixtures--of course there were, who gave
to our moving quicksand-like society some degree of cohesion.
Chief among these was of course the British minister--at the time of
our arrival in Florence, and many years afterwards--Lord Holland. A
happier instance of the right man in the right place could hardly be
met with. At his great _omnium-gatherum_ dinners and receptions--his
hospitality was of the most catholic and generous sort--both he
and Lady Holland (how pretty she then was there is her very clever
portrait by Watts to testify) never failed to win golden opinions from
all sorts and conditions of men and women. And in the smaller circle,
which assembled in their rooms yet more frequently, they showed to
yet greater advantage, for Lord Holland was one of the most amusing
talkers I ever knew.
Of course many of those who ought to have been grateful for their
admission to the minister's large receptions were discontented at
not being invited to the smaller ones.
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