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

A LADY'S TOUR IN CORSICA.

BY
GERTRUDE FORDE.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.

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

(All rights reserved.)

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

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

A LADY'S TOUR IN CORSICA.

CHAPTER I.
EN ROUTE FOR BAVELLA—AN ECCENTRIC LANDLORD.

Sainte Lucie di Tallano is the halting-place for the forest of Bavella. From thence you can mount up to the Bocca; starting early, and spending the whole day in the forest, returning again to sleep at Sainte Lucie.

There is another route, sometimes followed, by which you drive down the other side of the forest to Sollenzara, on the east coast; but, as this place is reported to be exceedingly dirty, and is, besides, not healthy after the winter months, if it is then, it is not to be recommended. From Propriano to Sainte Lucie is a five-hours' drive, and a steady ascent the whole way.

The road is less interesting than usual in Corsica, and, for some distance, is almost tame, winding amongst low green hills, and by the side of a foaming river swept by willows. Some queer-looking crows with white breasts were fluttering about here; and, further on, the river was spanned by an old-fashioned Pisan bridge, wide enough only for mules and foot-passengers, with no parapet—made in the days when carts and carriages apparently were not.

There was a good deal of traffic on this road: plenty of muscular-looking Corsican dames bestriding their mules, and generally followed by a foal; and heavy charrettes, drawn by six mules, and filled with sacks of charcoal, brought from the forests above.

Then a hideous red tower came in sight, stuck on the summit of a low hill, like a piece of scarlet sealing-wax; and which, our driver informed us, was the summer residence of some country magnate, who migrated thither yearly with his family "pour prendre l'air frais."

As we mounted higher, the scenery grew finer, with a rather dreary grandeur; and as we paused to rest the horses, Nos. 1 and 2 got out to walk, and No. 3 took the opportunity to sketch.

Meanwhile, the driver stood beside the carriage, eyeing her performance with some curiosity. He was a short young man, with a heavy figure, but the head and neck of an Antinous, and a pleasant refined face, with the mixture, often seen in Corsica, of dark eyes and a yellow moustache. He was as proud and reticent as the rest of his race, and hitherto we had scarcely heard his voice, although he did his duties well, and was sternly attentive to our wants.

No. 3's first effort at friendly conversation did not prosper. "I suppose you come from Ajaccio?" she asked, meaning to be kind and sociable.

But your true Corsican does not understand patronage, nor care for sociability.

"Non," replied the little man, shortly.

"Oh, from the mountains, then?" she continued, affably.

"Non plus," was the unresponsive return.

No. 3 made one more effort, although feeling a little snubbed by her companion's taciturnity. "But you know these parts well?"

"Mais oui; je l'espére," was all the answer she got as he turned away, either too proud or too shy to talk; leaving her mentally resolved to make no further efforts at friendliness with this most unfriendly Corsican.

This resolution, however, soon melted away, as did Antonio's shyness; and, before long, we and our young coachman were the best of friends.

He was very different from most of his class.

Antonio had already, although only twenty-four, been nine years a driver, having had only two years' schooling; but, in that short time, had taught himself to write and to read both Italian and French. Nature had taught him to be a gentleman, and had endowed him with two qualities rare in his country—industry and a desire to rise.

He had a kindly gentle nature; although his sleepy dark eyes were quite capable of the national flash of sudden anger; and joined a conscientious integrity to the usual dignified reticence and independence of manner.

Corsican coachmen, whether private or belonging to livery stables, are usually paid at the rate of only twelve or thirteen francs a week (about ten shillings); and on this wretched pay the men have to find both food and clothes, if in a public stable. Of course, in the season, they make about as much by their "pour boires;" but this is very uncertain, and, at times, fails altogether.

There is not much occupation open to those few Corsicans who will work. Agriculture only goes on in part of the country; and masons and day labourers are really not required.

The projected railway across the island will be the greatest blessing to those of the natives who have the good sense and manliness to prefer work to starvation.

It is doubtful how many will do this. In Ajaccio, every winter, families are at death's door through the inherent idleness of their heads, who will neither work nor beg, and who apply the words of the Unjust Steward to themselves. In the country, matters are equally bad.

Toil and beggary are equally obnoxious and degrading in their eyes; and they often prefer, both for themselves and their innocent children, actual starvation.

It is a most incomprehensible state of things to the practical British mind, but a characteristic not confined to Corsica. I cannot resist quoting a passage from Mr. Hamerton's book, "Round My House."

"The contrast between certain races and others," he says, "in regard to the sort of pride which scorns self-help, is very striking, and it is worth remark that a certain form of nobleness appears to be almost incompatible with the watchful activity of really effectual self-help. The Highlanders of Scotland and the Arabs of Algeria have both a certain sentiment about self-help which is far from the English feeling, and still further from American or French feeling upon the subject. The Highlander will, no doubt, work a little when absolutely compelled by what to him appears unavoidable necessity, but he takes no delight in his work, and feels degraded by it. He will submit to any amount of inconvenience sooner than apply himself heartily to remedy it." Mr. Hamerton goes on to quote two cases in point, both of which came under his notice but lately in the Highlands.

One was that of a congregation divided from their parish church, in all but dry weather, by an impassable stream, which it would have been easy enough to span with the simplest of wooden bridges, but which remained for years unregarded, whilst the population preferred, to a few hours' work, the constant trouble of going by a long circuit to their church.

The other case was that of a landing-stage, always dangerous on rough and stormy days, where a little pier might have been easily run out; but where things remained in statu quo year after year, to the destruction of property, by reason of the inertness of the surrounding boat-owners.

But meanwhile we, on our way to Sainte Lucie, were mounting higher and higher towards the clouds, among scenery that was becoming grand. The purple ranges of serrated peaks that stood out against the sky were very fine in their misty outlines; and, on the mountain side just above us, three villages, one beneath the other, caught the last lights of the setting sun. The upper one, called St. Henri, was distinguished by its picturesque church spire standing out among the green trees and grey houses; the lower one was Olmiche, and the middle one, Sainte Lucie di Tallano. On the left of Tallano, rose a fine building like a church, but which, we were informed, was a deserted convent, with a treasured picture within its walls.

As we toiled slowly up the heights, many a small unpretending black cross of wood, half covered by macchie, rose from the hills or stood beside the roadway, marking the place where life had been lost on this dangerous path, or taken by the hand of fellow-man through robbery and revenge.

The situation of Tallano was lovely; but the appearance of the village did not promise luxurious quarters for the night. The entrance to the little inn was not bad for Corsica; but the bare little salle à manger and comfortless bedrooms were uninviting. The floors of the latter were dirty, the furniture broken, and chiefly conspicuous by its absence, and the air within close and muggy.

However, here we were to stay for the night—nolentes volentes—so it was of no use grumbling over the inevitable. There were but two rooms to spare, but a canapie was brought in for No. 3.

As a Corsican traveller, I give this piece of advice strongly: by all means eschew canapies. They are usually one foot wide, and of the consistency of a deal board; and, having been used as couches by the family, their friends, and the children for years, without ever a dusting, or the advantages, possessed by a bed, of changed sheets and counterpanes, are, as a rule, indescribably filthy and unpleasant.

If, however, as at Tallano, a bed is not procurable, and you are very tired, a canapie is perhaps preferable to bare and dirty boards, over which disports the nocturnal beetle; and the best plan then is to shut eyes and nose as closely as possible, and dream of your own dear cot at home.

But I am bound to say the Tallano dirt was all on the outside. The beds were perfectly clean, and, but for the snores of the old landlord and his family, reposing in the salle à manger close by, we might have enjoyed undisturbed repose.

Dinner was announced to be at seven o'clock; and we found three other places laid beside ours at the little round table. Presently the door opened, and in walked three Corsican "messieurs;" all very stiff and shy, and all got up, in our honour, in irreproachable evening attire. Three stiff but polite bows were made, to which we responded in like manner; and then, in solemn silence, broken only by the clatter of the ragged unkempt waiting girl, we all sat down to commence our soup, our fish, and sweet-breads. The silence was growing hysterical, when one of our party, afraid of losing her manners with her gravity, ventured to remark that the evening looked stormy.

The three messieurs instantly all lifted their three shiny black heads with a look of relief, and rushed at the witty remark with the avidity of hungry dogs upon a juicy bone. Conversation having been thus happily started, flourished healthily to the end of dinner.

All three were young men whose duties kept them in this small village; one being telegraph and post-office overseer, another some sort of government land agent, and the third of trade or profession unknown. None of the three had ever been out of their native island, but all seemed intelligent and well educated; and their courtesy and good manners were beyond criticism.

They told us what they knew about the country, and about our excursion to Bavella to-morrow; and one of them insisted upon bestowing a nice piece of "orbicular granite" upon No. 3.

This so-called orbicular granite (which is no granite at all, but probably a kind of hornblende) is a natural curiosity of Corsica, and is said to be found rarely, if ever, in other countries. A fine quarry of it is being worked in the hills just above Tallano. The stone is of a pale malachite green, covered with narrow white rings that run in every direction, not only across but through the stone, and have every appearance of fossils. They are not fossils, however, but of the same substance as the green foundation. It is very handsome when polished, and is sold in small pieces for house and church decoration, and for fancy articles.

Dinner being over, the three messieurs departed, each with a polite bow; and we prepared to draw round the fire and enjoy a private chat.

But we counted without our host, who presently appeared, pipe in mouth, and after inquiring if our dinner had been good, and putting more wood upon the fire, drew his chair into our circle and showed an intention of joining us. He was rather a gentlemanly old man, with keen black eyes and iron-grey hair; but decidedly eccentric. We had been warned beforehand that he was "quite mad;" and so felt a little alarmed now by his friendly proximity, but were soon reassured by his manner. He was not master of much French, however, and had a habit of saying "Hein? hein?" all the time his neighbours were speaking, which did not improve matters. But he was exceedingly irate when he could not understand what was said; and his splutters of wrath were only equalled by the geniality of his smile when, a little later, he brought up his children, one by one, followed by their young mother, to say "bonsoir" to the English ladies, and lift their little caps from their round heads.

A more queer character I never saw than this old fellow, with his irritable temper and his tender heart taking transparent turns on his countenance. Velvet cap on head, and pipe in mouth, he told us tales of our compatriots who had passed the night at his inn on their way to Bavella, invariably inquiring if we were of their acquaintance; and sometimes expecting us to recognize them by a description of their personal appearance only, without the superfluity of a name.

One anecdote he told with especial pride, relative to a gold watch worth 500 francs, left behind by an Englishman under his pillow the last night he was here, and which he transmitted by the next English visitor to its owner, subsequently found at Ajaccio.

"If you leave anything behind you, mesdames, in my house, you need have nothing to fear. Nothing is ever lost here."

And he was no doubt correct. But the peppery side of his character came to light later on in the evening, when No. 3, having retired to her room, found the canapie made up with one very narrow sheet, open necessarily only at one side, by that means further reducing the width of the narrow berth.

Somewhat indignant, she called up the nondescript waiting girl, insisting upon another sheet, and the remaking of the canapie; which was effected with a little unwillingness.

She had just retired again and locked her door (which fortunately boasted a key), when the old gentleman came hammering at it, to know what had been wanted.

She informed him nothing was wanted now, as her wants had been supplied; but this did not satisfy that irate personage late of the sunny smile, who still demanded admittance, evidently with the intention of scolding.

But it was of no avail his rattling the door handle, and trying to force an entrance, as No. 3, a little frightened, remained firm, and fortunately the door also; and after an appeal to his better feelings through the excuse that her attire was, at the moment, insufficient for the reception of company, the old gentleman at length retreated, grumbling loudly to himself.

CHAPTER II.
THE FOREST OF BAVELLA.

Bavella is so high up amongst the mountains, that, unless the day be cloudless, it is useless to make the ascent, as every view is otherwise lost.

We were favoured by the most perfect day imaginable; and from morning till evening, not a mist wreath came to hide a single peak or confuse a single line of the mountain ranges.

We got up at daybreak, and breakfasted on dry bread and coffee at 5.30 a.m.

At 6 a.m. we were in our carriage, brought round by the ever-punctual Antonio, and driving up the steep ascent in the long shadows of early day, sunlight on the mountain tops, larks singing their carol, and heavy dew lying on the sweet-scented grass and macchie round us.

Every yard of the way was lovely, and every turn brought out new beauties; grandest mountains rising from purple mists of morning, with jagged peak and architectural column, wide deep gorges, and villages nestling everywhere with campanile in their centre, among steep green hills.

Suddenly we came face to face with the snow-clad mountain of Bavella, white and glittering; and, standing before it, a perpendicular mountain of purple rock, serrated in the most wonderful manner, like a row of columns or a Druid's temple. This mountain boasted the name of the Fourca di Basinao, we were informed; and it continued to rear its wild hydra head before us all day from behind grassy hill or group of trees, until at length we faced its precipitous sides on the Bocca di Bavella.

Evia, further on, is a picturesque village, embosomed in trees, which shut out the most magnificent hills. Here was a fine old church, and tall campanile, as usual standing apart from the church; and, pacing slowly before it, a polite old curé, in rusty brown cassock, who took off his well-worn wideawake and bared his white head as the carriage passed.

The road to Bavella is not among the best. It is not a diligence road; and is, besides, a good deal cut up by the heavy charcoal and wood waggons which ply constantly up and down it.

The turns are sharp, and the route steep and rutty, as well as narrow; and a nervous person might feel uncomfortable winding above a deep precipitous gorge, at the bottom of which rushes a foaming river, and from whose opposite slopes rises the impenetrable forest.

Mossy rocks lay up the side of the cliff above our path; and presently great Titanic boulders, twice as big as an ordinary house, covered the mountain flank, and hung across our road, intermixed with the gnarled and knotted trunks of broken trees.

Here the ground grew soft and park-like; arbutus and garden shrubs edged our way; and Mediterranean heath, nine or ten feet high, over which peered grey crag and various trees, made the air heavy with sweetness.

Then on, to more open ground, past the village of Souza on its boulder-strewn hill, surrounded by groves of ilex and pine, overlooking wooded gorge and merry cascade; on, with the smoothly rounded snow mountain, and the peaked, richly coloured rocks ever before us—with sheets of blue and white anemone scattered upon the mossy ground at the foot of giant trees; ascending more and more steeply, with views ever more and more beautiful, into the enchanted forest, fir-cones crackling under the horses' feet, and thickly growing pines throwing shady tracery over the sunny pathway.

Caterpillars' bags overhung the road; and here and there a hacked tree had poured out a rich stream of turpentine. The bark of one of these was covered by a multitude of lovely little insects, something like ladybirds, but flat, scarlet coloured with black spots.

Gradually we went winding up to the Bocca or head of the pass, every break in the trees showing wider and more extensive ranges of mountains; and great golden lichen-covered crags, surrounded by ferns and overhung by pines, presenting at each turn a more perfect study for a sketch. Corsica is certainly the heaven of a landscape painter, and Bavella is one of her highest attractions.

The road was rough and narrow, however, now; and here and there, where a party of cantonniers, or road-makers, were at work repairing, their heaps of stone still further narrowed the passage for the carriage, which on one or two occasions passed the corner with three wheels on the ground, and the fourth hanging over the edge of the precipice!

The forest ceased as we reached the Bocca, to recommence, at the same distance, down the other side. The top of the mountain was bare and rugged, crowned by a few cedars; but from this spot the most magnificent of views lay spread out before us. The forest lay all around us at our feet; from the other side of the gorge rose the wonderful Fourca di Basinao; and far away below swelled seven ranges of mountains, billowed and commingling in varied hues of purple, hazy blue, and vivid crimson.

A few steps further brought us to the edge of the slope leading down to the other side, and to the route towards Solenzara; and this view was almost more beautiful than the other. Forests of pine and lighter beeches covered conical hills, that looked as if we could have thrown a stone upon their tops; darker majestic rocks rose like gigantic ruined castles behind them; close beside us was an unbroken cone of pure snow; and, far away, beyond all, a wide sweep of bluest Mediterranean with the island of Asanzara lying, gem-like, upon its bosom.

All down this side of the hill, for two or three hundred yards or so, the bare rocky ground was covered with low huts of wood or stone, roughly put together, and not more than ten or twelve feet long. These huts, which were like a series of human mole-hills scattered over the hill-side, had an open space left for doorway, but neither door nor chimney. Peeping inside one, we saw that it was very dirty, with no other flooring than the muddy ground, and that the only article of furniture within was an old pan.

These wretched hovels are, for three or four months together, the homes of the poor cantonniers at work upon the roads; who herd here together anyhow, obtaining bread and country wine from the little locanda close by, placed under the brow of the highest slope.

At this locanda our horses were put up for the mid-day halt; and from it, presently, a little circle of five or six women issued, very curious to eye the foreign ladies, and, if possible, to question them. One of these was the landlady of the little public-house (for inn it was not), and the others were the wives of a few of the cantonniers whose energy or means had enabled them to follow their husbands.

They were not long in squatting round us in a ring as we sketched, talking rapidly in their Italian patois to each other, and persuading the brown-eyed, sweet-faced landlady—the only one of the party able to speak French—to ask us whence we came and who we were. She was too shy to begin at first, but, once started, kept up a brisk conversation. Here, in her little home, 3700 feet above the sea level, she had known but few visitors, especially foreigners, and she was full of interest and curiosity.

For some minutes we were plied by the usual round of questions as to our nationality, as to the beauty of England, and the riches of its inhabitants; and we found the usual difficulty in convincing them that we were not millionaires.

"Ah, madame!" said the woman, pointing to the little reticule which No. 1 carried over her arm; "you know there is enough money in that bag to make my fortune."

As the bag in question really did contain money, her remark was not so far from the truth as it might have been.

"Was it not very lonely living up here all the year round?" we asked her.

"Ah, well; it was triste in winter, for sometimes they were snowed up for six or seven months together; but in summer it was not dull, for she had friends like these with her."

"Had she any children," we asked, "to brighten up her solitude in winter?"

The dark eyes filled with tears, and the rough brown face softened, as she shook her head sadly, "No, not one; and she had been married four years."

"But," we said, consolingly, "there may still be some, at some future day."

"Ah, madame, I have prayed the Holy Mother of God, and I think it must be because I am not good enough. But this month (month of Mary), I have sent an offering to her shrine; and perhaps she will hear me this time."

The wistful eyes of the poor woman still wore their touching expression as we said good-bye, and, after a two-hours' halt on the Bocca, walked off on our return journey.

I should advise all travellers, except those of unusually stout nerves, to do as we did, and start before the carriage on returning, doing the first three or four miles of descent on foot.

Even with so careful and skilful a driver as ours, cantering down this uncommonly steep and narrow road must be a doubtful enjoyment to most persons not accustomed to live on the edge of a precipice; besides which, the lovely scenery can be much more fully appreciated on foot and at a walking pace.

It is something too, to drink in the grand solitude of this forest-covered mountain side, where the rustle of trees, over whose heads you often look, and the weird calling of some forest bird, are generally the only sounds to disturb thoughts which seem to expand with the wide grandeur of nature.

About a quarter of a mile from Sainte Lucie we got out, and, dismissing the carriage to its stables in the village, explored the little convent church upon the hill.

The convent itself, with strong walls and narrow windows, is now turned into a stable; but the church door stood open, and we entered.

A perfect pandemonium it appeared to be: some men playing jigs on a wretched little harmonium in a corner of the building, and about sixty children, of all ages, rushing about the place, dancing and shouting.

The men, as usual, took little notice of us; but the children ceased their games, and followed us in open-mouthed curiosity from side to side of the little church, as we made a tour of inspection. It was a poor little place, dirty and neglected, with a number of wretched daubs upon the walls—one, the old and treasured picture, having been painted in the twelfth century, but certainly nothing to boast of, except in the way of antiquity. These children of Tallano were pretty and amusing.

We were sitting on the wall in the lane outside the inn, waiting for dinner, when one of them, a round-faced, brown-eyed boy of about twelve, seated on a mule, came riding past us once or twice, giving furtive glances each time.

"Bonsoir," said we at last.

"Bonsoir," said he, turning a blushing, delighted face towards us. "I said 'bonsoir' to you before, when you passed me in the street." Saying which, and having satisfied his curiosity, the little fellow turned round his steed and finally rode away.

The expedition to Bavella from Tallano can be done in ten hours; viz., five hours going up, two to rest on the Bocca, and three for the descent. It is, therefore, an easy day's excursion. But it is well worth while giving up twelve or thirteen hours to it: starting at five or six o'clock in the morning, and returning at seven, thus having four or five hours in the middle of the day for a good ramble in and out of and round about this beautiful forest.

Bread and cheese, or other provisions, must be taken, as the little locanda supplies absolutely nothing eatable in the way of food; although they probably have some of the good red country wine, for which Tallano is celebrated. Enthusiastic Englishmen do occasionally spend a night upon the Bocca; but, judging from what I saw of the locanda, it would be absolutely impossible for any lady to sleep there; and one gentleman, who had passed a night in a log hut near the top of the pass, and who conceives himself, as a rule, proof against the attacks of any noxious insect, told me that he never spent so miserable a time in his life, and that he would not repeat the experiment for twenty Bavellas, exquisite though they might be.

At Tallano we had nothing of this sort. Discomfort, and even dirt there might be; but it was dirt of the bearable kind, unconnected with entomology.

But no doubt the accommodation differs. An English lady, met since our return, informed me that she and her party spent several days in the forest, in one of the forestier's houses, for lodging in which, permission must be obtained from the authorities at Ajaccio; and that, although destitute of all comforts and almost of furniture, the house was not in any way obnoxious from dirt.

CHAPTER III.
SARTENE.

The route to Sartene from Tallano descends for some distance on the Propriano route, and is not particularly interesting.

After passing the queer old Pisan bridge, however, it branches off to the left, into a soft green shady road, faced by a handsome conical mountain, and bordered by ilexes, cork-trees, and clustering flowers.

The rest of the way is a continual ascent until Sartene is reached.

Steep boulders, growing grander and more massive, and half covered with a scarlet leek parasite that is positively dazzling in the brilliant sunshine, rise on each side of the road, interspersed with ilex-trees, myrtle, arbutus, and many shrubs, sometimes lying gently in a flat grassy nook, like a garden rockery.

Near Sartene, the road grows terribly steep, winding for miles round and round the hot interminable hill, on the side of which lies the town, looking clean and superior. Blue sea peeped out behind us, and snow mountains invited us in front, as we got out, and, remembering that both good men and women are merciful to their beasts, toiled up the steep ascent beside the carriage.

Antonio had the best of it; for, with his hat pushed well back from his sunburnt face, he was consoling himself with a pipe for his long, hot walk. Antonio never smoked whilst on the box; hence, the sight of a steep hill had charms for him. In this respect, as in all others, he was a pleasing contrast to the Bastia coachman, who puffed his vile tobacco inside the carriage night and morning. Antonio appeared to think he must only smoke on sufferance, and at first used to retire behind the carriage whilst enjoying his uphill treat, directing the horses by an occasional call, and hastily smothering his pipe in his hand if spoken to.

Just before the entrance to the town, stood, close beside the road, an enormous boulder of grey stone. On this had been placed, evidently by nature, a smaller round one. On the top of this was reared a lofty iron cross, eight or ten feet high, a dove flying from its summit, and, as is always the case in Corsica, the crown of thorns, the ladder, spear, hammer, and nails, even the sponge upon the stick, fastened to it.

At both entrances to the main street of every considerable village or town in Corsica you invariably see this large cross, generally of wood, and nearly always accompanied by these implements of the Crucifixion; but that at Sartene, reared on its great grey rock, with the background of blue mountains and green groves, was one of the most striking in the island.

The Hotel de l'Univers, in the principal street, was quite a cheery sight to way-worn travellers. It was no dirty little inn, with foul smells and objectionable bedrooms; but a really airy, pleasant hotel, situated in a rather stuffy street, but with dainty, well-furnished bedrooms, and a large comfortable salle à manger. After Corte (and of course excepting Ajaccio), it was the best hotel we had seen in the island.

After a slight lunch we went out, and, strolling through the hot glaring streets and up a steep dusty hill, found ourselves at the picturesque little church of St. Amiens, built on a grassy level half-way up, overlooking lovely views.

Attached to this church is a large, thick-walled monastery, in fashion like a bastion; and, as we sat sketching on the grass before it, a string of monks came slowly by, entering two and two through the narrow door which opened into the monastery.

They were dressed in brown cassocks, with light-brown girdles and long rosaries, brown cowls, and sandalled feet that were equally brown.

They walked along demurely enough, with their eyes cast upon the ground, until they reached the narrow doorway; but, as they turned to go in, each monk gave way to the sinful appetite of curiosity, and glanced stealthily from under his shaggy eyebrows at the three strangers. A lofty wooden cross stood on the green a few yards from the church, and we were a little astonished to see that neither the brown monks, nor the fat and homely sisters who afterwards passed on their way to Vespers, saluted it in any way with signs of reverence.

These sisters, comfortable-looking old ladies, with broad smiling faces, dressed all in black with enormous flapping white hats which were probably useful, but certainly not ornamental, were sœurs de charité, or nurses of the poor.

The pretty little church was dainty and pleasing within as without.

In honour of the month of Mary, a very grand Madonna, dressed as usual in sky blue, and surrounded by an arch of silver tinsel and white artificial roses, was placed in front of the altar for the contemplation of the faithful. Many quiet simple souls came into the cool, shady little building from the glare outside, to tell their beads, and to sit for a few moments in quiet meditation before the gaudy but sweet-faced figure; and among others two little girls, who, after kneeling down for a minute or two, commenced whispering and giggling audibly.

I made friends with these two little things, and presently they sat, one on each side, holding my hands and looking up into my face with the brightest and most eager of black eyes. Jaenne and Sophie, as they informed me they were called, were in the middle class of life, and were good French scholars.

They were on their return from school, and were awaiting the priest's call to attend confession. The burden of their sins did not appear to weigh very heavily upon these small reprobates, as they chatted away to me with great friendliness, imparting to me their great desire to travel and to visit England, and showing particular curiosity as to the appearance and disposition of my mother.

"Isn't she very unhappy," asked the handsome little Jaenne with the gleaming eyes, "to think you are so far away from her?"

"My mother wouldn't let me go," said the small, freckled, mischievous-looking Sophie; "not now at least. But I'll go some day, when I'm big."

"It's very beautiful in England, isn't it?" asked Jaenne. "Much more beautiful than Corsica? Is it very cold?"

"I should like to live in England," remarked Sophie, sagely, "because everybody is very rich there!"

Beyond the church, and down the road for some distance, lie pretty scattered tombs surrounded by foliage, and reposing against wooded or grassy hills, and beyond these a populous little cemetery.

After strolling in this direction, Nos. 2 and 3 returned to the town, and went into the cathedral at one side of the Grande Place.

As we walked up the long flight of stone steps leading to it, a group of children rushed after us, shouting and dancing, and pursuing us round the interior of the church itself. Not much was to be seen there. It was a gloomy, dusty-looking place, far inferior in attractions to the graceful, well-kept little St. Amiens; but the Virgin's altar stood out in magnificence of large blue and silver-spangled curtains, surrounded by flowers, real and artificial.

Hastening down the steps again, we soon got rid of our tormentors, and walked to the other end of the town to make a quick sketch of the boulder cross.

During the two or three minutes that we stood there, a crowd of forty children speedily collected, with the addition of one man and two women. The smell of garlic was suffocating; but good breeding prevailed, and a dead silence pervaded the interested group, one and all bent upon a polite and stealthy peep over our shoulders. For this purpose, a low wall behind was in great request, and one or two boys got upon each other's shoulders to attain the desired end.

The excitement became intense, when, hearing a whisper of "Ah, Rosina, ecco!" I looked down, and perceived a tiny, picturesque child with round face surrounded by the usual bambino's white cap, from off which had fallen a large straw hat, still hanging by its strings behind her neck, and proceeded to sketch her.

"She's drawing Rosina! she's drawing Rosina!" became the cry; and the sudden rush of the juveniles compelled me to close my sketch-book, and make good my escape, escorted by an excited, but friendly crowd, to the Hotel de l'Univers, where table d'hôte was just over, but where a modest little dinner of nine courses had been kept hot for our benefit.

CHAPTER IV.
THE LION OF ROCCAPINA.

From Sartene to Bonifacio is a drive of about seven hours, including an hour's baiting in the middle of the day.

The scenery at first is not very fine, and leads through many a bleak and rugged hill, varied by gigantic boulders, and half-stifled ilex and arbutus.

Some of these boulders were remarkable for their strange hollowness, and would have made excellent bandit caves, had they been a little more hidden by the cystus and arbutus which bordered the way.

About half-way to the pass of Roccapina, however, a fine range of blue rocks rose on our left, close at hand, and continued for some distance to stand sentinel over the little valley through which we passed.

Our drive to-day was varied by an amusing chase. A poor little foal, following its mother and her master, got separated from its friends, through fear of our carriage, and fled precipitately down the road before us.

After vainly shouting to its deaf owner, and trying by means of gentle driving to turn it back, Antonio at length jumped down, and we all followed his example. But the small beast, now out of sight of its mother, and not possessed of much wisdom, would not be persuaded to follow the same road; but, cleverly dodging our outstretched arms, rushed for protection to the horses, nestling up between them, to their great contempt and indignation.

The chase became exciting, and No. 3, standing at the horses' heads, was quite exhausted with laughing, Nos. 1 and 2 having shouted themselves quite hoarse, when Antonio, by a dexterous rush, suddenly caught the snorting, terrified foal up in his strong arms, and began to carry it kicking down the road. At the same moment a pitiful neighing was heard round the corner, and the stupid owner at last appeared, dragged back by his afflicted mare; and in another moment, mother and child were happily re-united.

The pass of Roccapina is wild and picturesque, overlooking the sea, and many a rocky range. The open pass is bordered by loose boulders, and far beneath lies the little bay of Roccapina, three or four large coasting vessels lying in its harbour, mere black atoms in the distance; the white sandy road winding down to it, dotted with charcoal carts drawn by their six or eight mules, looking like so many moving centipedes upon the hill-side.

The long headland, which juts far out into the sea and protects one side of this bay, has upon its furthest height a high round tower, and upon the summit of the nearer hill, one of the greatest natural curiosities in Europe. It consists of the figure of a lion, seated upon the high peak with a lordly air, looking out to sea—an entirely natural formation in the rock.

For miles this lion can be seen, lifelike as if from the chisel of a sculptor, his very features being marked out by the natural indentations of the granite, and his pose full of spirit and vivacity.

Behind the headland, sweeps of blue sea and distant points of brown and purple rocks form a fine background, and in front the ground slopes away by a rocky winding road to the sea level.

A little Douane, represented by one pleasant elderly gendarme, and a tiny inn, are the only dwellings on this bleak and lonely spot, or for miles around its windy solitudes.

A tame tortoise, and some queer Corsican ware inside the bare little inn, consoled us during our mid-day halt for a passing shower, and our bread and cheese was augmented by the only luxury possessed by the good-natured landlady, who sold us an apronful of walnuts for twopence, and laughed cheerily at our original Italian.

Distorted and fantastic boulders gave way after a time, on the road down, to macchie and plains of corn-fields bedecked by sheets of scarlet poppies, as we left off following the margin of the sea-shore and struck inland once more amongst the green hills.

A wide rock-strewn plain, with a rocky line of hills in front, and a dry sandy road, nearly stifled us, and we were glad to get into a lovely lane hedged by arbutus, up which twined the loving purple vetch, to a height of more than eight feet, and where flowers—scarlet, blue, white, and golden—hid everything but blue sky from our aching eyes.

Breezy hills, peeps of sea, and malarious-looking plain, followed each other in quick succession, as we wound up and down, never leaving the sea-coast far behind.

Reaching the top of the last stony height, about six miles from Bonifacio, a splendid view lay spread before us. As far as the eye could reach the great Mediterranean glittered like a blue mirror to the horizon, with its white cliffs and low blue hills, surrounded by many small islands, while the white bastion walls of Bonifacio glistened in the noonday sun far off upon the mainland, overtopping all.

On our right rose the splendid rocks, black pointed and well-nigh inaccessible, upon which is situated the Hermitage de la Trinité.

This monastery has been for many years deserted and untenanted, but an immense black iron cross stands out with weird arms pointing into the summer sky from the extreme summit of this wild eyrie.

Looking at the almost perpendicular rocks, it is difficult to believe that any one could scale those heights; and one felt that here, at any rate, was a monastery which could have little or no communication with the outer world.

The next four or five miles seemed interminable, as in a burning fiery furnace of heat we drove along the level, sandy road leading to Bonifacio, bordered by a few dusty olives, and plentifully sprinkled with the black wooden wayside cross.

Nearer the town we passed between wonderful chalk cliffs, curved and hollowed and glittering, some having every appearance of high built walls. When at length we emerged from these white, cave-carved cliffs, we were at the bottom of an almost perpendicular hill, from the summit of which rose the bastions of Bonifacio.

The long narrow harbour which winds from the sea round one side of the town through more curious chalk cliffs, ceased at the edge of the roadside, and the lower little town or quay, with one or two small stone towers, lay beside it, before us, under the brow of the hill up which we must ascend to the citadel and town proper. A more wild and extraordinary looking situation for a town it would be impossible to conceive; and of all the towns in Corsica, I have no hesitation in saying that Bonifacio is best worth a visit.

Perched on the summit of its steep hill, its chalk foundations overhanging the blue sea on one side, and flanked by harbour and distant purple hills upon the other, the great mass of masonry looks proudly down, with the invincible pride of centuries, upon its Sardinian neighbour, and upon the waters that surround three sides of its steep fortress.

CHAPTER V.
BONIFACIO.

The town of Bonifacio proper is within the citadel walls, and two roads ascend to the heights. One is wide and handsome, winding round the lofty walls and entering the citadel by a strong drawbridge with fine old chains; the other is a stony zigzag, too narrow and too steep for any vehicle, and only available for men, women, and mules. This also leads by a lesser drawbridge into the well-defended town.

On entering through the main gates of the city, you find yourself in a wide street, which will be handsome when some ruined houses are repaired, and others now building are finished. Between the houses, come peeps of breezy hills and blue harbour. The ascent is still steep and stony, although wide; and the street, which is the only good one in Bonifacio, soon comes to an end.

An intricacy of narrow byways leads out of it in every direction. Into some of these we penetrated, and found them most curious.

The houses were enormously high, supported by flying buttresses from one roof or wall to the other across the narrow street; while the road itself (by courtesy so called) was made up of mighty cobble-stones, varied by large holes, with here and there a sudden drop of a foot or two. There was of course no apparatus of any sort for lighting up these side streets, and I could not help wondering what was the percentage of the population whose nocturnal errands in these dark, dangerous alleys gave them a contused or broken limb.

Here and there among the overleaning houses came a break of queer old stone arches, leading by some black and filthy staircase into an abode of darkness from which came the voices of dogs and children.

Our passage down these back streets, however, was a nervous and hasty one, and we took care to keep in the centre of the five or six feet of stony way, knowing by uncomfortable experience the national propensity of treating the highways as drains, and the possibility any moment of a deluge of dirty water from an upper window upon our heads.

In one street, a little wider than the others, and which boasted a row of shops, a brown monk was collecting coppers for his order in a little tin can, against which he rattled his brown rosary suggestively.

He was a very dirty, but a very polite monk, and showed withal rather a pleasant, honest face as he bowed to us, turning back his cowl to get a better stare.

The main street at its end branched off into two steep paths, one of which led to our "hotel," (!) and the other, equally steep but rather wider, brought us out, by rough stony passages, first to the barracks, large and white with an open square in front, and then, under an archway (over which is a little room once inhabited by the first Napoleon when a Corsican lieutenant), to a wide breezy common.

This common, covered with grass and corn-fields, with flying wind-mills, one or two military towers of heavy white stone, containing gunpowder, and some fortifications, is the plateau of the rocky height upon which Bonifacio is built.

Reaching the edge of the grassy plateau, we looked down the almost perpendicular chalk cliffs to a depth of several hundred feet below, where the blue water chafed and sparkled, as it worked away busily in its endless task of excavation.

Straight before us, across the straits, lay Sardinia, one or two houses showing a glitter across the nine miles of white-ribboned currents that rushed with terrific pace between us and her. Then, turning back, and wandering out again through the drawbridge, we descended the steep hill up which we had come, and watched the inhabitants, as, in the cool of sunset, they came riding in with their various burdens upon their mules.

Many of them were loaded with grass and ferns for provender, and some with sticks, and some had tolerably heavy barrels slung on each side of their beast.

One long-suffering mule was heavily weighted. A barrel on either side, a sack of hay, and a big lad of fifteen or sixteen was at first his load; to which presently was added an additional boy, who climbed up behind and perched himself upon the sack of hay, as the poor mule plodded slowly uphill.

This elder boy was assuredly one of the most beautiful of God's creations ever seen. The grace and symmetry of his figure and movements were perfect, as with supple, bare brown feet pressing against the mule's sides, he urged on the patient beast; his features were faultless, and his splendid eyes were almost hidden by the long lashes that matched the short coal-black curls under his ragged cap.

"Poor beast!" said No. 3, as the mule passed; "how tired he is!" For one felt one must see those dark eyes raised.

They were raised, as the boy glanced up at us with the scowl of a beautiful demon; then, suddenly changing his mind as he caught our friendly looks, a smile broke over the chiselled mouth and flooded the Italian eyes; and, in an instant, the demon became an angel. I would have given a five-franc piece to have sketched that boy, but it would have been almost as much as one's life was worth to have asked him to stand.

A little further on came an old wayfarer, ragged and infirm, leaning heavily upon his stick, and followed closely by a little sheep. When I spoke to the old fellow, the sheep paused too, and looked up in my face like a dog; and when its master held out his brown withered hand, ran up to place a warm nose lovingly within it.

The poor man who "had nothing save one little ewe lamb, which he nourished, and which lay in his bosom, and which was unto him as a daughter," is a well-known character in Corsica, where tame sheep often take the place of dogs, and are domestic favourites.

In Bastia I have seen a sheep walking leisurely down the pavement of the street, looking in at doorways and sniffing here and there quite at his ease, and quite disregarded, finally lying down in the sun to sleep upon the public pathway. And I remember one handsome sheep at Ajaccio that amused us greatly by its climbing powers.

We had strayed out upon the shore a mile or two from the town, and were sitting down to rest by the sea, when a very grand coastguardsman passed us. His real motive was evidently curiosity, but his feigned one was expressed by the telescope in his hand, carrying which he mounted a ridge of rock hard by, to gaze out upon the unbroken horizon.

The gold braid on his black and white uniform was fresh and telling; and the tame sheep which followed his every footstep was as white as snow.

When the coastguardsman paused, the little sheep paused; wherever he went upon the slippery seaweed-covered rocks dashed with spray, there followed she; and, when he was about to pass us, she stared for a moment with frightened air, and then, with a little cry, tucked herself close to her master's side until we were left behind.

Nearly all these Bonifacio people were civil and friendly, touching their caps and wishing us good evening.

Military and naval uniforms gave the streets a gay air, and the inhabitants appeared of a less solemn disposition than most Corsicans.

During the whole of our visit to the island, I never heard but one man (or boy) whistle, out of Bastia, Ajaccio, and Bonifacio; and in the villages nothing but chorus singing is heard, and that of the most dismal kind, and but rarely.

But here in Bonifacio, children, and even men, might be heard singing gay military airs about the streets.

The Hotel du Nord gave us a terrible shock. How it ever got itself christened "hotel," even in Corsica, is a mystery to me.

The little stony street which led up to it was so steep and so narrow that we and our packages had to leave the carriage at the bottom, and climb up to the broken hovel-like doorway, which a swinging board informed our astonished eyes was the "Entrance to the Hotel."

A stone step down into the darkness revealed before us a narrow, creaking, wooden staircase, up which we went wondering, preceded by the polite maÎtre d'hôtel. A door then opened on a little wooden landing, and showed a long dark room, kitchen and salle à manger in one, in which were already seated a good many Bonifacians, drinking red wine and smoking cheap tobacco.

Through this room and its astonished inmates, we were led into two little apartments, each containing a bed, one of which was screened off so as to make the larger room a sitting-room.

This was all the accommodation to be had; but a third room was promised in another house for No. 2, "when the military gentleman now occupying it should have departed," which he had promised to do before evening.

It seemed incredible that there should be no better inn at a place like Bonifacio, one of the five principal towns in the island; but so it was; though the excellent fare and unceasing care and attention of the active little landlord deserved every commendation.

This man's French was most extraordinary, and had it not been that he took such evident pride in its display, we should have informed him that his Italian was the more comprehensible; but his kindness was excessive and his charges most moderate.

He was particularly anxious to impress upon us the fact that a handsome house, now building in the main street, was his new hotel, which would be opened by next summer, so that we should have very different accommodation on our next visit.

He also insisted strongly upon the cleanliness of his house, and his knowledge of the English prejudices against creeping beasts.

"Mesdames," said he, emphatically, "pour chaque punaise que vous trauverez ce soir, vous pourrez me donner un soufflet demain matin!"

With which handsome offer he led the way to the house, a few doors lower down the street, where was the "extra apartment," making many apologies as to its present state of untidiness, which would be remedied directly.

Any place more cut-throat-looking than this room I never saw. It was a sort of long low garret at the very top of an apparently deserted house, up four or five flights of wooden stairs, and led out of another lumber garret, as bare and unfurnished as itself.

"Don't sleep here," said No. 3; "you will dream of brigands all night!"

"You will be choked with dust, and devoured by fleas," said No. 1.

"I hope they will clean it out," said No. 2, whose nerves were brigand-proof; "and I hope the house won't catch fire. But I shall sleep here."

Our polite little landlord was right as to his immunity from the worst of nocturnal horrors. But he had been wary in omitting fleas from his penalty of a box on the ear!

"Well, how did you sleep, mesdames?" he asked, as he brought us our breakfast at eight o'clock next morning.

"Very well," said two of us.

"Ah!" he replied, triumphantly, "I told you my house was clean!"

"But," said the third, quietly, "twenty-seven fleas are a good many to catch at one sitting!"

The poor man's face fell. "Ah, peste!" said he, with a vexed air; "that militaire kept three dogs in his room. What is a man to do?"

As for me, the beauty of the night alone prevented my sleeping. It seemed a shame to be lying idly dreaming when the clear moonlight outside was lighting up such weird beauties of nature.

My little window looked down from the very summit of the citadel rock, over perpendicular chalk cliffs, upon the dashing waves far, far beneath, where by daylight I had watched them playing over malachite stones and purple seaweed.

All around stretched the bay, the chalk cliffs, and little detached stacks, grooved and hollowed by the wasting waters; and the long promontory, edged by black rocks, jutting out into distant depths of blue Mediterranean. On this promontory stood a signal-house, and a lighthouse; and at the extreme end of it was a curious natural rock, shaped like a broad watch-tower, with pagoda roof.

But now, the bright moonlight shone on a black sea lit up by silver crests, and golden gleams from the distant lighthouse threw strange lights across little shadowy bays, whilst the detached rocks stood up like black ghosts raising fantastic heads towards the deep blue sky.

All night long the sea moaned wild music ceaselessly, the rising wind tossing up white jets of spray to catch the silver moonlight, and increasing towards morning into a tempest cry.

CHAPTER VI.
CURIOSITIES OF BONIFACIO.

The history of Bonifacio is rich in stories of romantic sieges and heroic deeds of valour. In 833 a Tuscan Margrave, on his road home from Africa, first built a fortress there, calling it after his own name, Bonifacius; he and his family becoming for nearly a hundred years the feudal lords of Corsica.

In the beginning of the thirteenth century, the Genoese cast a prudent eye towards Bonifacio, and seizing upon it, they raised its almost impregnable fortifications, making it henceforth one of their chief centres.

Special privileges were granted to the citizens, families were brought over from the mainland, and Bonifacio became the first Genoese colony in the island.

For the next four or five hundred years, this great citadel sustained many a furious siege from various outsiders, and from the Corsicans themselves; but always remained faithful to Genoa, and bid defiance to every foe in the conscious strength of its massive bastion walls.

Many a time were the inhabitants brought to death's door by famine; but their marvellous courage and endurance never failed them, and Bonifacio became a byword for impregnability. Often the women, as well as the men, assisted in the defence of the city; and women, children, and old people voluntarily starved themselves, so as to reserve the modicum of food to strengthen the arms of the fighting men.

On one occasion when, blockaded by the Turkish fleet and decimated by famine, they were vainly waiting for the succours for which they had sent, their unfailing spirit inspired them with the notion of a successful ruse.

In the early morning, just before dawn, the enemy encamped outside heard sounds of joy coming from the beleaguered city, shouts raised, drums beating, and bells ringing; and when the sun rose, beheld detachments of foreign soldiers in fresh uniforms walking upon the city walls and filling the streets of the citadel.

That this was the long expected help they could not doubt, although struck dumb with amazement and disgust to find that, under cover of the night, the enemy's forces had been able to land to the relief of the distressed city. It was only after the siege was raised, and the combat had ended in the triumph of the heroic defenders, that they discovered that the supposed foreign battalion was nothing more nor less than the wives and daughters of the citizens, who, in order to intimidate them and attain their own end, had played the part of those allies for whom their heart was sick with waiting.

There was a bright sun and a high gale as Nos. 2 and 3 went out early to inspect some of the curiosities of Bonifacio.

One glance at the foaming, boiling sea, told us that it would be impossible to visit the beautiful marine caverns for which the chalk cliffs are famous, and which lie within a short rowing distance of the town. So we repaired to the celebrated Aragon staircase.

For this purpose we had to seek the barracks, from whence presently issued a guide with a key. Entering through a doorway upon a part of the cliff walled off, we followed to the very edge of the precipice. Not till then did we see, overhanging the angry waves, the rough narrow staircase, cut almost vertically down the face of the rock.

On one side over-arched the chalk cliff, and on the other was a rough wall two or three feet high. If it had not been for this protective wall, we should infallibly have been blown over into the sea, as, frantically clutching our hats in the roaring wind, and leaving our umbrellas at the top, weighted down by stones, we prepared to descend the exceedingly steep and broken one hundred and ninety-four steps.

This staircase, cut out by order of the then King of Aragon (for a long time ally and feudal lord of Bonifacio), between three and four hundred years ago, was intended, it is said, for the approach to his private landing stage; but, at all times, this rocky bay must have been a most unsuitable, difficult place of embarkation for pleasure seekers, and it seems more probable that it was first hastily excavated by the inhabitants for the stealthy receipt of succours by sea.

Anyhow, it is reported to have been useful on many occasions to smugglers; and this seems more than probable from its appearance.

What with wind and steepness, it took us some time to descend, and No. 3 was greatly incensed by the guide's offers of assistance, and his final remark, "Mademoiselle a peur?"

"Do you think," she asked, wrathfully, "that there are no rocks in England? We live in an island, too!"

The little platform of rock at the bottom was raised two or three feet above the level of the waves, and protected in front by a low stone wall, over which surf dashed. Loose rocks of chalk lay all about, and round and over them played the swift water, turning its shallow rapids into richest, clearest green, brown, and orange hues.

Sardinia was pale with the mist of the sirrocco; and the "bouches" between us raged in a storm of white breakers.

On the little plateau below lay a sheet of that surf-loving mauve flower with which the Iles Sanguinaires abound; and also a quantity of a beautiful kind of ice plant, whose pointed, thick, light-green leaves glistened with an infinity of brilliant balls like dew-drops.

After a tedious mount up again to the top of the staircase, and past the barracks, we were conducted to the "Grand Moulin," where, from an artesian well beneath the surface of the sea, water is pumped up to the level of the cliff.

This mill is only used in summer, and waters the gardens of les militaires.

When there is not wind enough to move its sails, four men turn a large iron windlass on a little platform within.

From this platform, on dropping stones, we found that they took sixteen seconds before splashing into the water at the bottom.

Three hundred and sixty steps reach from the land level to the water level; and down these winding stone steps our guide was exceedingly anxious that we should go.

He shut the door, and, carrying a lantern, desired us to follow him into the foul-smelling, dank, gruesome darkness.

But thirty-five steps led to the first platform, and here we struck work, greatly to the man's disgust. But things creeping innumerable bedecked the yellow walls, and monstrous beetles, two inches long, scuttled by; and, with petticoats well tucked up, we retreated upstairs incontinently, notwithstanding our guide's remonstrances, and his assurances that this was far finer than the other staircase, and decidedly the greatest curiosity in Corsica, if not in the world.

Very glad was I to escape from insect clutches, and wander out beyond the town to seek some sketching spot in the open, sweet air.

This I found on a little path overhanging the main road up to the citadel, and cut in the grassy slope of the cliff.

A very difficult position it was to maintain this windy morning, and I really thought sometimes that both I and my juvenile crowd of attendants would be blown bodily over the cliff-side on to the highway far below, to the astonishment of passers-by.

The Bonifacio children I found extremely curious, but withal well-behaved.

Finding that they could not be induced to retire, I made use of them; and one held down the flapping page of my sketch-book, while another held my umbrella over my head. We became very good friends, and they were exceedingly anxious not to intercept my view, but the brisk fire of questioning kept up by them added another difficulty to a rapid sketch.

Garlic and conversation, however, had to be endured, as their politeness did not go the length of making themselves scarce.

Even the offer of a handful of sous as soon as the carriage came up, could not induce them to disperse, notwithstanding the persuasion of one of their number, a pretty boy of about eleven.

Finding that his companions would not move, he turned to me, and took off his cap. "Madame," said he, with the air of a courtier, "I go; not for the sake of sous, but because you desire it. I have tried to make these others come, but they will not."

"Sir," replied I, to the small but courteous Corsican, "you are a gentleman."

And the brown-eyed, dignified boy walked off, not to be seen again.

CHAPTER VII.
A SERMON BY THE WAYSIDE.

We were glad enough to reach Sartene on our return, after a hot and dusty drive.

We had ordered a relay of horses from Ajaccio next day, to meet us half-way between Sartene and the capital, so as to do the whole return distance in two days; and we quite looked forward to our snug little rooms at l'Hotel de l'Univers. But, alas! for the futility of human hopes!

No sooner did "shades of eve prevail, and the moon tell out her wondrous tale," than Nos. 2 and 3 found themselves surrounded by a black and scarabean army. From every direction swarmed these unpleasant visitors in bold assurance, and nothing daunted by the sight of their brethren's corpses upon the polished floor.

In this dilemma we called in the deaf but friendly waiter, who solemnly fetched a dustpan and brush, with which he performed the funeral obsequies of the dead, and the prompt execution of the living.

"You will now sleep well, mesdames," said he, consolingly, but unveraciously; "behold, they are all dead!"

But he mocked us; and another five minutes found us again demanding assistance, whilst, with disturbed faces and gathered up petticoats, we strove to evade the approaching enemy. This time the landlord accompanied the waiter.

"Why do the black beetles come to-night? There were none last time," we asked, reproachfully.

"Voila, mademoiselle, they will come sometimes, and we cannot help it. The kitchen is on this floor, and there has been a spell of hot weather. But they will not hurt you, mademoiselle, they do not bite."

"Ah!" said we, miserably, "you do not know English ladies. They have a horror of creeping beasts. We would rather have something that did bite, than a room full of black beetles."

The fat, good-natured countenance of the portly landlord was filled with compunction at the sight of our distress. He made another tour round our room, and crunched one or two more black beetles. "There will not be many more now, mademoiselle, and indeed they will not hurt you. But shall I have beds made up for you in the sitting-room next door? There might not be so many there."

But this well-meant though useless offer we of course declined; and, with a sympathetic good night on one side, and a melancholy one on the other, the two kindly Corsicans retired.

At half-past five next morning I was awakened by shouts in the street outside my window, and going out into the large stone terrace upon which our windows all opened, I looked down upon a lively scene below.

It was Sunday morning, and had been chosen as inspection day for the gendarmes of Sartene, by a certain M. le general, who was going the round of the island on such duties, and who was stopping at our hotel.

First came the review of the mounted gendarmes, and then of the foot police. These latter were only fifteen in number, but seemed remarkably well up in their drill.

M. le general, capering about on his white horse, was a very gorgeous spectacle. His scarlet cloak was rolled up behind him as a saddle cushion, and his pistol holsters in front were striped black and white, while his own uniform was blue.

The inspection lasted scarcely an hour; but the general's shouts to his small body of soldiers might have been heard a mile off.

It was a lovely sunny morning, and, as we were to leave for Ajaccio at 9 a.m., before eight o'clock No. 3 was out, tearing up the hill towards St. Amiens, with the purpose of sketching one or two of the picturesque wayside tombs which adorned that road.

An early walk on Sunday morning is the time to see the natives in Corsica.

The large church square just beyond the hotel where the gendarmes had been drilled, was full of men, three or four hundred, with, as far as could be seen, not a single woman amongst them; but descending the steep hill from St. Amiens were many neat, black-robed women returning, prayer-book in hand, from early Mass, and all saluting the English lady and her sketch-book with a grave surprised politeness.

Men, women, and children, all riding mules, were also coming in from the country to spend their Sunday in town.

The quiet gravity and the extreme tidiness of these holiday makers struck one forcibly. They all pursued their way in silence, the men usually with spotless white shirts appearing under their velveteen coats, and the younger women with clean, starched, white head-gear; but both men and women totally destitute of either ornament or colour in their dress.

It was a beautiful morning for a sketch, and the interruptions, though many, were not discourteous.

Once No. 3 felt an animal's breath snorting on her neck, and turning round, saw a mule close behind, its rider, gun on back, looking over her shoulder with great interest.

On her saying good morning to the man, he immediately smiled and lifted his cap; and remarking that he wished he knew how to draw, he gave his mule a gentle kick and continued his way.

"Bon jour, mademoiselle," said a bright voice a few minutes later; and, looking up, No. 3 saw an old woman standing before her. She evidently belonged to the lower orders, and was poor, although neatly dressed in a semi-conventual attire of black serge, edged with white, and wearing a long rosary and cross by her side.

She appeared to be very old, and was toothless, and consequently a little difficult to understand, but had an upright carriage, and the sweetest and blithest of old faces.

"Good morning," said No. 3; "you have been to church, I suppose?"

"Of course, mademoiselle. And not you?"

"I do not always go to Mass," replied No. 3; "I am not of your religion."

"No, mademoiselle? Ah! what a pity? You are English, mademoiselle?"

"Yes, madame."

"But they believe in Jesus in your country, do they not, mademoiselle?" said she, innocently.

"And where are you going now?" asked No. 3, when she had satisfied her old friend on this point.

"I? Oh, I am off to visit my 'pauvres,' and my poor dear 'malades.'"

"Do you visit them every Sunday morning?"

"Why, every morning, mademoiselle!"

"But are there many malades in Sartene?"

"Oh yes, mademoiselle. There are always plenty who are sick and suffering, or infirm, or unhappy; and they are glad to see me. They are all good to me, my poor children!"

"But you are so old yourself. Don't you get tired, running about all day like that?"

The old soul laughed merrily.

"I am used to it, mademoiselle, and le bon Dieu has given me strong legs. Sometimes I am tired in the evening; but I am longing to be off again next day. It makes one so happy to feel one can do something for le bon Dieu, though one is old and poor."