The Sun.
London, England, 1860-04-23 00:00:00

TAE :SUN, LONDON, MONDAY. EVENING

Staff of tho sth Division is only a counter measure
against the preparations at the Fort des Rousses.
Councils are always more adapted for discussing
and clearing up disputed questions than for taking
resolutions, above all in critical times. However
united about the aim, it is almost impossible not to
find differences about the means to obtain this
common aim. These differences may be merely
slight shades, yet they will always influence,
more or less, the resolutions taken. The Federal
Council makes no exception in this respect. Out
of the seven members which compose it, three
have been from the beginning for energetic action,
three others rather wavering, and one for concilia-
tion. In the first moment of indignation the
more energetic members exercised a natural supre-
macy, and carried along with them those who were
wavering. This was the time when Switzerland
seemed inclined to consult, in the first instance,
the necessity of her own position, and act according
to it, relying on the Powers to support her in this
action. The assurances of the Powers that they
were ready to secure the interests of Switzerland,
coupled with the advice not to spoil their combina-
tions by precipitate action, turned the scale, and
from that moment the less energetic half of the
Council has been in the ascendant, the time for ac-
tion passed away, and the only chance remained in
an understanding of the Powers. It is probably
the success of the negotiations in this respect which
caused the news of a speedy solution.
How far this be true you may know better than
we here, for since Switzerland has placed her fate
in the hands of the great Powers she has been living
on faith and on hope. She has given up her initia-
tive in the matter, and, instead of leading in a ques-
tion which concerns her most nearly, has been rather
following others.

multitude contrives to multiply itself under the
pressure of eager excitement.
There are three Florences on the pate, as many
again at the thousand windows, and on the stands
and stages every where raised up on either side of the
way ; as many again in the squares built up into as
many amphitheatres. Houses tapestried all over,
banners everywhere hanging on the balconies, every-
where waving in the crowd ; and arches and great
gateways, with quaint devices and mottoes, inscrip-
tions, and coats of arms, and trophies; and garlands
and rows of garlands everywhere stretching along
and across the streets, masses of flowers, showers of

flowers, too many flowers even for the city of Flora
to have produced, one would think, without the aid
of her neighbours ; music also everywhere, military,
bands, civic bands, rustic bands ; everywhere glit-
tering things, rustling things, fragrant things, sights
and sounds ; an attack upon all the senses, gratify-
ing at first, delighting and exhilarating, but pre-
sently overpowering and bewildering, till the
strongest sensation is that of confusion and head-
ache.

On we drive, down the endless narrow Via Ognis-
santi, then, left, to the Piazza Santa Maria Novella,
then we come to a standstill at the Duemo. The
King alights at the door of the cathedral. We
have some dim sight of him as he advances
at the head of his sparkling retinue up the
lofty aisle, under the broad Gothic arches which
Arnulfo spanned. The vast gloomy pile is brilliant
with myriads and myriads of tapers. The Arch-
bishop of Florence intones the 2'e Deem. Thanks
to Heaven that brings to him the excommunicated
new ruler ! The blatant mass of people outside is
awed into temporary, comparative silence. The
pealing anthem is heard echoed by the vast dome,
audible even to us outside. But now the King
issues forth ; once more the King looks round upon
the crowd, whose shouts again rend the air. The
King's glance is for one moment fixed on a parti-
cular spot. In the midst of so many thousands of
banners he spies three banners. These banners are
of the largest, but they are veiled all over with
crape. The names of Venice, Rome, Naples, hang
at the staff's point. A sudden emotion is percep-
tible in the King's countenance. He has hitherto
only bowed. He now takes off his hat. He reads
his people's thoughts, and shares them.
So on to the Piazza Grande, no longer Piazza
del Gran Duca, down by Mercato Novo to the
Piazza and bridge of the Trinita, up Via Maggio,
up the Sirucciolo de Pitti—hero we are in Piazza
Pitti, the King rides into the proud Palace so long
the home of the Medici.
It is now 330 years ago that a Burgundian
Prince, hardly an Italian, though residing south of
the Alps, appeared in the crowd of Italian crowned
heads assembled to do homage to the fortunate
Austrian, Charles V., the wearer of the Imperial
diadem at Bologna. Together with that Burgun-
dian or Savoyard Duke, Charles 111., were Medici,
Duke of Florence, Este of Ferrara, Gonzaga of
Mantua, Sforza of Milan, and ever so many others.
Among those feudal lords the greatest ambition
aimed no higher than the Grand-Ducal Coronet,
which, artfully held out by the crafty Monarch,
now to one, now to the other, was for some years
tantalisingly withheld from all of them. All those
Italian tyrants would almost have resented as pre-
sumption any hope for the glittering bauble which
they all coveted. The Medici had it in due time,
and Tuscany was made the highest of North Ita-
lian vassals. Where are now the Medici, where
the Este and Gonzaga, the Sforza, Farnese, and
the whole set ? Behold ! the poor Savoyard kas
outlived and swallowed them all ; and all their
deeds of usurpation have gone only to build up
his Italian throne—a throne grounded on legi-
timate rights from the beginning, and which,
in olden no less than in recent times,
owed its increase to popular spontaneous sur-
render to voluntary annexation. Read the history
of Piedmont, and you will see how Ivrea, Cuneo,
Fossano, and even unhappy Nice, came under the
allegiance of Savoy by the same process which now
brings Florence, Bologna, Parma, and Modena
under her sway.
The King is housed at the Pitti Palace ; the great
dignitaries of State are alighting from their carriages,
walking up those handsome stairs, treading those
marble halls, to pay him obeisance ; but underneath
is the real Sovereign, to whom the King must, in
his turn, make his bow. Underneath, the vast square
and the sweeping rise to the palace gates are thronged
with a dense multitude, which the serried ranks of
national guards cannot, without great efforts, keep
under control. They must have one more peep at
the King. The windows of the opposite houses, far
as eye can reach, are tenanted by deep-browed,
bright-eyed Florentines. A galaxy of beauty of the
same description, but with still greater pretension
to rank, occupies the vast galleries projecting from
the palace on either side and encompassing the
square. Those gaily-attired beauties have been
perched up there, closely packed, ever since their
tickets obtained them admittance at 10 o'clock in
the morning, and it is now 3in the afternoon. They,
too, must enjoy the privilege claimed by the cat--
they must look at the King. Hark ! the clapping
of their tiny white-gloved hands echoes the roar of
the clamouring multitude beneath—" Viva it Re !
fuori it Re !
The balcony is thrown open ; out issues the serene
face of Victor Emmanuel, by his side the Prince of
Carignano, a little behind Baron Ricasoli and the
Gonfaloniere, Marquis Bartolommeo. The King
bows his head. The people are suddenly hushed.
A fancy took them that the King was about to
address them. Silly people ! That is a king for
deeds not words, or if for words not to waste any
but to keep the word he has given.

APRIL 17

I am still dazed with yesterday's long-endured
turmoil; hardly inclined to attempt to describe last
evening's illumination and fireworks. Were I even
less tired, I should be no great hand at pictures of
that nature, both because I have seen too many of
them of late not to be blase, and because my grumb-
ling disposition is somewhat offended by this per-
petual holiday, which is so oddly ushering in the
new era of Italian active freedom. I have often,
besides, tried to set off the respective merits of Turin
and Florence in this kind of festive exhibition.
Imagine, now, that you have both Florence and
Turin together in one and the same town. There
is in the Piedmontese capital a self-taught genius,
accustomed to get up such shows at a moment's
notice, and his name is Giacinto Ottino. He is a
tinman by trade, but if you see his elaborate deco-
rations in Via di Po and Dora Grosse, you will say
he must be at least a first•rate artist, a botanist,
an historian, a king-at-arms, and ever so many
things besides. The Florentines, on the other hand,
are very proud of a professor of architecture of their
own, a man whose name I forget just now, who
ministers to their taste and fancy by similar con-
trivances. But now Giacinto Ottini has been sent
for from Turin, the two worthies have been putting
their wise heads together, and the tinman's flights
of imagination, without being cramped, have been
kept to the rules of the architect's art. The result
is such as we might expect had all the Turiu Flo-
rence shows of old and modern times been crowded
into one monster show. Fancy Carnival without
masks, the Corpus Domini and San Giovanni with
the priests left out, and then add all the national
gaudy gewgaws which were displayed in honour of
Magenta and Solferino, which were pressed into
service to welcome Plon-Plon, Buoncompagni, and
Carignano, or to celebrate the first, second, and
third annexations—sum up, in short, all that you
have seen for the last twelvemonth, and imagine
you see it all at once in a dream, enhanced by that
supernatural vagueness and dimness which the un-
real gives to the semblance of the real.

The fireworks were played off from the Carraia
Bridge, enjoyed by the King, who sat in the
gal-
lery over the Ponte Vecchio. He then drove out in
a carriage to see the illumination, cheered every-
where—the most genuine, heartfelt enthusiasm.
The streets of the town this morning are still
crowded to suffocation. People's only business is to
see by day light the pictures and devices they be-
held last night as transparencies. They are moving
up and down, listless, happy, gaping, wondering,
like big, overgrown children. The weather favoured
them throughout ; the sea was smooth as oil for the
King's voyage on Sunday night ; the day was
bright and warm for his reception yesterday it
continuos everything that pampered idleness might
wish for. The dust alone is a drawback, as, in order
to do away with slipperiness of the broad flagstones,
m the paveent has everywhere been strewn with
sand, which, trodden to the finest dust by so many
feet, fills the whole atmosphere. But the people do
not mind it in the least. It is astonishing to what
extent an effeminate race will endure real hardship,
if only enjoyment of pleasure or avoidance of toil
may result from it. The man to whom washing is
an irksome process soon learns to luxuriate in dirt.
The King of Sardinia does not, strictly speaking,
see Florence for the first time, nor is this his first
visit to the place. He was here, quite an infant, at
the time that the Prince of Carignano, a fugitive
from Turin after the revolutionary attempt of 1821,
found here a shelter at the Court of his Grand Ducal
cousins of Tuscany. The Carignano family were
then lodged at the Poggio Imperiale. The infant
Prince Victor Emmanuel was in his cradle, the cur-
tains of which were set on fire by a candle which
came in. contact with them. The child was rescued
from the flames, not, however, without severe burn-
ing on his right hand and left side, in which latter
spot the King bears the marks of the fire to the
present day. Most unfortunately, the Signora
Teresa
.Zanotti, the nurse to the little Prince, who,
to the risk of her own life, took him from the cradle,
was so severely injured by the flames that she died
after a few days' suffering. All this domestic
episode we learn from the letters of the Prince of
Carignano, the King's father, who than simply