The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Lady's Tour in Corsica, Vol. I (of 2), by Gertrude Forde

A LADY'S TOUR IN CORSICA.

BY
GERTRUDE FORDE.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.

LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1880.

(All rights reserved.)

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
BECCLES AND LONDON.

PREFACE.

The popularity of Corsica is increasing so rapidly, and information regarding the island is so difficult to obtain, that these sketches may not be unacceptable to intending travellers.

CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

A LADY'S TOUR IN CORSICA.

CHAPTER I.
PERILS IN CORSICA.

It is strange that Corsica should be as little known and visited as it is. Placed within easy reach of the most unambitious tourist, offering him the loveliest scenery and few serious difficulties of travel, it yet remains comparatively a terra incognita.

Many people have a vague idea that its sole claim to distinction lies in the fact of its having given birth to the great Napoleon, and that it is now a land of semi-savagery, snakes, brigands, and other horrors.

There is not a brigand on the island.

Snakes exist in some numbers, but the majority are harmless; and, of those whose bite is dangerous, there need be no fear on the part of the traveller, as they are in a far greater hurry to get out of his way, than he of theirs.

As regards the semi-savagery, that is perhaps a matter of opinion. The Corsican comes of a race of heroes: he is proud, conservative, and reticent; phlegmatic until roused, then dangerous.

The lower orders are full of intelligence, but their domestic surroundings are utterly bare and unrefined, and the comparative luxury of our working class is unknown to and apparently undesired by them. In one respect the Corsican is certainly uncivilized; he is, as a rule, quite indifferent to the value of money, and prefers his own inherent idleness, or supposed dignity, to any pecuniary advantage. A gun is generally in his hand, a spade never; and he will often starve before he will work, beg, or cheat.

Rich lands lie uncultivated, and houses fall to ruins in Corsica, because the inhabitants are too lazy to spend a few hours daily in toil.

On the other hand, especially coming from Italy, the land of cheats par excellence, it is refreshing to be in a country where there is neither whining beggar, overreaching landlord, nor humbugging tradesman.

A traveller may go from one end of Corsica to the other, and if he behave courteously himself, will probably never meet with a discourteous word, from the time he sets foot on the island until he leaves it.

At the same time, it cannot be denied that the Corsicans, though polite and even friendly to strangers, have a weakness for shooting one another. It is nonsense to suppose the vendetta is crushed out; it is as lively as ever in some parts.

The almost inaccessible mountains are still the resort of escaped bandits (outlaws)—pursued by the weak arm of the law—who, occasionally bringing down their gend'arme, are never known to interfere with a stranger. Their object is not robbery, but concealment from justice, and the crime for which it follows them is generally the result of some private feud.

In all this, I speak of the lower orders, the Corsicans purs et simples. The upper classes are not Corsican at all, save in their love for their country.

A Corsican gentleman essays to speak French like a Parisian, and imitates both the French manners and character. He is generally lively and talkative, and has quite cast away the ignorant apathy of his poorer brethren regarding the value of money. He is the advocate of commerce and railways, and all modern improvements, and dreadfully ashamed of such barbarous national customs as the vendetta, generally flatly denying that such a thing exists at the present day, and boldly telling you that not a bandit is now to be found in the mountains.

When we expressed our intention of visiting this unknown land, many were the warning voices raised to intimidate us by alarmed friends, and we felt that we were bold women to stick to our project. One by one, the terrible prophecies poured in, like so many shadows of Job's messengers, until the stoutest heart might have been excused a quiver.

The plague, malaria, sunstroke, serpents, brigands, bugs—these were a few of the horrors held out by sensible people, some of them travellers, for our consideration.

Notwithstanding these reports, however, we persevered; and the result showed how much faith is to be given in such cases to friendly advice.

Each of the threatened perils turned out, more or less, nothing but a phantom.

The truth of the matter is, that Corsica is a remarkably easy country in which to travel, totally without difficulties or dangers of any sort, to the person who is only careful to select a good coachman as his pioneer.

On the other hand, the accommodation is often extremely rough, and it is by no means the place for an invalid or a fastidious person.

The cooking is nearly always good, and the dinners excellent; but the village inns are sometimes filthy, and the bedrooms horrible. There is only one good hotel—really excellent—in the whole island, and that is at Ajaccio; and people who travel in Corsica must be prepared, not only for broken windows, sour bread, and no butter, but for bad smells, black floors, and a total absence of all the decencies of life. They will also occasionally find an army of black beetles in their rooms, and sometimes something worse.

Sundry and manifold remedies we tried against this last and most terrible plague; but all in vain.

One friend, a consul, counselled the use of carbolic soap, and we accordingly each invested in a slab of this not over inviting article, submitting ourselves to a scent like that of puppy dogs on washing day. But the enemy didn't mind it in the least.

Another, military, friend believed strongly in Keating's powder, and informed me how, one night in Poland, upon a threatened attack of vermin, he had put it to a severe test. He had thrown up an earthwork of Keating in a ring round the bed, reposing within peacefully unmolested until morning. The enemy had stormed the bastion, but failed to make a breach, being repulsed with heavy loss; and, when day broke, retired discomfited and utterly routed, leaving their dead upon the plain. But clearly the Polish bug has not the indomitable energy and insular enterprise of his Corsican relative. Our carefully prepared entrenchments were utterly futile; and the foe, when present, speedily gained possession of the battle-field, causing ignominious flight. But in many instances, where the village inn looked of the poorest and lowest, our anticipations, in respect of uncleanliness, were agreeably disappointed.

Our party, when at last it started for the island, consisted of three unprotected ladies, whom, for the sake of distinction, we will call Nos. 1, 2, and 3.

It was towards the end of April when we left Leghorn for Bastia, and not a propitious day. All night long a high gale had been blowing, and the lightning dancing across a black sky; and when, at about 8 a.m., we left the quay in our little boat, the wind had not moderated much, and even in the harbour the waves tossed us up and down in a most lively manner. When we reached the steamer, we saw that she was a most wretched little concern, laden with merchandise, and of no beam at all; whilst the open sea beyond was covered with high white breakers.

I think our hearts would have failed us, and we should have turned back, notwithstanding the good augury of a Sunday morning, had it not been for the tedious term of delay circumstances had already imposed upon us at Leghorn and at Florence. We felt that if we did not go by this boat, we might never go: the season was already late for Corsica: so we shut our eyes, and went.

For nearly three quarters of an hour that horrid little knife-shaped steamer rose and sank on the heavy swell inside the harbour; and then, at length, when every one was beginning to look pale, she heaved up her anchors and departed on her way. And what a way it was!

There were but few passengers on board beside ourselves, and no ladies. The others consisted of half a dozen French and Corsican gentlemen, one of whom, a stout, middle-aged individual, returning to his native land after a thirty years' absence in France, took a special interest in the three adventurous English ladies, who could brave such a sea for its dear sake. This person, watching our failing powers, offered us much kindly sympathy and well-meant advice, received, I fear, with the amount of ingratitude usual on such occasions.

For eight long hours we tossed, and rolled, and danced about on the bosom of that heartless sea. It was really bad weather, and the waves washed clean over the rickety little vessel. I lay vaguely wondering whether we should share the fate of a large Indian steamer, which the very day before had been wrecked in this sea, on the Elba rocks, on its way to Bombay. Starting from Leghorn at 5 a.m., at seven o'clock she struck upon the rocks, and before an hour was over the fine vessel was not only a total wreck, but almost entirely submerged. Fortunately, a fleet of fishing-boats in the neighbourhood rescued the crew, and passengers, who, after an unenviable cruise of seven or eight hours, and with the loss of all their baggage, found themselves relanded at Leghorn, where some of them came to our hotel and detailed their misfortunes.

But over those eight hours I draw a veil. I would only caution any intending visitor to Corsica, who may not be a good sailor and a tough traveller, not to be misled by any popular delusions as to the "calm blue waters of the Mediterranean," but to be careful as to the boat and day he selects for his voyage. Also, to make sure that the boat marked in his time-table does really go at the hour specified, or indeed at all that day, which is by no means to be taken for granted.

"O that steamer to Bastia!

There could nothing be nastier,

Not even in Charon's dark wherry;

For that passage is quicker,

And you cannot be sicker

In crossing the Stygian ferry!"

CHAPTER II.
THE TOWN OF BASTIA.

Soon after four o'clock, our small vessel laboured its way into Bastia harbour, and a crowd of little boats came alongside to convey us and our effects to shore. I looked down, and saw the most wonderful sea, a deep Prussian blue, tossing against the steamer's sides; looked above, and saw a long, level shore, backed by low hills, the large town of Bastia rising gently from the water's edge, with complex streets and tall, factory-like houses. In a few minutes we were landed on Corsican soil; and, whilst our things lay before the door of the custom house just opposite the landing-stage, they became the cause of a lively altercation between the many female porters anxious to appropriate them as far as the hotel. We were the centre of an admiring, or curious, crowd of about a hundred natives; and amongst these, twenty or thirty tall, stalwart women and a few boys pushed, and jostled, and fought over our possessions, with an intense determination good to see. The men, meanwhile, Corsican fashion, stood by, silent and dignified, their hands in their pockets, looking on indifferently at the struggles of their better halves. When at length we were ready to start, and the three trunks had been replaced on the hand-cart, we had to pursue and divest five women of our small handbags, sketching blocks, and bundles of wraps, with which, deprived of the trunks, they were separately consoling themselves, deciding, to their mortification, that it did not require that number of stout females, in addition to a strong cart, to carry our very moderate allowance of luggage. Three of them, nevertheless, followed us to the hotel door, where, placing the heavy boxes on their heads, they marched with stately steps up the dark and dingy staircase, and deposited them in our rooms.

It is astonishing what weight Corsican women can bear upon their heads. From childhood upwards, they are accustomed to carry all the heavy domestic burdens, and to carry them on their heads. They will pile one thing on the top of another, until, in the distance, they look like an advancing phantom of monstrous form. Enormous piles of wood, two or three yards long, large baskets full of heavy family goods, great wooden or earthenware cans and jars full of water, with sometimes a baby on the arm, are their usual burdens. Nothing but a baby is ever carried on the arm; and so much more convenient has habit made it to them to use their heads rather than their hands, that I believe, if the baby could be induced to keep its equilibrium as surely as the can of water or the load of wood, it would long ago have been transferred likewise to that elevation. Here is a specimen of a woman, who, with a remarkably strong and plunging infant on her arm, and a very large jar balanced sideways on her head, remained placidly motionless for at least ten minutes before us at the village of Buchisano, to have her portrait taken.

The men of Corsica never carry anything except a gun or a heavily-knobbed stick; in fact, they rarely carry themselves, as they are generally on mule or donkey back; and it is no unusual sight to meet one or two of the nobler sex jogging along, pipe in mouth, on their mules, whilst the women of the family trudge behind, bearing babe and burden.

The Corsican women are much more lively than their helpmeets; they have less of dignity and a vast deal more energy. They can appreciate a joke, which, as a rule, the men apparently cannot.

I should imagine that a woman is never, or hardly ever, ill-treated in Corsica. She is too useful, and the men of the family too apathetic; but, undoubtedly, she is looked upon as an inferior animal by the other sex.

"Les femmes sont si ignorantes," as a man said to me, with good-natured contempt; and certainly they cannot discuss the politics and resources of their country with the glib intelligence displayed by nearly all the men; but the country would be in a queer condition without their industry and energy.

The men mostly slouch a good deal, the result of a lazy, useless life, spent in wanderings up and down the village street, and ceaseless gossip, varied by an occasional expedition with their guns into the country; but the women have a fine upright carriage, owing to their long habitude of balancing heavy articles upon their heads.

The dress of the men at Bastia, and indeed all over Corsica, differs little from that of the English working classes, and generally consists of brown fustian or black velveteen. The only variety is caused by the wide-awake hat, the high boots, and the invariable strap across the shoulder supporting the large yellow gourd, which, hanging at their side, contains their wine.

The women dress very quietly, nearly always in black or white, or some equally sober shade. They wear a skirt and jacket of different materials, with a large white or black handkerchief tied under the chin. This handkerchief, when pulled well forward, is a good protection against the sun; but, in the heat of summer, most of them perch upon it an enormous low-crowned, flat-brimmed, white straw hat, as big as an ordinary parasol, which, as it bears no trimming whatever, is somewhat trying even to a good-looking face.

You never see a Corsican woman's hair, which is a pity, as there is reason to believe it is often pretty and luxuriant.

Every Corsican carries a huge cotton umbrella—red, green, or brilliant blue—both for the heavy rains and for protection from the sun.

Our first view of the Hotel de France somewhat appalled us. The street in which it is situated is a fine one—the finest in Corsica—wide and full of handsome houses; but the entrance to the hotel was mean and dark, and the outside decidedly dirty.

The first hotel in Corsica, after leaving luxurious Italy, is certainly a shock to a sensitive mind; and that at Bastia does not let you down gently. The food is good and abundant, the charges very reasonable, and the people exceedingly good-natured; but the stone hall and narrow staircase are unswept, the bedrooms dingy, and the floors and walls not above suspicion.

Nevertheless, the Hotel de France is the best in Bastia; and, although we did not find it clean, we probably should have found the other hotels (of which there are several) a good deal dirtier.

Our fat friend, who had established himself as our guide and protector through the custom house and streets, and who had given his arm to one of our party who was in a shaky condition, owing to the voyage, now left us in the hotel hall, bidding us farewell till dinner time, and commending us to the care of M. Stauffe.

It was an amusing table d'hôte at six o'clock. There were about eighteen or twenty gentlemen, all Corsicans, we being the only representatives of our sex. All were exceedingly lively, our stout friend especially being the centre of much repartee and rapid argument.

As usual in Corsica, the conversation, carried on in very good French, was almost exclusively devoted to political questions, which were discussed very freely, and with so much animation that now and then hot words seemed imminent; but they always passed away in a joke.

Our friend, after living so long abroad, found his opinions rather too cosmopolitan for his neighbours, and they hammered away at each other with an amazing freedom and familiarity.

But the old fellow continued to take a great interest in us, interspersing his political talk with polite remarks across the table, and recommending to us in turn nearly every dish. If we seemed to approve of any of these, he became quite excited, nodding his head with many smiles, and remarking in a satisfied tone, "Bon, bon, bon!"

This was repeated so often, being only diversified by an occasional "Bien, bien, bien!" that it was quite impossible to resist laughing, which at length we all did, including himself.

"Mais avouez, mademoiselle," he remarked to No. 3, "qu'il y a de beaux plats dans la Corse."

"Sans doute," she replied, politely; "and many other beautiful things, I believe."

"Mais oui!" he returned, smiling. "Un beaux pays. Et," with a sudden happy thought, turning towards a good-looking young man seated next him, and who did not attempt to disclaim the compliment, "de beaux garçons! Blonds, comme lui. Et noirs—comme moi!"

The fair young man turned upon him quite fiercely. "You a garçon?" he asked. "How old are you? I am twenty-four."

"And I forty-seven—un bel âge!"

His neighbour pulled his long yellow moustaches with a scornful laugh.

"You are an old man—voilà!" said he, curtly.

The wind that night at Bastia was remarkable. This part of the coast is noted for its constant and varying gales. Whether this particular wind were the "Sirocco," or the "Grecale," or the "Libecchio," or any other of the various currents which afflict this town, I know not; but it was a most unpleasant wind, and one that seemed especially weird in the darkness of night.

My bedroom was a thorough Corsican room; not a bolt nor a lock fastened properly, and doors and windows were confidingly open to every sound within doors, and every breeze without.

Chimneys and roofs constituted the chief look-out, but my view likewise comprised, between the two high towers of the church of St. Jaen, a small stretch of blue black sea, lying heaving angrily in the fitful moonlight, with now and then a gleam of sheet lightning illuminating its dark bosom.

Wonderfully still and soundless was the night air, until suddenly, every quarter of an hour or so, came a wild gust that rattled loose slates outside, and shook the doors and windows as if they were wrested by some violent human hand. This sort of thing, repeated all night long at short intervals, and accompanied by a dismal howling like the wails of lost souls in purgatory, is not exactly conducive to repose; and my first night on Corsican soil was spent in pondering over insular phenomena, and speculating how many would be of an equally disturbing nature.

We spent several days in Bastia, during which time, either the sirocco, or one of its family, continued to blow with unabated vigour; and, as I found an equally squally wind in possession on my return many weeks later, I concluded that this sort of thing had been going on all the time. For which reason alone, if for no other, I infer that Bastia is not a desirable place for a prolonged residence.

It does not take very long to explore the town. It is a rather compact place of about eighteen thousand inhabitants, curiously built, as are most Corsican towns, running up the side of a hill, with one large main street, joined to the lesser ones by flights of steps, or more often by steep stony ascents.

The houses are perfect factories for height and baldness of architecture, being, however, a shade cleaner and less repulsive-looking than in any other Corsican town, except perhaps Ajaccio. Seven stories is the usual height; some of the houses having windows closely barred and wired (the remains perhaps of the outward symbols of a vendetta in higher life than is now the fashion). It is the only town in the island, except Ajaccio, which really has any shops to speak of; but they are rather difficult for an English person to find, as comparatively few of them have "shop windows," and you have to peer in through dark, dingy doorways, to perceive the wares sold within. It took us nearly half an hour to find the photographer, and a long walk up steps, and down steps, and through gardens, among which an occasional guiding placard encouraged our wearying search. But, on the other hand, I found quite an ornamental straw hat, trimmed with blue wool, was to be bought for the modest sum of fivepence halfpenny in the high street!

Judging from their shops, the people of Bastia must be uncommonly fond of sweets. The streets are pretty equally divided between the "patisserie" and "confisserie" shops, and the coiffeurs, with here and there a jeweller's window. But the best jewellery shops (and they are not much to speak of) are in the Rue St. Jaen, behind the church; and here, as in duty bound, we invested in little yellow gourds and silver-mounted daggers. These daggers—the smaller ones made of coral, ebony, or silver, in silver sheaths, and the larger ones of metal—are inscribed with the fatal words, "Vendetta," or "La mort," and are very thrilling to a stranger. But the thrill cools somewhat when one learns, as we did later on, that whatever may have been the fashion in olden times, the dagger is now comparatively unknown to the Corsicans, and its use confined to the Italian and "Continentale." Probably, in the days when the vendetta was the fashion amongst the upper classes, the dagger was its usual instrument of vengeance; but now that murdering is banished in great part to the lower ranks, guns and pistols have almost entirely taken its place.

The Hotel de Ville at Bastia, with its high flight of steps, and containing some specimens of native marble, is considered a fine building; but to eyes fresh from Florence, the land of enchanted palaces, there was not much to admire about it.

The same may be said of the church of St. Jaen. Its two high towers were imposing at a distance, but otherwise the exterior was commonplace. Inside were some large Norman arches of white marble; and the different altars were surrounded by balustrades and pavements of local marbles—green, and red, and variegated—curious, but not nearly so beautiful as the Italian marbles. The six or seven wide steps up to the church door were covered by groups of picturesque, barefooted, dirty little children, who roamed unchecked in and out of the building, laughing and chatting, and occasionally enjoying a game of hide-and-seek behind the pillars. Some black-robed women, and a man with tin-tacks in his mouth, were busy arranging a large figure of the Madonna on a pedestal within the altar-rail, in front of the principal altar.

This position of dignity was no doubt owing to the approaching month of May, or "month of Mary;" but also partly, as a good woman informed us in a whisper, because of the present severe affliction of bad weather under which the country was suffering. The prayers of Mary, besieged as her ear would be, in this position, night and day by the petitions of believers, would, it was hoped, effect a mitigation of the evil. The image was of china, life size, highly coloured, with golden crown, pink cheeks, and blue robe, and was placed upon a pedestal about five feet high, from the sides of which sprung a large arch of white roses and gold tinsel, which completely encircled the Madonna. This pedestal was being covered by the devotees, who bowed the knee each time on passing the image, with coloured stuffs and white lace, and bedecked with many brass candlesticks and vases of artificial flowers. It struck me as a singular fact, that in a country so grandly prolific of beautiful flowers as Corsica, the artificial should be preferred to the real.

Continuing our walk through the curious, narrow, stony streets, where in one place we had to run the gauntlet of a large bonfire in a very small byeway, over which the Bastia urchins, with bare legs, leaped to an inspiring tune of their own chanting, we arrived at the bastion walls. They are high and picturesque, but not to be compared with those of Calvi or Bonifacio.

Here, also, we came upon a market with uncommonly dear oranges, and with gay stuffs ranged upon open carts or stalls for peasant purchase.

The best looking end of the town is near the landing-stage. A fine quay stretches out for some distance, and there is a good harbour, generally floating one or two fine steamers from Africa or Marseilles. There is also, of course, a statue of Napoleon on the place in front of the quay, and here the soldiers, in their gay uniforms of blue and red, drill unceasingly, and daily parade the town twice to the oft-repeated tune of their particular local march.

CHAPTER III.
THE GROTTO OF BRANDO.

Notwithstanding the cold wind and the uncertain weather, we could not leave Bastia without an expedition in the Cap Corse direction. Cap Corse is the northern peninsula of Corsica, stretching out into the Mediterranean for many miles, like a long tongue. At its extremity are fine rocks and one or two lighthouses, but these we were fated not to see.

We started from the hotel in good time, leaving behind No. 1, who preferred the quaintness of the Bastia architecture, and wished to sketch in the streets.

Our equipage was a little open carriage, drawn by a pair of lively chestnut ponies that went like the wind; and we were further escorted by "Bigemark"—a black and tan quadruped apparently belonging to the pointer breed, intelligent and affectionate, but not endowed with the fatal gift of beauty, and possessed of barely a remnant either of ears or tail. Our first object was to see the Caves of Brando, wonderful grottos of limestone formation, in the hillside close by the seashore, about seven miles from Bastia.

The road to Brando was charming, following the shore the whole way, about a dozen yards above the sea level; the slope downwards being clothed with splendid cacti, and with groves of olive, orange, cherry, walnut, and fig trees, with here and there an ilex. Out of the forests, the two common trees of Corsica are the olive and the ilex; and beautifully they harmonize together, the rich shining green of the ilex contrasting effectively with the silver grey of the olive.

The forest trees consist chiefly of pines, firs, and beeches, varied by a few oaks and cedars; and the chestnut woods generally stand alone.

Bordering the slope, and amongst the olives, bloomed flowers of every description and colour; whilst great grasses, pale pink asphodel, and giant golden spurge, grew like young trees among the rocks, and all along the roadside the weird prickly pear raised its ghostly arms in a huge hedge.

Beyond this, almost from beneath our feet, stretched far away the wide sweep of Mediterranean, sparkling with countless flashes, and bearing on its laughing bosom the islands of Capraya, Elba, and Monte Christo. Monte Christo was but a blue cone above the waters; and Capraya, though larger, was cloudy and mysterious; but Elba lay before us majestically grand in the dappled sunlight, precipitous walls of barren rock and smiling hillside standing out in a fine contrast.

On the other side of the road, and rising steeply up, were rocky hills, well clothed with the sweet-smelling macchie; whilst, between every rocky rift, showed glimpses of wilder mountains, the inland chain of Corsica, raising their grey heads from misty veils of morning.

Macchie, in Corsica, is a word that means much. It is, literally, scrub or undergrowth; but it is, practically, one of the most perfect garments ever woven by nature. It may be thick or thin, but is generally composed of a dense mass of shrubs, from two to four feet high, massed over and carpeted under by the richest and most luxuriant flowers.

The pink and the white cystus, the common weed of Corsica, which covers miles of country with its red or snow-white bushes on their sturdy growth, is the usual foundation of the macchie; but mingled with it are a score of other low growing plants, of various and often aromatic scents.

Here, by the Bastia road, where the hills sloped gently up from the road, the macchie grew closely; but where the grey and green and red rocks rose more steeply, the plants could only hang in the crevices overhead—here a cystus, and there a purple thistle, with the little crimson cyclamen peeping out of every cranny, and the bright lizards darting across the sunny stones.

Very beautiful was this first view of the Corsican rocks, and of the wide sea panorama of historic islands, each telling in silent grandeur its own history of adventure, heroism, or the stern freaks of fortune. The very name of Monte Christo seemed to launch one into dim dreams of wild peril and desperate attempt; whilst the dark cliffs of Elba frowned in a stern harmony to their tale of the despotic emperor, whose heart for a time beat in impotent resistance against its prison walls.

What a satire it seemed, to place that proud, all-conquering Corsican on an island from whose heights he could plainly see the rugged mountains of his native land—almost smell the sweet odours of the macchie-covered hills, wafted across his childhood's sea, from her to him!

At last, in a blue bay where little breakers dashed merrily, the red ponies were suddenly reined up. Bigemark came to the carriage door to offer his congratulations, and our taciturn coachman informed us we were at Brando. At the same time he obligingly pointed out to us, up the side of the steep hill, a stony watercourse, down which ran a lively little stream, and which, he told us, was the "path" to the grotto.

Up this we accordingly went, with one hand keeping a desperate clutch on our straw hats (which evinced a strong disposition to obey the invitation of the sirocco, and fly away for a nearer view of Capraya), and, with the other, rescuing what garments we could from the running stream.

About half-way up the hill we were met by an aged but lively crone, who with another woman escorted us to the caves, informing us, as we supposed (for it was quite impossible to understand her toothless jumble of bad French and Italian patois), that she was the custodian of the place. The grottos belong to a private family, of the name of Ferdinandi, who have made the winding staircases, and whose name, on the stone slab fixed in the rock outside, is appended to the intimation that this their work is devoted to the enjoyment of all lovers of beauty.

Leading us by the hand, and laughing much at our evident want of comprehension of all the interesting facts with which she was beguiling the short way, our cavern crone opened a little wooden door in the face of the cliff, and ushered us straight into a Gothic-roofed hall of limestone, the reception room in this winding gallery of nature's building. Here we were told (by gesture) to remain until our guides returned. We accordingly sat down on a block of limestone, which constituted the one chair in this chilly, half-stuffy hall, semi-darkness revealing the grey white walls and roof, and the rude staircase up which had gone our two companions to light up the many hanging lamps necessary to illuminate the caves.

In about ten minutes they returned, and we then proceeded up the same staircase, cut roughly out of the rock, into the heart of the cliff. Overhead hung countless glittering stalactites, whilst on each side the most fantastic walls enclosed us, the dim rays of the oil lamps throwing open tracery and arched roof into weirdest shadows and gleams of sparry radiance.

Here and there the path was broken, and in some places we had to bow humbly beneath the drooping arch; sometimes up, and sometimes down, we went on in this airy labyrinth for about ten minutes before we turned and came back by another path. The limestone formations probably extend much further into the cliff; but the winding pathway goes no further, and one can only be thankful that Corsican energy has effected so much. The forms of some of the stalagmites were most curious, rising like Alpine ranges, with an infinity of Matterhorns, above many a little hollowed nook, or like the carved screen behind some marble altar; some so delicate in tracery and so transparent that a light, held behind them, lit them up like finely veined cream-coloured glass; whilst the stalactites overhead were countless and most graceful, often passing below their stalagmitic brethren and falling between them in a rich confusion of spiral carving.

What a glare it seemed when we emerged again from fairyland, out among the arbutus and the foxgloves on the green hillside, overlooking the dazzling sea!

The old woman was merrier than ever after her short incarceration in Mother Earth, and held out her capacious apron to receive our fees; sending after us many good wishes, which I have no doubt were as sincere as her witticisms were pungent, but which unfortunately were quite lost upon us.

The stipulated sum to see the caves of Brando is a franc and a half each person. It seems a good deal at first; but the visitors are no doubt few, and the expense of so many lights rather heavy.

In a minute or two more, we and the red ponies and Bigemark were off again, trotting on to the marina, or little sea hamlet of Sisco. A mile or two past Brando, we came in sight of Erbalunga, a most picturesque little village lying on a low tongue of land right out into the Mediterranean, a Genoese round tower at its furthest end, standing on black rocks washed incessantly by the breaking waves.

Towards one o'clock we reached our baiting place, a seashore village which appeared to consist of one house, namely, the dirty and unpretentious inn before which we stopped. Since leaving Brando, the road had become sterner, the rocks barer, and the flowers more scanty; the green groves disappearing from the waterside, and being replaced by great blocks of granite and porphyry.

Feeling a little doubtful as regarded lunch, we entered the inn door, and picking our way across the very dirty floor of the outer room, in which were assembled some half dozen or so of peasant men and women, with the usual accompaniment of dogs and guns, we were shown by the host into an inner apartment, and supplied with two rickety chairs.

The floor of this apartment was not much cleaner than the other, and a bedstead lately in use filled one end of it. But a capital smell of cooking came from the kitchen on the other side, and through the grimy little window gleamed the bluest sweep of sea and sky. After some conversation with our host, a hairy, black bearded man of polite and sociable proclivities, smoking a short pipe, we discovered that the culinary resources of the establishment consisted of an omelette. But, sniffing again incredulously, and stating our conviction that something better was secreted in the little kitchen, after some hesitation, a soup tureen, containing the most savoury smelling soup, was brought to us.

"Look here, mesdames," said the landlord confidentially, "I have two more ladies upstairs, lodging here; young ladies, whose home is in the Cap, and this is their soup. But, if you will not take too much, you shall have some. The ladies have also my best room, or you would not have had to put up with this poor apartment."

Whilst making his polite speeches, and they were many, our host constantly half raised his fur cap from his bushy hair; but he continued to smoke his short black pipe.

Whilst we were eating our soup, he drew a chair up to the table, and continued the conversation.

"You are Continentales, ladies, are you not? Are you Frenchwomen?"

"No, monsieur, we are English," we replied, feeling gently flattered by the compliment to the purity of our French accent.

It was not until some time later that I discovered that the Corsican lower orders, although often speaking the French tongue tolerably fluently, yet were not very correct judges of the French accent. And I confess my vanity received a shock when a young Corsican gentleman at Corte, who had travelled a good deal and lived some time in Paris, remarked, almost before I had opened my mouth, "You are English, I perceive, mademoiselle? One discovers that at once by your accent!"

This gentleman was very agreeable, and gave me some interesting information about his country; but, from his opening speech, I could have told him, however good his accent, that he was not a Frenchman.

"Ah!" said the landlord, thoughtfully, "English, to be sure. They travel a great deal, for they are all rich, as rich as possible."

"No," said I; "some of them are very poor." Whereat our black friend laughed incredulously.

It is simply impossible to convince any uneducated Corsican that England is not a nation composed exclusively of millionaires. He thinks every English person has his pocket full of gold.

England, although well known to them all by name, is to them a sort of Ultima Thule; and the mere fact of a journey taken from such a distance for purposes of pleasure, seems to them conclusive upon the point. "How can you say you are not wealthy when you have come all this way to amuse yourselves?" was frequently said to us in a tone of conviction.

This being the popular notion, it is much to the credit of the people, and a proof of the national simplicity and honesty, that imposition and overcharging to strangers is almost unknown.

A little stir outside now attracted the attention of the landlord, and he left us to finish our lunch alone. This appeared to me a favourable opportunity for depriving the Cap Corse young ladies of a little more of their good soup, and I was just going to help myself to a second basinful when the old woman who had spread the table for us, and who no doubt had suspected my felonious intentions, entered from the kitchen and abruptly bore off the tureen upstairs.

So I had to content myself with munching some sour bread, which my companion was already sharing with a happy family gathered around, consisting of three cats, a dog, two pigeons, and a hen. They did not seem to share our objections to the bread which we found difficult to swallow, even when soaked in the good red wine upon the table.

The peninsula of Cap Corse is celebrated for its red and white wines, which even in the sixteenth century, we are told by the native historian Fillipini, were exported to the Continent and much thought of.

In some particulars, this northern district of Cap Corse bears a stamp of its own, apart from the customary Corsican character. It is one of the most fertile districts in the island. Oranges and lemons, and the fruit called the cédrat, which is neither orange nor lemon, but something between the two, and is much preserved, grow here luxuriantly; whilst vineyards flourish in every direction.

The valleys all along the coast, and especially the Vale of Luri, are green and cultivated; and the population is thicker and more well-to-do than in the other parts of the island. The land certainly is rich and peculiarly friendly to the growth of vines, but the secret perhaps lies in the superior energy of the Cap Corse people.

For several centuries they have manifested an industry truly unpatriotic, and a corresponding neglect of warlike pursuits. Among the gentler inhabitants of this district it was, too, that Christianity found its first converts on the island, from them gradually spreading to the sterner tribes southward; and tradition asserts that St. Paul, amongst his many perils by sea, braved the dangers of this rocky coast, and landed somewhere on Cap Corse as its first missionary.

Sisco also, Gregorovius tells us, possesses a marine church dedicated to St. Catherine, and containing some very remarkable relics, such as the rod with which Moses smote the Red Sea, almonds from the garden of Eden, and even a piece of the lump of earth from which Adam was modelled!

I saw no church in or near Sisco during my short stay there; but, had I then been aware of the reputed possession of these treasures, I should certainly have made some efforts to discover its whereabouts.

We were still struggling with the sour bread when the landlord re-entered. He had rather a triumphant smile upon his countenance, as he remarked quietly, "You cannot go back to Bastia; you must stay here. Your carriage is all broken to pieces."

"That is unfortunate," said we; "but we could not stop here, quand même; we could walk back to Bastia, it is not ten miles." And, leaving the happy family, we walked outside to see the truth of the assertion.

A little crowd of about a dozen people, constituting, I fancy, all the population of the village of Sisco, had gathered round the inn, watching the course of events with a sort of phlegmatic interest.

Our carriage was gone from its original position in the middle of the road, and stood by the wall of the inn yard, with one red pony standing quietly beside it, and the other enjoying a canter on his own account about a quarter of a mile off, and rapidly becoming a speck in the distance.

As we came up, our driver advanced to us, with the pole and part of the carriage in his hand, saying curtly, with the first smile we had yet seen upon his countenance, "The carriage is broken."

To use a slang expression, we both felt a little "floored." "Yes," we replied to this incontrovertible fact; "but don't you think you had better catch the pony?"

Jehu acquiesced silently, and proceeded in a leisurely manner up the road, where, assisted by another man, he managed to capture the recalcitrant pony in an incredibly short space of time.

"Well," we inquired when he returned; "and how are we to continue our journey?"

"You cannot."

"Won't the carriage hold together?"

"Mais non!"

"And how are we to get back to Bastia?"

"Oh, I will mend it up enough for that."

It was impossible to be angry with such a piece of placid indifference as this man, however much one might wish it; one might as well have been angry with a sack of wheat.

So we left him, humming softly to himself, to mend up the carriage as best he could, whilst we walked on towards the Cap for a two or three hours' stroll.

The sun now lay hot upon the shadeless road, which began to mount gently, keeping, however, close above the seashore, and always bastioned on its other side by rocky walls, which after a while gave place to massive lordly hills, green and steep, more than one surmounted by ruined tower or long deserted cloister, braving in solitary grandeur the eastern gales that sweep each crag-topped eminence.

It was a beautiful walk; only a little bit marred by the unpleasant attentions of two men in a mule cart. They passed once, stopping the conveyance to offer us a seat, which we declined; and afterwards shouting and calling after us from a wayside inn, where they had stopped.

On returning homeward, we were not overpleased to see our persecutors again coming after us in their blue blouses and black wide-awakes.

Apparently their journey had been no further than to the inn; and it was probably not the first inn they had visited, for they were more pressing and less agreeable than ever. One man went so far as to jump down from his seat, insisting upon the advantages of a drive in the cart; and it was only by walking on rapidly, with the damping remark that we did not understand a word they said (which, as they spoke a harsh Italian patois, was nearly true), that we at length managed to get rid of them. This, I must remark, was the sole occasion on which any one of us experienced any rudeness or unpleasantness from the behaviour of any grown up Corsican man or woman. One could scarcely say as much for many more frequented countries, after incessant travelling for several weeks in their loneliest and wildest regions.

On nearing Sisco, we met the carriage, driver, and ponies coming slowly towards us.

"See," said the coachman, with a gay, placid smile, "am I not a good workman?" And he pointed to the pole and broken carriage, pieced together by his bits of string. He really seemed to think the breakage altogether quite a clever affair.

"How did the accident originally happen?" we inquired.

"The ponies ran up against the wall whilst I was out of sight for a moment," was the careless reply.

The man was evidently not a fool, but his comfortable phlegm surpassed anything I ever saw, out of Corsica.

On the road home, we passed another round tower standing lonely by the roadside overlooking the sea, and No. 3 got out to sketch it. It was—like all the Genoese towers which strew the country, standing erect on every high cliff and commanding hill—perfectly round and not very lofty, but of immense thickness, and but little ruined.

Apparently, our coachman had not profited much by his morning's lesson; for, whilst we sat by the roadside, he found it more to his taste to come and look over our shoulders than to remain by his carriage. The ponies were anxious to get home, and would not stand. They had already taken the empty carriage, with no guard save Bigemark, half across the road, when I pointed out the fact to Jehu.

"Oh," said he, composedly, "they will stand."

"But," said No. 2, "they are not standing; they are moving now."

Again he smiled silently.

"Is it your carriage?" I demanded of the imperturbable man.

"Mais non!"

"Whose, then?"

"M. Stauffe, sans doute."

"Poor M. Stauffe! I am sorry for him. His carriages must come expensive."

Jehu gave a momentary stare, and then took the hint, and departed to his ponies.

No town could look more lovely than did Bastia as we returned homewards. Framed in by a foreground of noble cacti and of green hills on one side, and blue sea on the other, the shipping stood out against a crimson sky, and the white houses lay in the soft evening light against a range of pink and blue and purple mountains.

The wind had moderated, and the Mediterranean, as we entered the town and passed along the broad quay, lay like a shining sapphire against the dark mole; but the calm was delusive, for at night again the sirocco resumed its sway, and a few hours later a vivid thunderstorm was rolling over the angry sea.

Not much beyond Sisco lies Pino, a village on the western shore, surrounded by gardens, vineyards, and the residences of some of the wealthiest of the islanders. Not far from it is the celebrated tower of Seneca, a round tower standing in stern solitude on the summit of a pointed rock rising from amongst the mountains and overlooking two seas. We were very sorry not to see this tower, although it is very doubtful whether it deserves its name, and whether the Roman philosopher, during his eight years' exile in the uncongenial land of Corsica, did really frequent these rocky wilds in preference to the neighbouring towns of Mariana or Aleria. Corsican savagery and Corsican character were unpalatable and incomprehensible to the courtly, selfish stoic, and his comments upon his hosts are little flattering. He calls them liars, robbers, revengeful, and irreligious, and will not even admit the natural beauties of this "rude island," "desolate in situation, scanty in products, and unhealthy in climate."

But the unhappy position of poor Seneca may well explain his ill-temper. He might write long-winded letters of consolation to his mother, inculcating the beauty of resignation and of a calm indifference to earthly surroundings; but I have no doubt the sour bread and stony roads tried the equanimity of the polished Roman just as much as they do that of the fastidious traveller nowadays, who moreover comes, unlike Seneca, by his own will and for his own pleasure.

CHAPTER IV.
TO ISOLA ROSSA.

Our first long expedition in the island was what may be called the north-western tour, embracing the best part of a circle, and comprising St. Florent, Ile Rousse and Calvi; thence on to Corte.

This tour I think is a good one to begin with, as it is on the whole less interesting and beautiful than the others. After the first day's drive, it does not abound so very much in beauties, and it does abound to a remarkable degree, even for Corsica, in dirt.

Yet, although not so wildly beautiful as some of our expeditions, there was much that was exceedingly picturesque and curious; and Calvi, above all, is a town worth going far to see.

There is only one way of travelling in Corsica, for those who wish to see anything of the country and obtain any enjoyment from their travels; and that is, in a private, hired carriage, which—driver, horses, and carriage—may be had at a reasonable rate per day.

From Bastia we started in style, with a roomy carriage and three horses, for which luxurious equipage we paid thirty francs a day; but charges are higher here than at Ajaccio, and, in our other rounds, we obtained an equally good carriage and two horses, with a very superior coachman, for twenty francs a day.

This is the usual charge all over the island, and includes the keep of both driver and horses; but half the return journey is expected to be paid, as well as a douceur of about two francs a day to the man.

In this case, the excuse was the hilly roads and our heavy luggage, necessitating a third horse; but I think our inexperience was the real cause of the difference. It is as well to fix the bargain beforehand, and also to make some inquiries regarding the man to whom you entrust your precious lives and limbs for several days, as, on these roads, a tipsy or inefficient driver would be no joke. For the comfort of timid travellers I may, however, as well remark, that every Corsican seems born to handle the reins, as a South Sea Islander to swim; and, although very furious drivers, they are remarkably safe ones. Also, that their undoubtedly thirsty habits interfere wonderfully little with their duties.

For instance, the drowsiness which is prone to take possession of many Corsican drivers after the midday halt and thenceforth, and which causes them to nod ominously on the box, has no effect apparently upon a sort of sixth sense, which wakes them up by instinct just in time for a sharp turn, a steep descent, or a bad bit of road.

This Bastia coachman of ours—a big, rough, bullet-headed fellow—was not the most sober of mankind; but, although probably the worse for drink every evening when off duty, he took care not to overstep the nodding stage when in its discharge.

More than once, at the approach of some nasty corner or sudden precipice, the point of an umbrella was levelled at the small of his back; but it never had cause to culminate in a prod, for, precisely at the necessary moment, the furry cap adorning the unkempt head, raised itself, and the brown hands tightened their hold upon the loose reins.

The best course, however, is to forget both bad road and sleepy driver in the glorious prospect that seldom is wanting in Corsica; for a system of nervous watchfulness is not conducive to comfort or enjoyment.

It was not an auspicious day on which we started on our tour. After an early breakfast, we left the Hotel de France at eight o'clock in pouring rain, and began mounting the steep ascent to the Col Teghine.

Steep, indeed, was the hill, and very long; and the position of the third horse was no sinecure. Fortune, however, favours the brave; and before an hour was over, the sun came peeping forth through many a dark rift, blue clouds rose up and filled the gaps, and the sunlight glanced sparkling on dewy flower and crystal-covered olive grove. Thenceforth, the day was fine, and showed to advantage one of the most beautiful drives that can well be imagined.

Steep rose the green hills above and below us, with the blue sea at every turn stretching wide before us, and bringing out into clearer prominence its three islands, whilst the opposite shore of Tuscany lay a soft blue line on the horizon. On the lower slope, groups of olive, orange, and lemon trees—the two latter in full fruit—and the sun shining gaily on the many golden balls; above us, banks of cystus, shining arbutus and Mediterranean heath, with foaming cascades pouring down from the rocky hillsides, and rose-coloured cyclamen and golden broom bending lovingly above their banks.

Bastia, looked down upon from this road, had a very picturesque appearance. It seemed the only bit of life on the wide, desolate-looking plain which stretched away into dim distance to the south, bordered on one side by the sea, and on the other by the inland range of hills, and enclosing an arm of the sea called the Lake of Bigulia.

There is said to have been a Roman settlement and several large towns in this region long ago; but now, all along the extensive plain, the eye can only make out one small village, and it has a pale, deserted look, as if unloved by nature or by man.

And not without reason. From Bastia downwards, almost to the southernmost extremity of the island, this eastern coast is flat, marshy, and malarious.

A man of forty is an old man in this fatal district. Even the natives fly from it, leaving its shores barren and uncultivated; and the poor Italian labourer, who, more industrious than his Corsican neighbour, comes over the sea in spring to till the soil, creeps up each night into the mountains, to avoid sleeping in the deadly air.

When at length we reached the summit of the Col Teghine, the view was magnificent. We were on a narrow ridge 1735 feet high—on one side looking down upon the eastern coast; on the other, upon scattered mountains of every strange form, and a vast panorama of western sea and coast. The large gulf of San Fiorenzo lay before us, indescribably blue; and, into it, stretched out arm after arm of wildest red and purple rocks, glowing far, far below in the cloudless atmosphere. Anything more beautiful than those far-away vivid rock ranges beneath our feet, it would be impossible to conceive; and as for a moment, with our hands full of lovely flowers, we paused on the lonely sky-surrounded pass, and threw ourselves down on the rich maquis, a little lark rose from beside us, in the still mountain hush, and gave voice to nature's meaning. In another moment we began the long descent to St. Florent, surrounded by wild and rugged mountains, the sea always beneath us, the steep road winding along the flanks of barer and less verdant hills, the maquis more abundant, and the flowers rarer than on the other side.

For an hour or more we gallopped down, passing a picturesque high towered church, and finally going over a flat plain by the winding shores of the lake-like gulf of St. Florent. Then, with a sudden turn, into a narrow unsavoury little street, where our carriage could scarcely pass, and up to the door of a very uninviting inn, whose interior, however, proved superior to its exterior.

Inns and innkeepers in Corsica may be most correctly described as uninviting. Whatever flourish of trumpets you make on arriving, and however rare an event may be the advent of a carriage of any description, the proprietors never appear to welcome you; and you are expected to toil panting upstairs, all your baggage in your arms, before meeting with any assistance. And this very often in a place where the excitement of a foreigner's coming has been sufficient to rouse the entire population, and send a score or two of shrieking children at your heels.

The hall and staircase of this particular inn were remarkably still and deserted; and being then unused to Corsican eccentricities, we felt doubtful, after one or two silent flights, whether the stone staircase led to anything more promising than empty chambers. But at length, a long, low salle-a-manger burst upon us round a corner; and here, with the assistance of a nice dog, and in company with a party of remarkably lively Germans lately deposited by the diligence, we managed to get through some rather sheepy mutton cutlets, good cheese, cakes, and wine, for the modest sum of fifteen pence a-piece. We were likewise offered a dish of raw ham; but this, although included gratis in the bill of fare, we declined politely.

St. Florent is a small and rather dirty village, placed in most picturesque fashion by the edge of the sea. Some of the houses are built upon a narrow ridge of black rocks running out into the sea, and have both back and front washed by the waves and sprinkled by the surf on stormy days.

It has a nice little quay, along which were several good coasting vessels at anchor.

From the inn, whose base was at the water's edge, was a lovely view, spreading across bright blue sea, and over the houses on their rocky ledge to the rosy tinted range of hills behind.

We were to rest here two hours, and determined to take a sketch. But, being about noon, the sun was blazing down upon the unsheltered white road and on the hard brown rocks in an unpleasant manner. So Nos. 2 and 3 crept up a perpendicular bit of cliff, on to a narrow, steep ledge, where there was a foot or two of shade; and here, with the cliff overhanging their perch, and the wonderful water, malachite and purple in its lights and shadows, beneath them, indulged in happy contemplation and artistic effort.

But, alas! solitude and silent reflection are not possible to the English traveller in Corsica; and although the boys of St. Florent were a most superior lot, kind and gentlemanly, they very soon invaded our retreat—creeping along to us on hands and knees (for our ledge necessitated this lowly position), and offering for sale some pretty shells, freshly gathered from their sea bed. For the modest sum of three soldi, or three halfpence, I invested in half a dozen of these. But my St. Florent shells never reached England.

Happening to look up from my sketch a few minutes later, I found that the little heap beside me had all dispersed, and walked themselves over the side of the cliff; whilst one particular beauty, that I had put in my pocket, having taken a little longer to free himself from his embarrassing situation, was yet in sight, making the best of his hermit-crab way back to mother sea. The small salesman evidently did not belong to the anti-vivisection society, for, seeing my discomfiture, he borrowed a hairpin with much solemnity, and catching the poor crab in mid career, began to pick him out, raising his large brown eyes to us in silent affliction when our humanitarian principles forced us to stop this proceeding.

On returning towards the shore, we found a small crowd of kindly intentioned women and boys gathered on the rocks beneath, to assist us in our perilous descent. Notwithstanding this little obstruction, however, we managed to alight safely, and rejoin No. 1, who, from her baking seat below, had been regarding our amphibious proceedings with some anxiety.

Directly after leaving San Fiorenzo, we began to ascend, the town behind us lying on its little peninsula among the wide blue waters like a crystal, and backed by hills glowing vividly in the hot noonday sun.

In an hour or two we reached the summit of the Col Cerchio, where the scene changed, the hills beside the road opened out, and revealed to us a fine panorama of inland mountains and villages.

The road to Ile Rousse lies nearly all the way through barren rocky hills, varied occasionally by greener cones. A wonderful, weird-looking mountain of red granite, called Monte Temorro, keeps always in sight, sometimes at one side and sometimes at the other of the winding road, but its precipitous bare head never lost. This mountain, in its bleakness, reminds me strongly of the pictures of Quarantana in Palestine.

The rocks grew wilder as at length we reached more level ground, and here there were some attempts at agriculture, refreshing after so much barren scenery.

Jogging along on muleback, we met a man and a woman, both seated on the same beast. It is only round Bastia that the Corsican women affect continental fashions and the side-saddle; everywhere else in the island the women ride cavalier style, and side-saddles are unknown. The two were driving before them a large flock of native sheep, black and white. Corsican sheep are simply lovely. They have long, soft, silky hair, instead of wool, upon their bodies, and their faces are full of expression, with large, pathetic brown eyes.

The road now wound again right over the edge of the sea, and the clear green waves dashed against the brown rocks beneath us, and rolled in transparent curls upon the sandy shore for many a mile, watering with spray the rich shrubs that clothed the cliff to the very water's edge.

Here, on many a lonely hill overlooking the wide waste of waters, stood a massive, round Genoese watch-tower—half-ruined memorial of a cruel sway now passed, but which for centuries crushed out happiness and prosperity, although not resistance, from the heroic little island.

It was between six and seven when we reached Ile Rousse; but long before this, the picturesque promontory from which it takes its name was visible, standing far out into the bay, blood-red against a sunset sky.

The town, neat and tidy, lies at the water's edge, backed by the white snow-cones of Monte Pedro; but the rocks themselves are distinct, and are connected with it by a straggling little quay and long wooden bridge. They are composed of a long rough tongue of red sandstone, torn and rent into every picturesque shape, and running out into the sea for about a quarter of a mile. On the furthest rock rose a solemn watch-tower; on the nearer one, some grey old ruins.

The sun was just setting as we walked over the wooden bridge and climbed upon a high point. The rocks gleamed a fiery red where they caught the last rays, but ghostly black shadows filled their crevices below; and the old watch-tower looked grandly out towards the French coast, painted against an orange sky.

The road leading up from the quay was shaded by an avenue of trees, and was evidently the favourite evening stroll of the Ile Rousse upper ten. A great number of the inhabitants were here, and we were much edified by the polite manner with which one and all raised their hats to us, wishing us "bon soir," one nice-looking Italian sailor, however, varying the salute by offering it in English—we, of course, responding in like manner, greatly to his delight.

The bump of manly courtesy is evidently well developed in Ile Rousse; for, coming up the street, pursued by a horde of excited children, shouting "Inglesé!" the tribe were reprimanded and even caught and pommelled by one or two of the smoking idlers at the street corners.

We often experienced courtesy of this sort amongst the Corsican men, who were far too kind and too well-bred to enjoy seeing us mobbed and annoyed by their progeny; but unfortunately, as a rule, their remonstrances proceeded no further than words, and for a verbal remonstrance the juvenile Corsican cares but little.

These Corsican children were a curious study. In some few places, notably Corte and Propriano, the children were unboundedly impudent; in some few others again, quiet little country villages, they had the modesty and simplicity to be expected in sweet Auburn; but these were exceptions.

They are, generally speaking, utterly fearless, but highly intelligent, eager to follow and criticize your every step, and to demand an answer to every question possible regarding your person and your nationality; but quite open to friendliness.

To those who are neither afraid of them nor angry with them, the pursuing horde will generally, after a few moments, show both civility and politeness. The age of chivalry in Corsica comes early. At thirteen, or even younger, a Corsican boy becomes a courteous young gentleman; and we soon learnt to feel at ease regarding our tormentors if we saw any approaching to that civilizing period of life.

The inn at Ile Rousse was not uncomfortable, and in appearance was vastly superior to many to which we went later on. We hoped and believed it was the abode of cleanliness; but, alas! hopes and appearances are delusive. The food, however, was excellent.

On our return from our twilight walk, we found our little table d'hôte dinner awaiting us, consisting of good soup, boiled beef, excellent duck, salad, cheese, "gateaux de Corse," and dessert. There were other diners in the general salle; but in consideration of our sex and our gentility, our dinner was brought to us in a smaller detached room.

The diners, however, soon cleared away; and when we entered the salle-a-manger to write our letters, we found the young landlady and her sister quite ready for a chat.

This was our first introduction to an almost invariable custom in small Corsican inns. The reserved Briton who would decline the after-dinner chat with his host or hostess, would be considered here a very churlish individual.

Our landlady, we found, was quite a historical character, being no other than the young woman of the "rose," named in Mr. Lear's book on Corsica. She was not quite so young now as then, it being eleven years since that episode; but she was still blooming, and as gay and talkative as a tame parrot; and whenever she laughed, (and that was not seldom or gently,) she shook the long plait of black hair that hung down her back until it danced again.

First presenting us each with a handsome bouquet of flowers "out of the garden," she and her sister drew their chairs up to the table, and leaning their elbows upon it, prepared for an hour's good gossip. Every one of our nation who had ever visited Ile Rousse was described to us minutely, with the inquiry as to whether we knew him; and the visitor's book, with its laudatory remarks and poetical effusions, shown us, with the urgent entreaty that we would translate those of them that were written in English.

This we did, refusing, however, when we were requested to indite a poem on our own account therein.

This was a sore disappointment to the "lady of the rose," who declared emphatically of No. 1 that she had "la physiognomie poetique!" but who recovered herself the next moment, and begged that we would, on our way upstairs, peep at any rate into the beautiful best bedroom, which she generally gave to her English guests, and which we should have had, had we sent a telegram beforehand to say we were coming, but which unfortunately was now occupied by a Corsican messieur.

So much occupied was it, that it was not until we were fairly in the show apartment, that we discovered that the occupant was already in bed, sleeping the sleep of the just!

We were not aware then, what we learnt later on, how necessary a thing it is in Corsica to telegraph one's coming beforehand. It insures a good dinner; and, at any rate, a room swept out to a certain degree.

You pay a penny a word for telegraphic messages, and there is scarcely a village in the country without its office. Without a telegram, you may arrive to find no rooms, or, what is almost as bad, to be placed in rooms out of which the family have kindly turned for your accommodation. We soon learnt by experience to have a perfect horror of these "family rooms."

The accumulated garments of the family lie about in all directions, your jug and basin are even more lilliputian than elsewhere, your bed quilt is grimy (they do not often supply you with blankets in Corsica), and the apartment appears, from its fugginess, never to have known the luxury of open windows.

A gun also occasionally peeps at you from a corner, and a pistol from the mantle-piece; and the family run in at all hours for their blacking brushes, their best boots, or a bottle of vin ordinaire on the top of the household chest: but these are small matters.

Very beautiful looked the sea, lapping against the walls of the houses, and scattering spray over the red rocks, at 6 a.m. next morning; but in an hour it had clouded over, and sea and sky and rocks were all leaden grey in a lowering thunderstorm. At nine o'clock, however, it cleared up a little, and we started for Calvi, passing through green meadows and cultivated land to the summit of a mountain, and down again to the village of Algajola by the sea shore. Loving maquis clothed the limestone hills as we ascended again, looking beyond the grey crags, covered with soft green moss or scarlet leeks, to the village and ancient castle of Lumio. Long before we reached them, the snow mountains were raising white heads over the green hills before us; and as we paused on the summit of the second pass, the full view of the magnificent bay of Calvi burst upon us, sweeping out as far as the eye could reach, and glowing in the midday sun.

Figs, lemons, and prickly pear bordered our road as we descended through rocky hills to the long narrow level tract preceding Calvi; and, all the way, the wide blue sea beckoned on one side to the solemn range of snowy Alps upon the other.

It is impossible to describe the exceeding picturesqueness of the town and citadel as you approach from this road. Calvi lies upon a peninsula of high ground jutting out into the sea, and consists of two distinct towns—the lower, at the water's edge; and the upper, which comprises the citadel, built upon the hill.

The citadel, with the exception of Bonifacio, is the strongest in the island. Its bastion walls are of an immense height, gleaming white against the blue sky, and their thickness and impregnability are equal to their height. Nine or ten times have these bastion walls been assailed by foes of every nation, including the English, wearing out the very heart of the foe by their stern resistance, and often finally foiling his most determined efforts.

Planted upon inaccessible rocks commanding the sea, and formed by the very nature of its position for defence, the Genoese at an early date (about the fourteenth century) fortified it thus strongly; and although sometimes losing it for a while, yet managed to keep it in their hands for long centuries. Bonifacio and Calvi, both to a certain degree colonized by Genoese families, and filled with Genoese soldiers, were for many years the main, and often the only, cords by which this cruel and tyrannical government held on to unfortunate Corsica.

In the year 1735, a romantic little incident occurred upon this coast. It was towards the conclusion of one of the innumerable Corsican struggles against Genoese despotism, when, in the hopeless but undying cause of liberty, the blood of the islanders had been shed with an unwearied devotion and unassisted heroism that at last moved the heart of the practical but freedom-loving Briton to a sudden burst of sympathetic feeling. It would be a pity to tell the story in any other words but those of Gregorovius.

"Their embarrassments had become almost insupportable, when, one day, two strange vessels came to anchor in the Gulf of Isola Rossa (Ile Rousse), and began to discharge a heavy cargo of victuals and warlike stores—gifts for the Corsicans from unknown and mysterious donors. The captains of the vessels scorned all remuneration, and only asked the favour of some Corsican wine in which to drink the brave nation's welfare. They then put out to sea again, amid the blessings of the multitude who had assembled on the shore to see their foreign benefactors.

"This little token of foreign sympathy fairly intoxicated the poor Corsicans. Their joy was indescribable: they rang the bells in all the villages; they said to one another that Divine Providence, and the Blessed Virgin, had sent their rescuing angels to the unhappy island, and their hopes grew lively that some foreign power would at length bestow its protection on Corsica.... Generous Englishmen had equipped these two ships...."

CHAPTER V.
THE CURÉ OF CALVI.

Driving through an irregular little street with overhanging houses, our coachman suddenly stopped before a dirty stone staircase. This, he informed us, was the entrance to our hotel. We were suspicious; and the event proved how just were our suspicions.

It seemed incredible that a large town like Calvi should furnish no better inn than this wretched looking one; besides which, we had been distinctly advised to go to a certain Madame Puoggi in the Haute Ville, and this was the Basse Ville.

But it was impossible to move our stolid coachman. This was the best, the only inn in Calvi: he had never heard of Madame Puoggi: there was no inn in the upper town at all. Alas! we afterwards discovered that this degenerate Corsican lied in this, as in other matters; and that fate and his obstinacy had led us to the third best inn in the town! But, unable ourselves to discover the mysterious Madame Puoggi, we were forced to submit to destiny.

The sun was shining hotly upon white (or what had been white) pavement, when we descended from the carriage, and the scene was one of the gayest and most pictorial I ever looked upon.

A narrow, uneven street, houses with tumbledown balconies and broken stone staircases, opening out before us to a wide white quay with the gleaming sea alongside, and a row of vessels like Arab dhows at anchor, drying their long drooping sails in the sun.

Behind these, the grand old citadel, white and fierce, looking down with the pride of five centuries upon quay and town, and sea and hill; and from the opposite coast, as far as the eye could reach northward, a chain of receding blue mountains.

Most of the vessels had come from the African coast, bringing a motley array of foreign sailors.

As our carriage drew up, three ghostly beings, draped in white sheeting from head to foot, with nought but black beard and shining black eyes emerging, stood motionless, a yard or two off, silently watching our unbelieving footsteps as we entered the inn. Calvi is full of these stately Arabs. Every corner you turn, you find one or two sitting squatting in the sun in their white sheets, still as statues, but silently following you with eyes full of a contemptuous astonishment.

After a hasty lunch in a room overhanging the emerald sea, and where a balcony looked straight into its depths—a room with the most perfect view ever framed by nature, but greatly marred by man's neglect of drainage—we went out to explore the citadel.

Passing along the gay quay, and ascending a steep slope of stones and rubbish between the houses, we found ourselves on the hill from whence sprung the bastion walls, surrounded by sea on every side save one.

It made one almost giddy to stand at the base of these great sloping walls, and look up their lofty face; and one felt no surprise at the numerous shocks they had defied. Then, by a steep narrow ascent, cut in the rock and protected by stony walls, we mounted into the heart of the citadel, and the haute ville within. This haute ville, enclosed by the fortifications, is the original old town; the basse ville below being of much later date.

The houses inside the citadel were all of stone, and although close together, in narrow, winding stony streets, up which no vehicle could possibly go, were built with some attempt at regularity, and were not so dirty looking as those in the lower town. There being absolutely nothing but stone in the haute ville, the streets were comparatively free from dust, and the high wind that swept over this lofty perch sent a sweet refreshing air through the walled-in causeways.

The church stood in the main street, in the centre of the citadel. Repairs were going on inside, and we strolled in, being soon joined by the curé, a man about thirty, with a thin pale face and a sweet smile. Gentle goodness was written on the features of this man; and very shy was he before three strange Englishwomen, and altogether nervous of his French idioms, but with a Corsican enthusiasm in his wild dark eyes. The church, he told us, was built in 1100, but partially destroyed by fire (coming, of course, from an enemy's bombshell!) about two hundred years ago, as an inscription cut upon the outside steps testified. He showed us the old font of black and white and red Corsican marble, belonging to the fifteenth century, of which age also was the marble altar. A strange old bas-relief in the chancel wall was much older than this, and had been only lately found and uncovered. "Calvi," said the curé, with his dark eyes glowing, "has been bombarded eight or ten times, but she has never succumbed. The church is as strong as the rest of her fortifications, and has resisted many a siege. She has never been taken, 'si ce n'était pas par les Anglais.'" He showed us a large, badly executed statue of our Lord, placed within a most curious and beautiful old frame, composed of separate small squares of oil-paintings on sacred subjects.

"See," he said, "there used to be a life-size picture of the Saviour inside that frame, and it was very ancient and beautiful. It hung upon that wall opposite, under the western window; but the English, in bombarding our citadel, sent a ball clean through the wall and shot away the picture. So we removed it here behind the altar, and placed this statue within the frame."

"Ah!" said No. 1, "that was Nelson's doing."

"Yes," said the curé, with one of his shy bright smiles, "it was your great naval commander, Nelson. But, although he took Calvi, and destroyed the picture, he left an eye behind him!"

And this was true enough.

"But," said No. 3, "you Corsicans like the English, do you not? They have often been friendly to you."

"Yes," he replied; "the English are a free nation, and they can feel for those who fight for liberty."

We were quite sorry to say good-bye to our new friend, as we left him standing on the steps of his grand old church, the wind lifting his black hair, and a farewell smile lighting up the refined, visionary face, as he crossed himself with a thin brown hand.

Leaving the church, we wandered amongst the mazes of the little streets, which seemed strangely deserted in the midday sun; feeling glad at length to leave the strong glare of the citadel, and descend to the sea and lower town.

In doing so we missed our way among the many loopholed stone passages, and No. 1, fired by a desire to rouse one of those impassive white statues and hear his voice, stopped short before an Arab crouched upon a step, demanding of him our whereabouts.

The white bundle with the swarthy face, however, treated us with the contempt due to our temerity, never even taking the trouble to raise his black eyes, but keeping his stolid gaze fixed upon the sea before him.

I began to think these doubled-up men could not move, so motionless were they; and felt quite relieved when, later on in the evening, I saw them striding, positively running—turbans unloosed, white robes flapping, and shoes and stockings showing—up and down the streets, buying provisions preparatory to a start.

The shore of the bay surrounding Calvi is wide and smooth, with a fine sand and pretty shells, including a vast number of the mauve-coloured Donax. The morning mists were clearing away, and it was very pleasant to lie here, as we did, basking in the sun, watching snow peak after snow peak, behind the blue hills opposite, slowly unveil itself and stand out in a lovely white glow. The snow looked so close and so cool, bowing over the hot sands, and throwing shadows on to the sea beneath.

Coming home across the sandhills, which separate the shore from the level road, we came upon the most perfect and beautiful flowers I ever saw. They were a species of low growing cactus, only rising a few inches from the ground, the blossoms of a most brilliant rose colour. They had the appearance of chrysanthemums, and were about three or four inches across, covering the sandhills for yards with an unbroken sheet of vivid crimson.

Returning to the inn, we found our dinner awaiting us, as well as three native "gentlemen," who were anxious to commence operations at their table, but could not do so until our advent.

These were the three avocats who, we had been previously informed, unfortunately occupied the three best bedrooms. These individuals we necessarily looked upon as our natural enemies; and our prejudice against them was not mitigated by the terrific noise made by them and the pretty waitress together.

She was a fat, untidy, golden-haired blonde; one of the prettiest women I ever saw in or out of Corsica, but gifted with the strongest faculty for banging about earthenware and metal utensils that could well be imagined.

This was the spoilt child of the house, adopted, we were informed, by the dark young hostess because of her superior education, which enabled her to talk French to the guests. And talk French she did, unceasingly—to the male guests, at any rate; standing with arms akimbo against the wall, chaffing Messieurs les avocats to our utter neglect, and making such a babel, between crockery flung about and shrieking repartee, that we felt strongly inclined to throw a plate at her touzled golden head.

Dinner, however, was achieved at last; and on re-entering our rooms, what a sight met us!

The sun had just set, and twilight was creeping on, but the whole of the near range of hills opposite lay bathed in a crimson glow that was almost blood red, and was reflected in the clear waters below. The glow remained for about five minutes, and then gradually faded away into the soft grey of evening. Never in my life did I see anything more beautiful or vivid than that sunset glow at Calvi.

Nos. 2 and 3 soon found that no retirement was to be had in their chamber. The low open window looked out upon a balcony, which led up by steps direct from the main street of the town.

The window-sill was just of a convenient height for the populace to lean their elbows upon, which they accordingly did, in large numbers. We could only shut out our visitors by closing both windows and inside shutters; and we preferred the populace.

At last came a swarthy black-browed Italian, introduced by the pretty waitress, whose noisy admirers had departed with their cigars down the street, and who therefore had nothing better to do than to gossip with us. He was a sailor, and his hands were full of pretty trinkets of coral and lava, picked up by himself.

His Italian patois was peculiar, and the waitress acted interpreter, whilst we bargained for his wares. He was a queer looking man, as black and dirty as soot and absence of soap and water could make him, with a passionate, cut-throat looking face, that broke out occasionally into childlike smiles.

The bargains being completed to every one's satisfaction, No. 1, who alone of us three could make herself understood by our dark friend, plunged him suddenly into a condition of hopeless confusion and swarthy blushes by requesting of him a song.

"Oh, madame, I cannot sing!"

"What! an Italian sailor not sing?"

"No, no; indeed, madame, I cannot."

"What, not this?" and madame hummed a gay boating song.

If our friend did not sing the song, it was clear that he knew the words of it well, for on hearing them he became greatly excited, seizing both madame's hands in his and pressing them affectionately.

Some weeks later, when at Ajaccio, Nos. 2 and 3, strangely enough, again lighted upon our sailor friend. He was standing at the hotel door with a companion, armed with fresh corals and some lovely feathery seaweed. He seemed delighted to see us again, inquiring effusively after No. 1, and informing us that he had worked his way on foot from Calvi.

By the time our sailor had departed, it was growing dark. But our visitors were not over. The door opened, and in trooped four or five people, carrying with them the "canapie" which was to be devoted to our use for the night, and proceeding leisurely, amidst much gossip, to make the bed.

We understood and tolerated the presence of the master of the house over this ceremony; but I was a little puzzled by the comfortable deportment of a tidily dressed young man, who came in with the rest, examined the shells upon the dressing-table, and entered into easy conversation with us.

I inquired of giddy golden-head who he was.

"Oh," she said, carelessly, "he is a friend of ours; mate of a vessel in the harbour."