sir john constantine. memoirs of his adventures at home and abroad and particularly in the island of corsica: beginning with the year . written by his son prosper paleologus otherwise constantine and edited by "q" (a. t. quiller-couch). "for knighthood is not in the feats of warre, as for to fight in quarrel right or wrong, but in a cause which truth can not defarre he ought himself for to make sure and strong justice to keep mixt with mercy among: and no quarrell a knight ought to take but for a truth, or for a woman's sake." to the reader a hundred and fifty episodes, two sermons, and a number of moral digressions, have been omitted from this story. the late ingenious mr. fett (whose acquaintance you will make in the following pages), having been commissioned by mr. dodsley, the publisher, to write a conspectus of the present state of the arts in italy at two guineas the folio--a fair price for that class of work-- had delivered close upon two hundred folios before mr. dodsley interposed, professing unbounded admiration of the work, its style, and matter, but desiring to know when he might expect the end: "for," said he, "i have other enterprises which will soon be demanding attention, and, as a business-man, i like to make my arrangements in good time." to this mr. fett replied, that he, for his part, being well content with the rate of remuneration, did not propose to end the work at all!--and, the agreement, having unaccountably failed to stipulate for any such thing as a conclusion, mr. dodsley had to compound for one at a crippling price. so this story had, in browning's phrase, "grown old along with me," but for the forethought of messrs. smith, elder and co., in limiting its serial flow to twelve numbers of _the cornhill magazine_ as it is, i have added a few chapters; but a hundred and fifty episodes remain unwritten, with the courtships of mr. priske, and the funeral oration spoken by the rev. mr. grylls over the cenotaph of sir john constantine in constantine parish church. these omissions, however, may be remedied if you will ask the publishers for another edition. now, if it be objected against some of the adventures of sir john constantine that they are extravagant, or against some of his notions that they are fantastic, i answer that this book attempts to describe a man and not one of these calculable little super men who, of late, have been taking up so much more of your attention than they deserve. students who engage in psychical research, as it is called, often confess themselves puzzled by the behaviour of ghosts, it appears to them wayward and trivial. how much more likely are ghosts to be puzzled by the actions of real men? and we are surely ghosts if we keep nothing of the blood which sent our fathers like schoolboys to the crusades. lastly, my friend, if you would know anything of the writer who has so often addressed you under an initial, you may find as much of him here as in any of his books. here is interred part, at any rate, of the soul of the bachelor q, in a book which, though it tell of adventures, i would ask you not to disdain, though you be a boy no longer. an acquaintance of mine near the land's end had a remarkably fine tree of apples--to be precise, of cox's orange pippins--and one night was robbed of the whole of them. but what, think you, had the thief left behind him, at the foot of the tree? why, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. arthur t. quiller-couch. the haven, fowey, october st, . contents chapter. i. of the lineage and condition of sir john constantine. ii. i ride on a pilgrimage. iii. i acquire a kingdom. iv. long vacation. v. the silent men. vi. how my father out of nothing built an army, and in five minutes planned an invasion. vii. the company of the rose. viii. tribulations of a mayor. ix. i enlist an army. x. of the discourse held on board the "gauntlet". xi. we fall in with a sallee rover. xii. how we landed on the island. xiii. how, without fighting, our army wasted by enchantment. xiv. how by means of her wine i came to circe. xv. i become hostage to princess camilla. xvi. the forest hut. xvii. the first challenge. xviii. the tender mercies of prince camillo. xix. how marc'antonio nuresd me and gave me counsel. xx. i learn of liberty, and am restored to it. xxi. of my father's anabasis; and the different tempers of an english gentleman and a wild sheep of corsica. xxii. the great adventure. xxiii. ordeal and choosing. xxiv. the wooing of princess camilla. xxv. my wedding day. xxvi. the flame and the altar. xxvii. my mistress re-enlists me. xxviii. genoa. xxix. vendetta. xxx. the summit and the stars. postscript. sir john constantine. chapter i. of the lineage and condition of sir john constantine. "i have laboured to make a covenant with myself, that affection may not press upon judgment: for i suppose there is no man, that hath any apprehension of gentry or nobleness, but his affection stands to a continuance of a noble name and house, and would take hold of a twig or twine-thread to uphold it: and yet time hath his revolution, there must be a period and an end of all temporal things, _finis rerum_, an end of names and dignities and whatsoever is terrene. . . . for where is bohun? where is mowbray? where is mortimer? nay, which is more and most of all, where is plantagenet? they are intombed in the urns and sepulchres of mortality."--_lord chief justice crewe_. my father, sir john constantine of constantine, in the county of cornwall, was a gentleman of ample but impoverished estates, who by renouncing the world had come to be pretty generally reputed a madman. this did not affect him one jot, since he held precisely the same opinion of his neighbours--with whom, moreover, he continued on excellent terms. he kept six saddle horses in a stable large enough for a regiment of cavalry; a brace of setters and an infirm spaniel in kennels which had sometime held twenty couples of hounds; and himself and his household in a wing of his great mansion, locking off the rest, with its portraits and tapestries, cases of books, and stands of antique arms, to be a barrack for the mice. this household consisted of his brother-in-law, gervase (a bachelor of punctual habits but a rambling head); a butler, billy priske; a cook, mrs. nance, who also looked after the housekeeping; two serving-maids; and, during his holidays, the present writer. my mother (an arundell of trerice) had died within a year after giving me birth; and after a childhood which lacked playmates, indeed, but was by no means neglected or unhappy, my father took me to winchester college, his old school, to be improved in those classical studies which i had hitherto followed desultorily under our vicar, mr. grylls, and there entered me as a commoner in the house of dr. burton, head-master. i had spent almost four years at winchester at the date (midsummer, ) when this story begins. to return to my father. he was, as the world goes, a mass of contrarieties. a thorough englishman in the virtues for which foreigners admire us, and in the extravagance at which they smile, he had never even affected an interest in the politics over which englishmen grow red in the face; and this in his youth had commended him to walpole, who had taken him up and advanced him as well for his abilities, address, and singularly fine presence as because his estate then seemed adequate to maintain him in any preferment. again walpole's policy abroad--which really treated warfare as the evil it appears in other men's professions--condemned my father, a born soldier, to seek his line in diplomacy; wherein he had no sooner built a reputation by services at two or three of the italian courts than, with a knighthood in hand and an ambassadorship in prospect, he suddenly abandoned all, cast off the world, and retired into cornwall, to make a humdrum marriage and practise fishing for trout. the reason of it none knew, or how his estate had come to be impoverished, as beyond doubt it was. here again he showed himself unlike the rest of men, in that he let the stress of poverty fall first upon himself, next upon his household, last of all upon his tenants and other dependants. after my mother's death he cut down his own charges (the cellar only excepted) to the last penny, shut himself off in a couple of rooms, slept in a camp bed, wore an old velveteen coat in winter and in summer a fisherman's smock, ate frugally, and would have drunk beer or even water had not his stomach abhorred them both. of wine he drank in moderation--that is to say, for him, since his temperance would have sent nine men out of ten under the table--and of the best. he had indeed a large and obstinate dignity in his drinking. it betrayed, even as his carriage betrayed beneath his old coat, a king in exile. yet while he pinched himself with these economies, he drew no strings--or drew them tenderly--upon the expenses and charities of a good landlord. the fences rotted around his own park and pleasure-grounds, but his tenants' fences, walls, roofs stood in more than moderate repair, nor (although my uncle gervase groaned over the accounts) would an abatement of rent be denied, the appeal having been weighed and found to be reasonable. the rain--which falls alike upon the just and the unjust--beat through his own roof, but never through the labourer's thatch; and mrs. nance, the cook, who hated beggars, might not without art and secrecy dismiss a single beggar unfed. his religion he told to no man, but believed the practice of worship to be good for all men, and regularly encouraged it by attending church on sundays and festivals. he and the vicar ruled our parish together in amity, as fellow-christians and rival anglers. now, all these apparent contrarieties in my father flowed in fact from a very rare simplicity, and this simplicity again had its origin in his lineage, which was something more than royal. on the cornish shore of the tamar river, which divides cornwall from devon, and a little above saltash, stands the country church of landulph, so close by the water that the high tides wash by its graveyard wall. within the church you will find a mural tablet of brass thus inscribed-- "here lyeth the body of theodoro paleologvs of pesaro in italye, descended from ye imperyall lyne of ye last christian emperors of greece being the sonne of camilio ye sonne of prosper the sonne of theodoro the sonne of john ye sonne of thomas second brother to constantine paleologvs, the th of that name and last of yt lyne yt raygned in constantinople vntill svbdewed by the tvrks who married with mary ye davghter of william balls of hadlye in svffolke gent & had issve children theodoro john ferdinando maria & dorothy & dep'ted this life at clyfton ye th of ianvary " above these words the tablet bears an eagle engraved with two heads, and its talons resting upon two gates of rome and constantinople, with (for difference) a crescent between the gates, and over all an imperial crown. in truth this exile buried by tamar drew his blood direct from the loins of the great byzantine emperors, through that thomas of whom mahomet ii. said, "i have found many slaves in peloponnesus, but this man only:" and from theodore, through his second son john, came the constantines of constantine--albeit with a bar sinister, of which my father made small account. i believe he held privately that a constantine, _de stirpe imperatorum_, had no call to concern himself with petty ceremonies of this or that of the church's offshoots to legitimize his blood. at any rate no bar sinister appeared on the imperial escutcheon repeated, with quarterings of arundel, mohun, grenville, nevile, archdeckne, courtney, and, again, arundel, on the wainscots and in the windows of constantine, usually with the legend _dabit devs his qvoqve finem_, but twice or thrice with a hopefuller one, _generis revocemvs honores_. knowing him to be thus descended, you could recognize in all my father said or did a large simplicity as of the earlier gods, and a dignity proper to a king as to a beggar, but to no third and mean state. a child might beard him, but no man might venture a liberty with him or abide the rare explosions of his anger. you might even, upon long acquaintance, take him for a great, though mad, englishman, and trust him as an englishman to the end; but the soil of his nature was that which grows the vine--volcanic, breathing through its pores a hidden heat to answer the sun's. whether or no there be in man a faith to remove mountains, there is in him (and it may come to the same thing) a fire to split them, and anon to clothe the bare rock with tendrils and soft-scented blooms. in person my father stood six feet five inches tall, and his shoulders filled a doorway. his head was large and shapely, and he carried it with a very noble poise; his face a fine oval, broad across the brow and ending in a chin at once delicate and masterful; his nose slightly aquiline; his hair--and he wore his own, tied with a ribbon--of a shining white. his cheeks were hollow and would have been cadaverous but for their hue, a sanguine brown, well tanned by out-of-door living. his eyes, of an iron-grey colour, were fierce or gentle as you took him, but as a rule extraordinarily gentle. he would walk you thirty miles any day without fatigue, and shoot you a woodcock against any man; but as an angler my uncle gervase beat him. he spoke italian as readily as english; french and the modern greek with a little more difficulty; and could read in greek, latin, and spanish. his books were the "meditations" of the emperor marcus aurelius, and dante's "divine comedy," with the "aeneis," ariosto, and some old spanish romances next in order. i do not think he cared greatly for any english writers but donne and izaak walton, of whose "angler" and "life of sir henry wotton" he was inordinately fond. in particular he admired the character of this sir henry wotton, singling him out among "the famous nations of the dead" (as sir thomas browne calls them) for a kind of posthumous friendship--nay, almost a passion of memory. to be sure, though with more than a hundred years between them, both had been bred at winchester, and both had known courts and embassies and retired from them upon private life. . . . but who can explain friendship, even after all the essays written upon it? certainly to be friends with a dead man was to my father a feat neither impossible nor absurd. yet he possessed two dear living friends at least in my uncle gervase and mr. grylls, and had even dedicated a temple to their friendship. it stood about half a mile away from the house, at the foot of the old deer-park: a small ionic summer-house set on a turfed slope facing down a dell upon the helford river. a spring of water, very cold and pure, rose bubbling a few paces from the porch and tumbled down the dell with a pretty chatter. tradition said that it had once been visited and blessed by st. swithun, for which cause my father called his summer-house by the saint's name, and annually on his festival (which falls on the th of july) caused wine and dessert to be carried out thither, where the three drank to their common pastime and discoursed of it in the cool of the evening within earshot of the lapsing water. on many other evenings they met to smoke their pipes here, my father and mr. grylls playing at chequers sometimes, while my uncle wrapped and bent, till the light failed him, new trout flies for the next day's sport; but to keep st. swithun's feast they never omitted, which my father commemorated with a tablet set against the back wall and bearing these lines-- "peace to this house within this little wood, named of st. swithun and his brotherhood that here would meet and punctual on his day their heads and hands and hearts together lay. nor may no years the mem'ries three untwine of grylls w.g. and arundell g.a. and constantine j.c. anno flvmina amem silvasqve inglorivs." of these two friends of my father i shall speak in their proper place, but have given up this first chapter to him alone. my readers maybe will grumble that it omits to tell what they would first choose to learn: the reason why he had exchanged fame and the world for a cornish exile. but as yet he only--and perhaps my uncle gervase, who kept the accounts--held the key to that secret. chapter ii. i ride on a pilgrimage. "_heus rogere! fer caballos; eja, nunc eamus!" domum. at winchester, which we boys (though we fared hardly) never doubted to be the first school in the world, as it was the most ancient in england, we had a song we called _domum_: and because our common pride in her--as the best pride will--belittled itself in speech, i trust that our song honoured saint mary of winton the more in that it celebrated only the joys of leaving her. the tale went, it had been composed (in latin, too) by a boy detained at school for a punishment during the summer holidays. another fable improved on this by chaining him to a tree. a third imprisoned him in cloisters whence, through the arcades and from the ossuaries of dead fellows and scholars, he poured out his soul to the swallows haunting the green garth-- "jam repetit domum daulias advena, nosque domum repetamus." whatever its origin, our custom was to sing it as the holidays-- especially the summer holidays--drew near, and to repeat it as they drew nearer, until every voice was hoarse. as i remember, we kept up this custom with no decrease of fervour through the heats of june , though they were such that our _hostiarius_ dr. warton, then a new broom, swept us out of school and for a fortnight heard our books (as the old practice had been) in cloisters, where we sat upon cool stone and in the cool airs, and between our tasks watched the swallows at play. nevertheless we panted, until evening released us to wander forth along the water-meadows by itchen and bathe, and, having bathed, to lie naked amid the mints and grasses for a while before returning in the twilight. this bathing went on, not in one or two great crowds, but in groups, and often in pairs only, scattered along the river-bank almost all the way to hills; it being our custom again at winchester (and i believe it still continues) to _socius_ or walk with one companion; and only at one or two favoured pools would several of these couples meet together for the sport. on the evening of which i am to tell, my companion was a boy named fiennes, of about my own age, and we bathed alone, though not far away to right and left the bank teemed with outcries and laughter and naked boys running all silvery as their voices in the dusk. with all this uproar the trout of itchen, as you may suppose, had gone into hiding; but doubtless some fine fellows lay snug under the stones, and--the stream running shallow after the heats--as we stretched ourselves on the grass fiennes challenged me to tickle for one; it may be because he had heard me boast of my angling feats at home. there seemed a likely pool under the farther bank; convenient, except that to take up the best position beside it i must get the level sun full in my face. i crept across, however, fiennes keeping silence, laid myself flat on my belly, and peered down into the pool, shading my eyes with one hand. for a long while i saw no fish, until the sun-rays, striking aslant, touched the edge of a golden fin very prettily bestowed in a hole of the bank and well within an overlap of green weed. now and again the fin quivered, but for the most part my gentleman lay quiet as a stone, head to stream, and waited for relief from these noisy wykehamists. experience, perhaps, had taught him to despise them; at any rate, when gently--very gently--i lowered my hand and began to tickle, he showed neither alarm nor resentment. "is it a trout?" demanded fiennes, in an excited whisper from the farther shore. but of course i made no answer, and presently i supposed that he must have crept off to his clothes, for some way up the stream i heard the second master's voice warning the bathers to dress and return, and with his usual formula, _ite domum saturae, venit hesperus, ite capelloe! being short-sighted, he missed to spy me, and i felt, rather than saw or heard, him pass on; for with one hand i yet shaded my eyes while with the other i tickled. yet another two minutes went by, and then with a jerk i had my trout, my thumb and forefinger deep under his gills; brought down my other clutch upon him and, lifting, flung him back over me among the meadow grass, my posture being such that i could neither hold him struggling nor recover my own balance save by rolling sideways over on my shoulder-pin; which i did, and, running to him where he gleamed and doubled, flipping the grasses, caught him in both hands and held him aloft. but other voices than fiennes' answered my shout over the river-- voices that i knew, though they belonged not to this hour nor to this place; and blinking against the sun, now sinning level across lavender meads, i was aware of two tall figures standing dark against it, and of a third and shorter one between whose legs it poured in gold as through a natural arch. sure no second man in england wore billy priske's legs! then, and while i stood amazed, my father's voice and my uncle gervase's called to me together: and gulping down all wonder, possessed with love only and a wild joy--but yet grasping my fish-- i splashed across the shallows and up the bank, and let my father take me naked to his heart. "so, lad," said he, after a moment, thrusting me a little back by the shoulders (while i could only sob), and holding me so that the sun fell full on me, "dost truly love me so much?" "clivver boy, clivver boy!" said the voice of billy priske. "lord, now, what things they do teach here beside the latin!" the rogue said it, as i knew, to turn my father's suspicion, having himself taught me the poacher's trick. but my uncle gervase, whose mind moved as slowly as it was easily diverted, answered with gravity-- "it is hard knowing what may or may not be useful in after life, seeing that god in his wisdom hides what that life is to be." "very true," agreed my father, with a twinkle, and took snuff. "but--but what brings you here?" cried i, with a catch of the breath, ignoring all this. "nevertheless, such comely lads as they be," my uncle continued, "god will doubtless bring them to good. comelier lads, brother, i never saw, nor, i think, the sun never shined on; yet there was one, at the bowls yonder, was swearing so it grieved me to the heart." "put on your clothes, boy," said my father, answering me. "we have ridden far, but we bring no ill news; and to-morrow--i have the head-master's leave for it--you ride on with us to london." "to london!" my heart gave another great leap, as every boy's must on hearing that he is to see london for the first time. but here we all turned at a cry from billy priske, between whose planted ankles master fiennes had mischievously crept and was measuring the span between with extended thumb and little finger. my father stooped, haled him to his feet by the collar, and demanded what he did. "why, sir, he's a colossus!" quoted that nimble youth; "'and we petty men walk under his huge legs and peer about--'" "and will find yourself a dishonourable grave," my father capped him. "what's your name, boy?" "fiennes, sir; nathaniel fiennes." the lad saluted. my father lifted his hat in answer. "founder's kin?" "i am here on that condition, sir." "then you are kinsman, as well as namesake, of him who saved our wykeham's tomb in the parliament troubles. i felicitate you, sir, and retract my words, for by that action of your kinsman's shall the graves of all his race and name be honoured." young fiennes bowed. "compliments fly, sir, when gentlemen meet. but"--and he glanced over his shoulder and rubbed the small of his back expressively, "as a wykehamist, you will not have me late at names-calling." "go, boy, and answer to yours; they can call no better one." my father dipped a hand in his pocket. "i may not invite you to breakfast with us to-morrow, for we start early; and you will excuse me if i sin against custom. . . . it was esteemed a laudable practice in my time." a gold coin passed. "_et in saecula saeculo--o--rum. amen!_" master fiennes spun the coin, pocketed it, and went off whistling schoolwards over the meads. my father linked his arm in mine and we followed, i asking, and the three of them answering, a hundred questions of home. but why, or on what business, we were riding to london on the morrow my father would not tell. "nay, lad," said he, "take your bible and read that isaac asked no questions on the way to moriah." "my uncle, who overheard this, considered it for a while, and said-- "the difference is that you are not going to sacrifice prosper." the three were to lie that night at the george inn, where they had stabled their horses; and at the door of the head-master's house, where we commoners lodged, they took leave of me, my father commending me to god and good dreams. that they were happy ones i need not tell. he was up and abroad early next morning, in time to attend chapel, where by the vigour of his responses he set the nearer boys tittering; two of whom i afterwards fought for it, though with what result i cannot remember. the service, which we urchins heeded little, left him pensive as we walked together towards the inn, and he paused once or twice, with eyes downcast on the cobbles, and muttered to himself. "i am striving to recollect my morning lines, lad," he confessed at length, with a smile; "and thus, i think, they go. the great sir henry wotton, you have heard me tell of, in the summer before his death made a journey hither to winchester; and as he returned towards eton he said to a friend that went with him: 'how useful was that advice of an old monk that we should perform our devotions in a constant place, because we so meet again with the very thoughts which possessed us at our last being there.' and, as walton tells, 'i find it,'" he said, "'thus far experimentally true, that at my now being in that school and seeing that very place where i sat when i was a boy occasioned me to remember those very thoughts of my youth which then possessed me: sweet thoughts indeed--'" here my father paused. "let me be careful, now. i should be perfect in the words, having read them more than a hundred times. 'sweet thoughts indeed,'" said he, "'that promised my growing years numerous pleasures, without mixture of cares; and those to be enjoyed when time--which i therefore thought slow-paced--had changed my youth into manhood. but age and experience have taught me these were but empty hopes, for i have always found it true, as my saviour did foretell, _sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof_. nevertheless, i saw there a succession of boys using the same recreations, and, questionless, possessed with the same thoughts that then possessed me. thus one generation succeeds another, both in their lives, recreations, hopes, fears, and death.'" "but i would not have you, lad," he went on, "to pay too much heed to these thoughts, which will come to you in time, for as yet you are better without 'em. nor were they my only thoughts: for having brought back my own sacrifice, which i had sometime hoped might be so great, but now saw to be so little, at that moment i looked down to your place in chapel and perceived that i had brought belike the best offering of all. so my hope--thank god!--sprang anew as i saw you there standing vigil by what bright armour you guessed not, nor in preparation for what high warfare." he laid a hand on my shoulder. "your chapel to-day, child, has been the longer by a sermon. there, there! forget all but the tail on't." we rode out of winchester with a fine clatter, all four of us upon hired nags, the cornish horses being left in the stables to rest; and after crossing the hog's back, baited at guildford. a thunderstorm in the night had cleared the weather, which, though fine, was cooler, with a brisk breeze playing on the uplands; and still as we went my spirits sang with the larks overhead, so blithe was i to be sitting in saddle instead of at a scob, and riding to london between the blown scents of hedgerow and hayfield and beanfield, all fragrant of liberty yet none of them more delicious to a boy than the mingled smell of leather and horseflesh. billy priske kept up a chatter beside me like a brook's. he had never till now been outside of cornwall but in a fishing-boat, and though he had come more than two hundred miles each new prospect was a marvel to him. my father told me that, once across the tamar ferry, being told that he was now in devonshire, he had sniffed and observed the air to be growing "fine and stuffy;" and again, near holt forest, where my father announced that we were crossing the border between hampshire and surrey, he drew rein and sat for a moment looking about him and scratching his head. "the lord's ways be past finding out," he murmured. "not so much as a post!" "why _should_ there be a post?" demanded my uncle. "why, sir, for the men of hampshire and the men of surrey to fight over and curse one another by on ash wednesdays. but where there's no landmark a plain man can't remove it, and where he can't remove it i don't see how he can be cursed for it." "'twould be a great inconvenience, as you say, billy, if, for the sake of argument, the men of hampshire wanted to curse the men of surrey." "they couldn't do it"--billy shook his head--"for the sake of argument or any other sake; and therefore i say, though not one to dictate to the lord, that if a river can't be managed hereabouts-- and, these two not being devon and cornwall, a whole river might be overdoing things--there ought to be some little matter of a trout-stream, or at the least a notice-board." "the fellow's right," said my father. "man would tire too soon of his natural vices; so we invent new ones for him by making laws and boundaries." "surely and virtues too," suggested my uncle, as we rode forward again. "you will not deny that patriotism is a virtue?" "not i," said my father; "nor that it is the finest invention of all." i remember the hog's back and the breeze blowing there because on the highest rise we came on a gibbet and rode around it to windward on the broad turfy margin of the road; and also because the sight put my father in mind of a story which he narrated on the way down to guildford. the story of our lady of the rosary. "it is told," began my father, "in a sermon of the famous vieyras--" "for what was he famous?" asked my uncle. "for being a priest, and yet preaching so good a sermon on love. it is told in it that in the kingdom of valencia there lived an hidalgo, young and rich, who fell in love with a virtuous lady, ill treated by her husband: and she with him, howbeit without the least thought of evil. but, as evil suspects its like, so this husband doubted the fidelity which was his without his deserving, and laid a plot to be revenged. on the pretext of the summer heats he removed with his household to a country house; and there one day he entered a room where his wife sat alone, turned the key, and, drawing out a dagger, ordered her to write what he should dictate. she, being innocent, answered him that there was no need of daggers, but she would write, as her duty was, what he commanded: which was, a letter to the young hidalgo telling him that her husband had left home on business; that if her lover would come, she was ready to welcome him; and that, if he came secretly the next night, he would find the garden gate open, and a ladder placed against the window. this she wrote and signed, seeing no escape; and, going to her own room, commended her fears and her weakness to the virgin. "the young hidalgo, on receiving the letter (very cautiously delivered), could scarcely believe his bliss, but prepared, as you will guess, to embrace it. having dressed himself with care, at the right hour he mounted his horse and rode out towards his lady's house. now, he was a devout youth, as youths go, and on his way he remembered--which was no little thing on such an occasion--that since morning he had not said over his rosary as his custom was. so he began to tell it bead by bead, when a voice near at hand said 'halt, cavalier!' he drew his sword and peered around him in the darkness, but could see no one, and was fumbling his rosary again when again the voice spoke, saying, 'look up, cavalier!' and looking up, he beheld against the night a row of wayside gibbets, and rode in among them to discover who had called him. to his horror one of the malefactors hanging there spoke down to him, begging to be cut loose; 'and,' said the poor wretch, 'if you will light the heap of twigs at your feet and warm me by it, your charity shall not be wasted.' for christian charity then the youth, having his sword ready, cut him down, and the gallows knave fell on his feet and warmed himself at the lit fire. 'and now,' said he, being warmed, 'you must take me up behind your saddle; for there is a plot laid to-night from which i only can deliver you.' so they mounted and rode together to the house, where, having entered the garden by stealth, they found the ladder ready set. 'you must let me climb first,' said the knave; and had no sooner reached the ladder's top than two or three pistol shots were fired upon him from the window and as many hands reached out and stabbed him through and through until he dropped into the ditch; whence, however, he sprang on his feet, and catching our hidalgo by the arm hurried him back through the garden to the gate where his horse stood tethered. there they mounted and rode away into safety, the dead behind the living. 'all this is enchantment to me,' said the youth as they went. 'but i must thank you, my friend; for whether dead or alive--and to my thinking you must be doubly dead-- you have rendered me a great service.' 'you may say a mass for me, and thank you,' the dead man answered; 'but for the service you must thank the mother of god, who commanded me and gave me power to deliver you, and has charged me to tell you the reason of her kindness: which is, that every day you say her rosary.' 'i do thank her and bless her then,' replied the youth, 'and henceforth will i say her rosary not once daily but thrice, for that she hath preserved my life to-night.'" "a very proper resolution," said my uncle. "and i hope, sir, he kept it," chimed in billy priske; "good protestant though i be." "the story is not ended," said my father. "the dead man--they were dismounted now and close under the gallows--looked at the young man angrily, and said he, 'i doubt our lady's pains be wasted, after all. is it possible, sir, you think she sent me to-night to save your life?' 'for what else?' inquired the youth. 'to save your soul, sir, and your lady's; both of which (though you guessed not or forgot it) stood in jeopardy just now, so that the gate open to you was indeed the gate of hell. pray hang me back as you found me," he concluded, 'and go your ways for a fool.'" "now see what happened. the murderers in the house, coming down to bury the body and finding it not, understood that the young man had not come alone; from which they reasoned that his servants had carried him off and would publish the crime. they therefore, with their master, hurriedly fled out of the country. the lady betook herself to a religious house, where in solitude questioning herself she found that in will, albeit not in act, she had been less than faithful. as for the hidalgo, he rode home and shut himself within doors, whence he came forth in a few hours as a man from a sepulchre--which, indeed, to his enemies he evidently was when they heard that he was abroad and unhurt whom they had certainly stabbed to death; and to his friends almost as great a marvel when they perceived the alteration of his life; yea, and to himself the greatest of all, who alone knew what had passed, and, as by enchantment his life had taken this turn, so spent its remainder like a man enchanted rather than converted. i am told," my father concluded, "though the sermon says nothing about it, that he and the lady came in the end, and as by an accident, to be buried side by side, at a little distance, in the chapel of our lady of succour in the cathedral church of valencia, and there lie stretched--two parallels of dust--to meet only at the resurrection when the desires of all dust shall be purged away." with this story my father beguiled the road down into guildford, and of his three listeners i was then the least attentive. years afterwards, as you shall learn, i had reason to remember it. at guildford, where we fed ourselves and hired a relay of horses, i took billy aside and questioned him (forgetting the example of isaac) why we were going to london and on what business. he shook his head. "squire knows," said he. "as for me, a still tongue keeps a wise head, and moreover i know not. bain't it enough for 'ee to be quit of school and drinking good ale in the kingdom o' guildford? very well, then." "still, one cannot help wondering," said i, half to myself; but billy dipped his face stolidly within his pewter. "the last friend a man should want to take up with is his future," said he, sagely. "i knows naught about en but what's to his discredit--as that i shall die sooner or later, a thing that goes against my stomach; or that at the best i shall grow old, which runs counter to my will. he's that uncomfortable, too, you can't please him. take him hopeful, and you're counting your chickens; take him doleful, and foreboding is worse than witchcraft. there was a mevagissey man i sailed with as a boy--and your father's tale just now put me in mind of him--paid half a crown to a conjurer, one time, to have his fortune told; which was, that he would marry the ugliest maid in the parish. whereby it preyed on his mind till he hanged hisself. whereby along comes the woman in the nick o' time, cuts him down, an' marries him out o' pity while he's too weak to resist. that's your future; and, as i say, i keeps en at arm's length." with this philosophy of billy i had to be content and find my own guesses at the mystery. but as the afternoon wore on i kept no hold on any speculation for more than a few minutes. i was saddle-weary, drowsed with sunburn and the moving landscape over which the sun, when i turned, swam in a haze of dust. the villages crowded closer, and at the entry of each i thought london was come; but anon the houses thinned and dwindled and we were between hedgerows again. so it lasted, village after village, until with the shut of night, when the long shadows of our horses before us melted into dusk, a faint glow opened on the sky ahead and grew and brightened. i knew it: but even as i saluted it my chin dropped forward and i dozed. in a dream i rode through the lighted streets, and at the door of our lodgings my father lifted me down from the saddle. chapter iii. i acquire a kingdom. "_gloucester_. the trick of that voice i do well remember: is't not the king?" "_lear_. ay, every inch a king." _king lear_. from our lodgings, which were in bond street, we sallied forth next morning to view the town; my father leading us first by way of st. james's and across the park to the abbey, and on the way holding discourse to which i recalled myself with difficulty from london's shows and wonders--his majesty's tall guards at the palace gates, the gorgeous promenaders in the mall, the swans and wild fowl on the lake. "i wish you to remark, my dear child," said he, "that between a capital and solitude there is no third choice; nor, i would add, can a mind extract the best of solitude unless it bring urbanity to the wilderness. your rustic is no philosopher, and your provincial townsman is the devil: if you would meditate in arden, your company must be the duke, jaques, touchstone--courtiers all--or, again, rosalind, the duke's daughter, if you would catch the very mood of the forest. i tell you this, child, that you may not be misled by my example (which has a reason of its own and, i trust, an excuse) into shunning your destiny though it lead and keep you in cities and among crowds; for we have it on the word of no less busy a man than the emperor marcus aurelius that to seek out private retiring-rooms for the soul such as country villages, the sea-shore, mountains, is but a mistaken simplicity, seeing that at what time soever a man will it is in his power to retire into himself and be at rest, dwelling within the walls of a city as in a shepherd's fold of the mountain. so also the sainted juan de avila tells us that a man who trusts in god may, if he take pains, recollect god in streets and public places better than will a hermit in his cell; and the excellent archbishop of cambrai, writing to the countess of gramont, counselled her to practise recollection and give a quiet thought to god at dinner times in a lull of the conversation, or again when she was driving or dressing or having her hair arranged; these hindrances (said he) profited more than any _engouement_ of devotion. "but," he went on, "to bear yourself rightly in a crowd you must study how one crowd differs from another, and how in one city you may have that great orderly movement of life (whether of business or of pleasure) which is the surrounding joy of princes in their palaces, and an insensate mob, which is the most brutal and vilest aspect of man. for as in a thronged street you may learn the high meaning of citizenship, so in a mob you may unlearn all that makes a man dignified. yet even the mob you should study in a capital, as shakespeare did in his 'julius caesar' and 'coriolanus;' for only so can you know it in its quiddity. i conjure you, child, to get your sense of men from their capital cities." he had something to tell of almost every great house we passed. he seemed--he that had saluted no one as we crossed the mall, saluted of none--to walk this quarter of london with a proprietary tread; and by and by, coming to the river, he waved an arm and broke into panegyric. "other capitals have had their turn, and others will overtake and outstrip her; but where is one in these times to compare with london? where in europe will you see streets so well ordered, squares so spacious, houses so comfortable, yet elegant, as in this mile east and south of hyde park? where such solid, self-respecting wealth as in our city? where such merchant-princes and adventurers as your whittingtons and greshams? where half its commerce? and where a commerce touched with one tithe of its imagination? where such a river, for trade as for pageants? on what other shore two buildings side by side so famous, the one for just laws, civil security, liberty with obedience, the other for heroic virtues resumed, with their propagating dust, into the faith which sowed all and, having reaped, renews?" in the abbey--where my uncle gervase was forced to withdraw behind a pillar and rub billy priske's neck, which by this time had a crick in it--my father's voice, as he moved from tomb to tomb, deepened to a regal solemnity. he repeated beaumont's great lines-- "mortality, behold and fear! what a change of flesh is here!" laying a hand on my shoulder the while; and in the action i understood that this and all his previous discourse was addressed to me with a purpose, and that somehow our visit to london had to do with that purpose. "here they lie had realms and lands who now want strength to stir their hands; where from their pulpits seal'd with dust they preach 'in greatness is no trust' . . . here are sands, ignoble things, dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings. . . ." i must have fallen a-wondering while he quoted in a low sonorous voice, like a last echo of the great organ, rolling among the arches; for as it ceased i came to myself with a start and found his eyes searching me; also his hold on my shoulder had stiffened, and he held me from him at arm's length. "and yet," said he, as if to himself, "this dust is the strongest man can build with; and we must build in our generation--quickly, trusting in the young firm flesh; yes, quickly--and trusting--though we know what its end must be." these last words he muttered, and afterwards seemed to fall into a meditation, which lasted until we found ourselves outside the abbey and in the light again. from westminster we took boat to blackfriars, and, landing there, walked up through the crowded traffic to a gateway opening into clement's inn. i did not know its name at the time, nor did i regard the place as we entered, being yet fascinated with the sight of temple bar and of the heads of four traitors above it on poles, blackening in the sun; but within the courtyard we turned to the right and mounted a staircase to the head of the second flight and to a closed door on which my father knocked. a clerk opened, and presently we passed through an office into a well-sized room where, from amid a pile of books, a grave little man rose, reached for his wig, and, having adjusted it, bowed to us. "good morning! good morning, gentlemen! ah--er--sir john constantine, i believe?" my father bowed. "at your service, mr. knox. you received my letter, then? let me present my brother-in-law and man of affairs, mr. gervase arundel, who will discuss with you the main part of our business; also my son here, about whom i wrote to you." "eh? eh?" mr. knox, after bowing to my uncle, put on his spectacles, took them off, wiped them, put them on again, and regarded me benevolently. "eh? so this is the boy--h'm--jasper, i believe?" "prosper," my father corrected. "ah, to be sure--prosper--and i hope he will, i'm sure." mr. knox chuckled at his mild little witticism and twinkled at me jocosely. "your letter, sir john? yes, to be sure, i received it. what you propose is practicable, though irregular." "irregular?" "not legally irregular--oh no, not in the least. legally the thing's as simple as a b c. the man has only to take the benefit of the act of insolvency, assign his estate to his creditors, and then-- supposing that they are agreed--" "there can be no question of their agreement or disagreement. his creditors do not exist. as i told you, i have paid them off, bought up all their debts, and the yes or no rests with me alone." "quite so; i was merely putting it as the act directs. very well then, supposing _you_ agree, nothing more is necessary than an appearance--a purely formal appearance--at the old bailey, and your unfortunate friend--" "pardon me," my father put in; "he is not my friend." "eh?" . . . mr. knox removed his spectacles, breathed on them, and rubbed them, while he regarded my father with a bewildered air. "you'll excuse me . . . but i must own myself entirely puzzled. even for a friend's sake, as i was about to protest, your conduct, sir, would be quixotic; yes, yes, quixotic in the highest degree, the amount being (as you might say) princely, and the security--" mr. knox paused and expressed his opinion of the security by a pitying smile. "but if," he resumed, "this man be not even your friend, then, my dear sir, i can merely wonder." for a moment my father seemed about to argue with him, but checked himself. "none the less the man is very far from being my friend," he answered quietly. "but surely--surely, sir, you cannot be doing this in any hope to recover what he already owes you! that were indeed to throw the helve after the hatchet. nay, sir, it were madness--stark madness!" my father glanced at my uncle gervase, who stood pulling his lip; then, with an abrupt motion, he turned on mr. knox again. "you have seen him? you delivered my letter?" "i did." "what was his answer?" mr. knox shrugged his shoulders. "he jumped at it, of course." "and the boy, here! what did he say about the boy?" "well, to speak truth, sir john, he seemed passably amused by the whole business. the fact is, prison has broken him up. a fine figure he must have been in his time, but a costly one to maintain . . . as tall as yourself, sir john, if not taller; and florid, as one may say; the sort of man that must have exercise and space and a crowd to admire him, not to mention wine and meats and female society. the fleet has broken down all that. even with liberty i wouldn't promise him another year of life; and, unless i'm mistaken, he knows his case. a rare actor, too! it wouldn't surprise me if he'd even deceived himself. but the mask's off. your offer overjoyed him; that goes without saying. in spite of all your past generosity, this new offer obviously struck him for the moment as too good to be true. but i cannot say, sir john, that he made any serious effort to keep up the imposture or pretend that the security which he can offer is more than a sentimental one. not to put too fine a point on it, he ordered in a couple of bottles of wine at my expense, and over the second i left him laughing." my father frowned. "and yet this man, mr. knox, is an anointed king." "of corsica!" mr. knox shrugged his shoulders. "you may take my word for it, he's an anointed actor." "one can visit him, i suppose?" "at the most the turnkey will expect five shillings. oh dear me yes! for a crowned head he's accessible." my father took me by the arm. "come along, then, child. and you, gervase, get your business through with mr. knox and follow us, if you can, in half an hour. you"--he turned to billy priske--"had best come with us. 'tis possible i may need you all for witnesses." he walked me out and downstairs and through the lodge gateway; and so under temple bar again and down fleet street through the throng; till near the foot of it, turning up a side street out of the noise, we found ourselves in face of a gateway which could only belong to a prison. the gate itself stood open, but the passage led to an iron-barred door, and in the passage--which was cool but indescribably noisome--a couple of children were playing marbles, with half a dozen turnkeys looking on and (i believe) betting on the game. my father sniffed the air in the passage and turned to me. "gaol-fever," he announced. "please god, child, we won't be in it long." he rescued billy from the two urchins who had dropped their game to pinch his calves, and addressed a word to one of the turnkeys, at the same time passing a coin. the fellow looked at it and touched his hat. "second court, first floor, number thirty-seven." he opened a wicket in the gate. "this way, please, and sharp to the left." the narrow court into which we descended by a short flight of steps was, as i remember, empty; but passing under an archway and through a kind of tunnel we entered a larger one crowded with men, some gathered in groups, others pacing singly and dejectedly, the most of them slowly too, with bowed heads, but three or four with fierce strides as if in haste to keep an appointment. one of them, coming abreast of us as the turnkey led us off to a staircase on the left, halted, drew himself up, stared at us for a moment with vacant eyes, and hurried by; yet before we mounted the stairs i saw him reach the farther wall, wheel, and come as hastily striding back. the stairway led to a filthy corridor, pierced on the left with a row of tiny windows looking on the first and empty courtyard; and on the right with a close row of doors, the most of which stood open and gave glimpses of foul disordered beds, broken meats, and barred windows crusted with london grime. the smell was pestilential. our turnkey rapped on one of the closed doors, and half-flung, half-kicked it open; for a box had been set against it on the inside. "visitors for the baron!" he announced, and stood aside to let us enter. my father had ordered billy to wait below. we two passed in together. now, my father, as i have said, was tall; yet it seemed to me that the man who greeted us was taller, as he rose from the bed and stood between us and the barred dirty window. by little and little i made out that he wore an orange-coloured dressing-gown, and on his head a turk's fez; that he had pushed back a table at which, seated on the bed, he had been writing; and that on the sill of the closed window behind him stood a geranium-plant, dry with dust and withering in the stagnant air of the room. but as yet, since he rose with his back to the little light, i could not make out his features. i marked, however, that he shook from head to foot. my father bowed--a very reverent and stately bow it was too--regarded him for a moment, and, taking a pace backward to the door, called after the retreating turnkey, to whom he addressed some order in a tone to me inaudible. "you are welcome, sir john," said the prisoner, as my father faced him again; "though to my shame i cannot offer you hospitality." he said it in english, with a thick and almost guttural foreign accent, and his voice shook over the words. "i have made bold, sire, to order the remedy." "'sire!'" the prisoner took him up with a flash of spirit. "you have many rights over me, sir john, but none to mock me, i think." "as you have no right to hold me capable of it, in such a place as this," answered my father. "i addressed you in terms which my errand proves to be sincere. this is my son prosper, of whom i wrote." "to be sure--to be sure." the prisoner turned to me and looked me over--i am bound to say with no very great curiosity, and sideways, in the half light, i had a better glimpse of his features, which were bold and handsome, but dreadfully emaciated. he seemed to lose the thread of his speech, and his hands strayed towards the table as if in search of something. "ah yes, the boy," said he, vaguely. the turnkey entering just then with two bottles of wine, my father took one from him and filled an empty glass that stood on the table. the prisoner's fingers closed over it. "i have much to drown," he explained, as, having gulped down the wine, he refilled his glass at once, knocking the bottle-neck on its rim in his clattering haste. "excuse me; you'll find another glass in the cupboard behind you. . . . yes, yes, we were talking of the boy. . . . are you filled? . . . we'll drink to his health!" "to your health, prosper," said my father, gravely, and drank. "but, see here--i received your letter right enough, and it sounds too good to be true. only "--and into the man's eyes there crept a sudden cunning--"i don't understand what you want of me." "you may think it much or little; but all we want--or, rather, all my boy wants--is your blessing." "so i gathered; and that's funny, by god! _my_ blessing--mine--and here!" he flung out a hand. "i've had some strange requests in my time; but, damn me, if i reckoned that any man any longer wanted my blessing." "my son does, though; and even such a blessing as your own son would need, if you had one. you understand?"--for the prisoner's eyes had wandered to the barred window--"i mean the blessing of theodore the first." "you are a strange fellow, john constantine," was the answer, in a weary, almost pettish tone. "god knows i have more reason to be grateful to you than to any man alive--" "but you find it hard? then give it over. you may do it with the lighter heart since gratitude from you would be offensive to me." "if you played for this--worthless prize as it is--from the beginning--" again my father took him up; and, this time, sternly. "you know perfectly well that i never played for this from the beginning; nor had ever dreamed of it while there was a chance that you--or _she_-- might leave a child. i will trouble you--" my father checked himself. "your pardon, i am speaking roughly. i will beg you, sire, to remember first, that you claimed and received my poor help while there was yet a likelihood of your having children, before your wife left you, and a good year before i myself married or dreamed of marrying. i will beg you further to remember that no payment of what you owed to me was ever enforced, and that the creditors who sent you and have kept you here are commercial persons with whom i had nothing to do; whose names until the other day were strange to me. _now_ i will admit that i play for a kingdom." "you really think it worth while?" the prisoner, who had stood all this time blinking at the window, his hands in the pockets of his dirty dressing-gown, turned again to question him. "i do." "but listen a moment. i have had too many favours from you, and i don't want another under false pretences. you may call it a too-late repentance, but the fact remains that i don't. liberty?"--he stretched out both gaunt arms, far beyond the sleeves of his gown, till they seemed to measure the room and to thrust its walls wide. "even with a week to live i would buy it dear--you don't know, john constantine, how you tempt me--but not at that price." "your title is good. i will take the risk." "how good or how bad my title is, you know. 'tis the inheritance against which i warn you." "i take the risk," my father repeated, "if you will sign." the prisoner shrugged his shoulders and helped himself to another glassful. "we must have witnesses," said my father, "have you a clergyman in this den?" "to be sure we have. the chaplain, we call him figg--jonathan figg's his name; the reverend jonathan figg, b.a., of sydney sussex college, cambridge; a good fellow and a moderately hard drinker. he spends the best part of his morning marrying up thieves and sailors to trulls; but he's usually leaving church about this time, if a messenger can catch him before he's off to breakfast with 'em. half an hour hence he'll be too drunk to sign his name." "prosper"--my father swung round on me--"run you down to billy and take him off to search for this clergyman. if on your way you meet with your uncle and mr. knox, say that we shall require them, too, as witnesses." i ran down to the courtyard, but no billy could i see; only the dejected groups of prisoners, and among them the one i had marked before, still fiercely striding, and still, at the wall, returning upon his track. i hurried out to the gate, and there, to my amazement, found billy in the clutches of a strapping impudent wench and surrounded by a ring of turnkeys, who were splitting their sides with laughter. "i won't!" he was crying. "i'm a married man, i tell 'ee, and the father of twelve!" "oh, billy!" i cried, aghast at the lie. "there was no other way, lad. for the lord's sake fetch squire to deliver me?" before i could answer or ask what was happening, the damsel rounded on me. "boy," she demanded, "is this man deceiving me?" "as for that, ma'am," i answered, "i cannot say. but that he's a bachelor i believe; and that he hates women i have his word over and over." "then he shall marry me or fight me," she answered very coolly, and began to strip off her short bodice. "there's twelve o'clock," announced one of the turnkeys, as the first stroke sounded from the clock above us over the prison gateway. "too late to be married to-day; so a fight it is." "a ring! a ring!" cried the others. i looked in billy's face, and in all my life (as i have since often reminded him) i never saw a man worse scared. the woman had actually thrown off her jacket and stood up in a loose under-bodice that left her arms free--and exceedingly red and brawny arms they were. how he had come into this plight i could guess as little as what the issue was like to be, when in the gateway there appeared my uncle and mr. knox, and close at their heels a rabble of men and women arm-in-arm, headed by a red-nosed clergyman with an immense white favour pinned to his breast. "hey? what's to do--what's to do!" inquired mr. knox. the clergyman thrust past him with a "pardon me, sir," and addressed the woman. "what's the matter, nan? is the bridegroom fighting shy?" "please your reverence, he tells me he's the father of twelve." "h'm." the priest cocked his head on one side. "you find that an impediment?" "_and_ a married man, your reverence." "then he has the laughing side of you, this time," said his reverence, promptly, and took snuff. "tut, tut, woman--down with your fists, button up your bodice, and take disappointment with a better grace. come, no nonsense, or you'll start me asking what's become of the last man i married ye to." "sir," interposed my uncle, "i know not the head or tail of this quarrel. but this man priske is my brother's servant, and if he told the lady what she alleges, for the credit of the family i must correct him. in sober truth he's a bachelor, and no more the father of twelve than i am." this address, delivered with entire simplicity, set the whole company gasping. most of all it seemed to astonish the woman, who could not be expected to know that my uncle's chivalry accepted all her sex, the lowest with the highest, in the image in which god made it and without defacement. the priest was the first to recover himself. "my good sir," said he, "your man may be the father of twelve or the father of lies; but i'll not marry him after stroke of noon, for that's my rule. moreover"-- he swept a hand towards the bridal party behind him--"these turtles have invited me to eat roast duck and green peas with 'em, and i hate my gravy cold." "ay, sir?" asked my uncle. "do you tell me that folks marry and give in marriage within this dreadful place?" "now and then, sir; and in the liberties and purlieus thereof with a proclivity that would astonish you; which, since i cannot hinder it, i sanctify. my name is figg, sir--jonathan figg; and my office, chaplain of the fleet." "and if it please you, sir," i put in, "my father has sent me in search of you, to beg that you will come to him at once." "and you have heard me say, young sir, that i marry no man after stroke of noon; no, nor will visit him sick unless he be in _articulo mortis_." "but my father neither wants to be married, sir, nor is he sick at all. i believe it is some matter of witnessing an oath." "hath he better than roast duck and green peas to offer, hey? no? then tell him he may come and witness _my_ oath, that i'll see him first to jericho." "whereby, if i mistake not," said mr. knox, quietly, "your pocket will continue light of two guineas; and i may add, from what i know of sir john constantine, that he is quite capable, if he receive such an answer, of having your blood in a bottle." "'sir john constantine?' did i hear you say. _sir_ john constantine?'" queried the reverend mr. figg, with a complete change of manner. "that's _quite_ another thing! anything to oblige sir john constantine, i'm sure--" "do you know him?" asked my uncle. "well--er--no; i can't honestly declare that i _know_ him; but, of course, one knows _of_ him--that is to say, i understand him to be a gentleman of title; a knight at least." "yes," my uncle answered, "he is at least that. what a very extraordinary person!" he added in a wondering aside. oddly enough, as we were leaving, i heard the woman nan say pretty much the same of my uncle. she added that she had a great mind to kiss him. we found my father and the prisoner seated with the bottle between them on the rickety liquor-stained table. yet--as i remember the scene now--not all the squalor of the room could efface or diminish the majesty of their two figures. they sat like two tall old kings, eye to eye, not friends, or reconciled only in this last and lonely hour by meditation on man's common fate. if i cannot make you understand this, what follows will seem to you absurd, though indeed at the time it was not so. my father rose as we entered. "here is the boy returned," said he; "and here are the witnesses." the prisoner rose also. "i did not catch his name, or else i have forgotten it," he said, fixing his eyes on me and motioning me to step forward; which i did. his eyes--which before had seemed to me shifty--were straight now and commanding, yet benevolent. "his name is prosper; in full, john prosper camilio paleologus. never more than one of us wears the surname of constantine, and he not until he succeeds as head of our house." "one name is enough for a king." the prisoner motioned again with his hand. "kneel, boy," my father commanded, and i knelt. "i ask you, gentlemen," said the prisoner, facing them and lifting his voice, "to hear and remember what i shall say; to witness and remember what i shall do; and by signature to attest what i shall presently write. i say, then, that i, theodore, was on the fifteenth of april, twenty years ago, by the united voice of the people of corsica, made king of that island and placed in possession of its revenues and chief dignities. i declare, as god may punish me if i lie, that by no act of mine or of my people of corsica has that election been annulled, forfeited, or invalidated; that its revenues are to-day rightfully mine to receive and bequeath, as its dignities are to-day rightfully mine to enjoy or abdicate to an heir of my own choosing. i declare further that, failing male issue of my own body, i resign herewith and abdicate both rank and revenue in favour of this boy, prosper paleologus, son of constantine, and heir in descent of constantine last emperor of constantinople. i lay my hands on him in your presence and bless him. in your presence i raise him and salute him on both cheeks, naming him my son of choice and my successor, prosper i., king of the commonwealth of corsica. i call on you all to attest this act with your names, and all necessary writings confirming it; and i beseech you all to pray with me that he may come to the full inheritance of his kingdom, and thrive therein as he shall justly and righteously administer it. god save king prosper!" at the conclusion of this speech, admirably delivered, i--standing with bent head as he had raised me, and with both cheeks tingling from his salutation--heard my father's voice say sonorously, "amen!" and another--i think the parson's--break into something like a chuckle. but my uncle must have put out a hand threatening his weasand, for the sound very suddenly gave place to silence; and the next voice i heard was mr. knox's. "may i suggest that we seat ourselves and examine the papers?" said mr. knox. "one moment." king theodore stepped to the cupboard and drew out a bundle in a blue-and-white checked kerchief, and a smaller one in brown paper. the kerchief, having been laid on the table and unwrapped, disclosed a fantastic piece of ironwork in the shape of a crown, set with stones of which the preciousness was concealed by a plentiful layer of dust. he lifted this, set it on my head for a moment, and, replacing it on the table, took up the brown-paper parcel. "this," said he, "contains the great seal. to whose keeping "--he turned to my father--"am i to entrust them, sir john?" my father nodded towards billy priske, who stepped forward and tucked both parcels under his arm, while mr. knox spread his papers on the table. we walked back to our lodgings that afternoon, with billy priske behind us bearing in his pocket the great seal and under his arm, in a checked kerchief, the iron crown of corsica. two mornings later we took horse and set our faces westward again; and thus ended my brief first visit to london. billy priske carried the sacred parcel on the saddle before him; and my uncle, riding beside him, spent no small part of the way in an exhortation against lying in general, and particularly against the sin of laying false claim to the paternity of twelve children. now, so shaken was billy by his one adventure in london that until we had passed the tenth milestone he seemed content enough to be rated. i believe that as, for the remainder of his stay in london, he had never strayed beyond sight, so even yet he took comfort and security from my uncle's voice; "since," said he, quoting a cornish proverb, "'tis better be rated by your own than mated with a stranger." but, by-and-by, taking courage to protest that a lie might on occasion be pardonable and even necessary, he drew my father into the discussion. "this difficulty of billy's," interposed my father, "was in some sort anticipated by plato, who instanced that a madman with a knife in his hand might inquire of you to direct him which way had been taken by the victim he proposed to murder. he posits it as a nice point. should one answer truthfully, or deceive?" "for my part," answered my uncle, "i should knock him down." chapter iv. long vacation. "in a harbour grene aslope whereas i lay, the byrdes sang swete in the middes of the day, i dreamed fast of mirth and play: in youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure." robert wever. a history (you will say) which finds a schoolboy tickling trout, and by the end of another chapter has clapped a crown on his head and hailed him sovereign over a people of whom he has scarcely heard and knows nothing save that they are warlike and extremely hot-tempered, should be in a fair way to move ahead briskly. nevertheless i shall pass over the first two years of the reign of king prosper, during which he stayed at school and performed nothing worthy of mention: and shall come to a summer's afternoon at oxford, close upon the end of term, when nat fiennes and i sat together in my rooms in new college--he curled on the window-seat with a book, and i stretched in an easy-chair by the fireplace, and deep in a news-sheet. "by the way, nat," said i, looking up as i turned the page, "where will you spend your vacation?" a groan answered me. "hullo!" i went on, making a hasty guess at his case. "has the little cordwainer's tall daughter jilted you, as i promised she would?" "a curse on this age!" swore nat, who ever carried his heart on his sleeve. i began to hum-- "i loved a lass, a fair one, as fair as e'er was seen; she was indeed a rare one, another sheba queen. her waist exceeding small, the fives did fit her shoe; but now alas! sh' 'as left me, falero, lero, loo!" "curse the age!" repeated nat, viciously. "if these were lancelot's days now, a man could run mad in the forest and lie naked and chew sticks; and then she'd be sorry." "in summer time to medley my love and i would go; the boatmen there stood read'ly my love and me to row," sang i, and ducked my head to avoid the cushion he hurled. "well then, there's very pretty forest land around my home in cornwall, with undergrowth and dropped twigs to last you till michaelmas term. so why not ride down with me and spend at least the fore-part of your madness there?" "i hate your cornwall." "'tis a poor rugged land," said i; "but hath this convenience above your own home, that it contains no nymphs to whom you have yet sworn passion. you may meet ours with a straight brow; and they are fair, too, and unembarrassed, though i won't warrant them if you run bare." "'tis never i that am inconstant." "never, nat; 'tis she, always and only--" she, she, and only she"-- and there have been six of her to my knowledge." "if i were a king, now--" "t'cht!" said i (for as my best friend, and almost my sole one, he knew my story). "if a fellow were a king now--instead of being doomed to the law-- oh, good lord!" "you are incoherent, dear lad," said i; "and yet you tell me one thing plainly enough; which is that in place of loving this one or that one, or the cordwainer's strapping daughter, you are in love with being in love." "well, and why not?" he demanded. "were i a king, now, that is even what i would be--in love with being in love. were i a king, now, so deep in love were i with being in love, that my messengers should compass earth to fetch me the right princess. yes, and could they not reach to her, if i but heard of one hidden and afar that was worth my loving, i would build ships and launch them, enlist crews and armies, sail all seas and challenge all wars, to win her. if i were king, now, my love should dwell in the fastnesses of the mountains, and i would reach her; she should drive me to turn again and gather the bones of the seamen i had dropped overboard, and i would turn and dredge the seas for them; for a whim she should demand to watch me at the task, and gangs of slaves should level mountains to open a prospect from her window; nay, all this while she should deny me sight of her, and i would embrace that last hardship that in the end she might be the dearer prize, a queen worthy to seat beside me. man, heave your great lubberly bones out of that chair and salute a poor devil whom, as you put it, a cordwainer's daughter has jilted." "hullo!" cried i, who had turned from his rhapsody to con the news again, and on the instant had been caught by a familiar name at the foot of the page. "what is it?" "why," said i, reading, "it seems that you are not the only such madman as you have just proclaimed yourself. listen to this: it is headed "'falmouth.' "'a gentleman, having read that the methodist preachers are to pay a visit to falmouth, cornwall, on the th, th, and th of next month; and that on the occasion of their last visit certain women, their sympathizers, were set upon and brutally handled by the mob; hereby announces that he will be present on the market strand, falmouth, on these dates, with intent to put a stop to such behaviour, and invites any who share his indignation to meet him there and help to see fair play. the badge to be a red rose pinned in the hat.'" "'eugenio.'" "what think you of that?" i asked, without turning my head. "the newspaper comes from cornwall?" he asked. "from falmouth itself. my father sent it. . . . jove!" i cried after a moment, "i wonder if he's answerable for this? 'twould be like his extravagance." "a pity but what you inherited some of it, then," said nat, crossly. "tell you what, nat"--i slewed about in my chair--"come you down to cornwall and we'll stick each a rose in our hats and help this master engenio, whoever he is. i've a curiosity to discover him: and if he be my father--he has not marked the passage, by the way--we'll have rare fun in smoking him and tracking him unbeknown to the _rendezvous_. come, lad; and if i know the falmouth mob, you shall have a pretty little turn-up well worth the journey." but nat, still staring out of window, shook his head. he was in one of his perverse moods--and they had been growing frequent of late-- in which nothing i could say or do seemed to content him; and for this i chiefly accused the cordwainer's daughter, who in fact was a decent merry girl, fond of strawberries, with no more notion of falling in love with nat than of running off with her father's apprentice. whatever the cause of it, a cloud had been creeping over our friendship of late. he sought companions--some of them serious men--with whom i could not be easy. we kept up the pretence, but talked no longer with entirely open hearts. yet i loved him; and now in a sudden urgent desire to carry him off to cornwall with me and clear up all misunderstandings, i caught his arm and haled him down to our college garden, which lies close within the city wall; and there, pacing the broken military terrace, plied him with a dozen reasons why he should come. still he shook his head to all of them; and presently, hearing four o'clock strike, pulled up in his walk and announced that he must be going--he had an engagement. "and where?" i asked. he confessed that it was to visit the poor prisoners shut up for debt in bocardo. i pulled a wry mouth, remembering the dismal crew in the fleet prison. but though, the confession being forced from him, he ended wistfully and as if upon a question, i did not offer to come. it seemed a mighty dull way to finish a summer's afternoon. moreover i was nettled. so i let him go and watched him through the gate, thinking bitterly that our friendship was sick and drooping by no fault of mine. the truth was--or so i tried to excuse him--that beside his plaguey trick of falling in and out of love he had an overhanging quarrel with his father, a worthy man, tyrannous when crossed, who meant him for the law. nat abhorred the law, and, foreseeing that the tussel must come, vexed his honest conscience with the thought that while delaying to declare war he was eating his father's bread. this thought, working upon the ferment of youth, kept him like a colt in a fretful lather. he scribbled verses, but never finished so much as a sonnet; he flung himself into religion, but chiefly, i thought, to challenge and irritate his undevout friends; and he would drop any occupation to rail at me and what he was pleased to call my phlegm. he had some reason too, though at the time i could not discover it. now, looking back, i can see into what a stagnant calm i had run. my boyhood should have been over; in body i had shot up to a great awkward height; but for the while the man within me drowsed and hung fire. i lived in the passing day and was content with it. nat's gusts of passion amused me, and why a man should want to write verses or fall in love was a mystery at which i arrived no nearer than to laugh. for this (strange as it may sound) i believe the visit to london was partly to blame. nothing had come of it, except that the unhappy king theodore had gained his release and improved upon it by dying, a few weeks later, in wretched lodgings in soho; where, at my father's expense, the church of st. anne's now bore a mural tablet to his memory with an epitaph obligingly contributed by the hon. horace walpole, since earl of orford. near this place is interred theodore king of corsica who died in this parish dec. , immediately after leaving the king's bench prison by the benefit of the act of insolvency in consequence of which he registered his kingdom of corsica for the use of his creditors. the grave, great teacher, to a level brings heroes and beggars, galley slaves and kings; but theodore this moral learned ere dead: fate poured his lesson on his living head, bestow'd a kingdom, and denied him bread. my father, who copied this out for me, had announced in few words poor theodore's fate, but without particular allusion to our adventure, which, as he made no movement to follow it up, or none that he confided, i came in time to regard humorously as an escapade of his, a holiday frolic, a piece of midsummer madness. the serious part was that he had undoubtedly paid away large sums of money, and for two years my uncle gervase had worn a distracted air which i set down to the family accounts. by degrees i came to conclude, with the rest of the world, that my father's brain was more than a little cracked, and sounded my uncle privately about this--delicately as i thought; but he met me with a fierce unexpected heat. "your father," said he, "is the best man in the world, and i bid you wait to understand him better, taking my word that he has great designs for you." sure enough, too, my father seemed to hint at this in the tenor of his conversation with me, which was ever of high politics and the government of states, or on some point which could be stretched to bear on these; but of any immediate design he forbore-- as it seemed, carefully--to speak. thus i found myself at pause and let my youth wait upon his decision. yet i had sense enough to feel less than satisfied with myself, albeit sorer with nat as i watched the dear lad go from me across the turf and out at the garden gate. nor will i swear that my eyes did not smart a little. i was but a boy, and had set my heart on our travelling down to cornwall together. to cornwall i rode down alone, a week later, and fell to work to idle my vacation away; fishing a little, but oftener sailing my boat; sometimes alone, sometimes with billy priske for company. billy--whose duties as butler were what he called a _sine qua non_, pronounced as "shiny canaan" and meaning a sinecure--had spent some part of term time in netting me a trammel, of which he was inordinately proud, and with this we amused ourselves, sailing or rowing down to the river's mouth every evening at nightfall to set it, and, again, soon after daybreak, to haul it, and usually returning with good store of fish for breakfast--soles, dories, plaice, and the red mullet for which helford is famous above all streams. now, during these lazy weeks i had not forgotten eugenio's advertisement, which, on returning to my rooms that evening after nat's rebuff, i had clipped from the newspaper and since kept in my pocket. for the fun of it, and to find out who this eugenio might be--i had given over suspecting my father--my mind was made up to ride over to falmouth on the th of july; but whether with or without a rose in my hat i had not determined. therefore on the morning of the th, when billy, after hauling the trammel, began to lay our plans for the morrow, i cut him short, telling him that to-morrow i should not fish. "what's matter with 'ee to-all?" he asked, smashing a spider-crab and picking it out piecemeal from the net. "pretty fair catch to-day, id'n-a? spite of all the weed; an' no harm done by these varmints that a man can't put to rights afore evenin'." i took the paddles without answering and pulled towards the river's mouth, while he sat and smoked his pipe over the business of clearing the net of weed. around his feet on the bottom boards lay our morning's catch--half a dozen soles and twice the number of plaice, a brace of edible crabs, six or seven red mullet, besides a number of gurnard and wrass worth no man's eating, an ugly-looking monkfish and a bream of wonderful rainbow hues. a fog lay over the sea, so dense that in places we could see but a few yards; but over it the tops of the tall cliffs stood out clear, and the sun was mounting. a faint breeze blew from the southward. all promised a hot still day. the tide was making, too, and with wind and tide to help i pulled over the river bar and towards the creek where daily, after hauling the trammel, i bathed from the boat; a delectable corner in the eye of the morning sunshine, paved fathoms deep with round, white pebbles, one of which, from the gunwale, i selected to dive for. the sun broke through the sea-fog around us while i stripped; it shone, as i balanced myself for the plunge, on the broad wings of a heron flapping out from the wood's blue shadow; it shone on the scales of the fish struggling and gasping under the thwarts. divine the river was, divine the morning, divine the moment--the last of my boyhood. souse i plunged and deep, with wide-open eyes, chose out and grasped my pebble, and rose to the surface holding it high as though it had been a gem. the sound of the splash was in my ears and the echo of my own laugh, but with it there mingled a cry from billy priske, and shaking the water out of my eyes i saw him erect in the stern-sheets and astare at a vision parting the fog--the vision of a tall fore-and-aft sail, golden-grey against the sunlight, and above the sail a foot or two of a stout pole-mast, and above the mast a gilded truck and weather-vane with a tail of scarlet bunting. so closely the fog hung about her that for a second i took her to be a cutter; and then a second sail crept through the curtain, and i recognized her for the _gauntlet_ ketch, port of falmouth, captain jo pomery, returned from six months' foreign. i announced her to billy with a shout. "as if a man couldn' tell that!" answered billy, removing his cap and rubbing the back of his head. "what brings her in here, that's what i'm askin'." "belike," said i, scrambling over the gunwale, "the man has lost his bearings in this fog, and mistakes helford for falmouth entrance." "lost his bearin's! jo pomery lost his bearin's!" billy regarded me between pity and reproach. "and him sailing her in from blackhead close round the manacles, in half a capful o' wind an' the tides lookin' fifty ways for sunday! that's what he've a-done, for the weather lifted while we was hauling trammel--anyways east of south a man could see clear for three mile and more, an' not a vessel in sight there. there's maybe three men in the world besides jo pomery could ha' done it--the lord knows how, unless 'tis by sense o' smell. and he've a-lost his bearin's, says you!" "well then," i ventured, "perhaps he has a fancy to land part of his cargo duty-free." "that's likelier," billy assented. "i don't say 'tis the truth, mind you: for if 'tis truth, why should the man choose to fetch land by daylight? fog? a man like jo pomery isn' one to mistake a little pride-o'-the-mornin' for proper thick weather--the more by token it's been liftin' this hour and more. but 'tis a likelier guess anyway, the _gauntlet_ being from foreign. 'lost his bearin's,' says you, and come, as you might say, slap through the manacles; an' by accident, as you might say! luck has a broad back, my son, but be careful how you dance 'pon it." "where does she come from?" i asked. "mediterranean; that's all i know. four months and more she must ha' took on this trip. iss; sailed out o' falmouth back-along in the tail-end o' february, and her cargo muskets and other combustibles." "muskets?" "muskets; and you may leave askin' me who wants muskets out there, for in the first place i don't know, an' a still tongue makes a wise head." i had slipped on shirt and breeches. "we'll give him a hail, anyway," said i, "and if there's sport on hand he may happen to let us join it." the ketch by this time was pushing her nose past the spit of rock hiding our creek from seaward. as she came by with both large sails boomed out to starboard and sheets alternately sagging loose and tautening with a jerk, i caught sight of two of her crew in the bows, the one looking on while the other very deliberately unlashed the anchor, and aft by the wheel a third man, whom i made out to be captain pomery himself. "_gauntlet_ ahoy!" i shouted, standing on the thwart and making a trumpet of my hands. captain pomery turned, cast a glance towards us over his left shoulder and lifted a hand. a moment later he called an order forward, and the two men left the anchor and ran to haul in sheets. here was a plain invitation to pull alongside. i seized a paddle, and was working the boat's nose round, to pursue, when another figure showed above the _gauntlet's_ bulwarks: a tall figure in an orange-russet garment like a dressing-gown; a monk, to all appearance, for the sun played on his tonsured scalp as he leaned forward and watched our approach. chapter v. the silent men. "seamen, seamen, whence come ye? _pardonnez moy, je vous en prie_." _old song_. a monk he was too. a second and third look over my shoulder left me no doubt of it. he gravely handed us a rope as we overtook the ketch and ran alongside, and as gravely bowed when i leapt upon deck; but he gave us no other welcome. his russet gown reached almost to his feet, which were bare; and he stood amid the strangest litter of a deck-cargo, consisting mainly-- or so at first glance it seemed to me--of pot-plants and rude agricultural implements: spades, flails, forks, mattocks, picks, hoes, dibbles, rakes, lashed in bundles; sieves, buckets, kegs, bins, milk-pails, seed-hods, troughs, mangers, a wired dovecote, and a score of hen-coops filled with poultry. forward of the mainmast stood a cart with shafts, upright and lashed to the mast, that the headsails might work clear. the space between the masts was occupied by enormous open hatchways through which came the lowing of oxen, and through these, peering down into the hold, i saw the backs of cattle and horses moving in its gloom, and the bodies of men stretched in the straw at their feet. so much of the _gauntlet's_ hugger-mugger i managed to discern before captain pomery left the helm and hurried forward to give us welcome on board. "mornin', squire prosper! mornin', billy! you know _me_, sir--cap'n jo pomery--which is short for job, and 'tis the luckiest chance, sir, you hailed me, for you'm nearabouts the first man i wanted to see. faith, now, and i wonder how your father (god bless him) will take it?" "why, what's the matter?" asked i, with a glance at the monk, who had drawn back a pace and stood, still silent, fingering his rosary. "the matter? good lord! isn't _this_ matter enough?" captain jo waved an arm to include all the deck-cargo. "see them pot-plants, there, and what they'm teeled [ ] in?" "drinking-troughs?" said i. "or . . . is it coffins?" "coffins it is. i'd feel easier in mind if you could tell me what your father (god bless him) will say to it." "but what has all this to do with my father?" i demanded, and, seeking billy's eyes, found them as frankly full of amaze as my own. "not but what," continued captain jo, "they've behaved well, though dog-sick to a man from the time we left port. look at 'em!"--he caught me by the arm and, drawing me to the hatchway, pointed down to the hold. "a round score and eight, and all well paid for as passengers; but for the return journey i won't answer. it depends on your father, and that"--with a jerk of his thumb towards the tall monk--"i stippilated when i shipped 'em. 'never you mind,' was the answer i got; 'take 'em to england to sir john constantine.' and here they be!" "but who on earth are they?" i cried, staring down into the gloom, where presently i made out that the men stretched in the straw at the horses' feet were monks all, and habited like the monk on the deck behind me. to him next i turned, to find his eyes, which were dark and quick, searching me curiously; and as i turned he made a step forward, put out a hand as if to touch me on the shirt-sleeve, and anon drew it back, yet still continued to regard me. "you are a son, signor, of sir john constantine?" he asked, in soft italian. "i am his only son, sir," i answered him in the same language. "ah! you speak my tongue?" a gleam of joy passed over his grave features. "and you are his son? so! i should have guessed it at once, for you bear great likeness to him." "you know my father, sir?" "years ago." his hands, which he used expressively, seemed to grope in a far past. "i come to him also from one who knew him years ago." "upon what business, sir!--if i am allowed to ask." "i bring a message." "you bring a tolerably full one, then," said i, glancing first at the disorder on deck and from that down to the recumbent figures in the hold. "i speak for them," he went on, having followed the glance. "it is most necessary that they keep silence; but i speak for all." "then, sir, as it seems to me, you have much to say." "no," he answered slowly; "very little, i think; very little, as you will see." here captain jo interrupted us. he had stepped back to steady the wheel, but i fancy that the word _silenzio_ must have reached him, and that, small italian though he knew, with this particular word the voyage had made him bitterly acquainted. "dumb!" he shouted. "dumb as gutted haddocks!" "dumb!" i echoed, while the two seamen forward heard and laughed. "it is their vow," said the monk, gravely, and seemed on the point to say more. but at this moment captain pomery sang out "gybe-o!" at the warning we ducked our heads together as the boom swung over and the _gauntlet_, heeling gently for a moment, rounded the river-bend in view of the great house of constantine, set high and gazing over the folded woods. a house more magnificently placed, with forest, park, and great stone terraces rising in successive tiers from the water's edge, i do not believe our england in those days could show; and it deserved its site, being amply classical in design, with a facade that, discarding mere ornament, expressed its proportion and symmetry in bold straight lines, prolonged by the terraces on which tall rows of pointed yews stood sentinel. right english though it was, it bore (as my father used to say of our best english poetry) the stamp of great italian descent, and i saw the monk give a start as he lifted his eyes to it. "we have not these river-creeks in italy," said he, "nor these woods, nor these green lawns; and yet, if those trees, aloft there, were but cypresses--" he broke off. "our voyage has a good ending," he added, half to himself. the _gauntlet_ being in ballast, and the tide high, captain pomery found plenty of water in the winding channel, every curve of which he knew to a hair, and steered for at its due moment, winking cheerfully at billy and me, who stood ready to correct his pilotage. he had taken in his mainsail, and carried steerage way with mizzen and jib only; and thus, for close upon a mile, we rode up on the tide, scaring the herons and curlews before us, until drawing within sight of a grass-grown quay he let run down his remaining canvas and laid the ketch alongside, so gently that one of the seamen, who had cast a stout fender overside, stepped ashore, and with a slow pull on her main rigging checked and brought her to a standstill. "_aut lacedaemonium tarentum_," said the monk at my shoulder quietly; and, as i stared at him, "ah, to be sure, this is your tarentum, is it not? yet the words came to me for the sound's sake only and their so gentle close. our voyage has even such an ending." "i had best run on," i suggested, "and warn my father of your coming." "it is not necessary." "nevertheless," i urged, "they can be preparing breakfast for you, up at the house, while you and your friends are making ready to come ashore." "we have broken our fast," he answered; "and we are quite ready, if you will be so good as to guide us." he stepped to the hatchways and called down, announcing simply that the voyage was ended: and in the dusk there i saw monk after monk upheave himself from the straw and come clambering up the ladder; tall monks and short, old monks and young and middle-aged, lean monks and thickset--but the most of them cadaverous, and all of them yellow with sea-sickness; twenty-eight monks, all barefoot, all tolerably dirty, and all blinking in the fresh sunshine. when they were gathered, at a sign from one of them--by dress not distinguishable from his fellows--all knelt and gave silent thanks for the voyage accomplished. i could see that billy priske was frightened: for, arising, they rolled their eyes about them like wild animals turned loose in an unfamiliar country, and the whites of their eyes were yellow (so to speak) with seafaring, and their pupils glassy with fever and from the sea's glare. but the monk their spokesman touched my arm and motioned me to lead; and, when i obeyed, one by one the whole troop fell into line and followed at his heels. thus we went--i leading, with him and the rest in single file after me--up by the footpath through the woods, and forth into sunshine again upon the green dewy bracken of the deer-park. here my companion spoke for the first time since disembarking. "your father, sir," said he, looking about him and seeming to sniff the morning air, "must be a very rich signor." "on the contrary," i answered, "i have some reason to believe him a poor man." he stared down for a moment at his bare feet, and the skirts of his gown wet to the knees with the grasses. "ah? well, it will make no difference," he said; and we resumed our way. as we climbed the last slope under the terraces of the house, i caught sight of my father leaning by a balustrade high above us, at the head of a double flight of broad stone steps, and splicing the top joint of a trout-rod he had broken the day before. he must have caught sight of us almost at the moment when we emerged from the woods. he showed no surprise at all. only as i led my guests up the steps he set down his work and, raising a hand, bent to them in a very courteous welcome. "good morning, lad! and good morning to those you bring, whencesoever they come." "they come, sir," i answered "in jo pomery's ketch _gauntlet_, i believe from italy; and with a message for you." "my father turned his gaze from me to the spokesman at my elbow. his eyebrows lifted with surprise and sudden pleasure. "hey?" he exclaimed. "is it my old friend--" but the other, before his name could be uttered, lifted a hand. "my name is the brother basilio now, sir john: no other am i permitted to remember. the peace of god be with you, and upon your house!" "and with you, brother basilio, since you will have it so: and with all your company! you bear a message for me? but first you must break your fast." he turned to lead the way to the house. "we have eaten already, sir john. as soon as your leisure serves, we would deliver our message." my father called to billy priske--who hung in the rear of the monks-- bidding him fetch my uncle gervase in from the stables to the state room, and so, without another word, motioned to his visitors to follow. to this day i can hear the shuffle of their bare feet on the steps and slabs of the terrace as they hurried after him to keep up with his long strides. in the great entrance-hall he paused to lift a bunch of rusty keys off their hook, and, choosing the largest, unlocked the door of the state room. the lock had been kept well oiled, for billy priske entered it twice daily; in the morning, to open a window or two, and at sunset, to close them. but it is a fact that i had not crossed its threshold a score of times in my life, though i ran by it, maybe, as many times a day; nor (as i believe) had my father entered it for years. yet it was the noblest room in the house, in length seventy-five feet, panelled high in dark oak and cedar and adorned around each panel with carvings of grinling gibbons--festoons and crowns and cherub-faces and intricate baskets of flowers. each panel held a portrait, and over every panel, in faded gilt against the morning sun, shone an imperial crown. the windows were draped with hangings of rotten velvet. at the far end on a dais stood a porphyry table, and behind it, facing down the room, a single chair, or throne, also of porphyry and rudely carved. for the rest the room held nothing but dust--dust so thick that our visitors' naked feet left imprints upon it as they huddled after their leader to the dais, where my father took his seat, after beckoning me forward to stand on his right. but of all bewildered faces there was never a blanker, i believe, since the world began than my uncle gervase's; who now appeared in the doorway, a bucket in his hand, straight from the stables where he had been giving my father's roan horse a drench. billy's summons must have hurried him, for he had not even waited to turn down his shirt-sleeves: but as plainly it had given him no sort of notion why he was wanted and in the state room. i guessed indeed that on his way he had caught up the bucket supposing that the house was afire. at sight of the monks he set it down slowly, gently, staring at them the while, and seemed in act of inverting it to sit upon, when my father addressed him from the dais over the shaven heads of the audience. "brother, i am sorry to have disturbed you: but here is a business in which i may need your counsel. will it please you to step this way? these guests of ours, i should first explain, have arrived from over seas." my uncle came forward, still like a man in a dream, mounted the dais on my father's left, and, turning, surveyed the visitors in front. "eh? to be sure, to be sure," he murmured. "broomsticks!" "their spokesman here, who gives his name as the brother basilio, bears a message for me; and since he presents it in form with a whole legation at his back, i think it due to treat him with equal ceremony. do you agree?" "if you ask me," my uncle answered, after a pause full of thought, "they would prefer to start, maybe, with a wash and a breakfast. by good luck, billy tells me, the trammel has made a good haul. as for basins, brother, our stock will not serve all these gentlemen; but if the rest will take the will for the deed and use the pump, i'll go round meanwhile and see how the hens have been laying." "you are the most practical of men, brother: but my offer of breakfast has already been declined. shall we hear what dom basilio has to say?" "i have nothing to say, sir john," put in brother basilio, advancing, "but to give you this letter and await your answer." he drew a folded paper from his tunic and handed it to my father, who rose to receive it, turned it over, and glanced at the superscription. i saw a red flush creep slowly up to his temples and fade, leaving his face extraordinarily pale. a moment later, in face of his audience, he lifted the paper to his lips, kissed it reverently, and broke the seal. again i saw the flush mount to his temples as he read the letter through slowly and in silence. then after a long pause he handed it to me; and i took it wondering, for his eyes were dim and yet bright with a noble joy. the letter (turned into english) ran thus-- "_to sir john constantine, knight of the most noble order of the star, at his house of constantine in cornwall, england_. "my friend, "the bearer of this and his company have been driven by the genoese from their monastery of san giorgio on my estate of casalabriva above the taravo valley, the same where you will remember our treading the vintage together to the freedom of corsica. but the genoese have cut down my vines long since, and now they have fired the roof over these my tenants and driven them into the _macchia_, whence they send message to me to deliver them. indeed, friend, i have much ado to protect myself in these days: but by good fortune i have heard of an english vessel homeward bound which will serve them if they can reach the coast, whence numbers of the faithful will send them off with good provision. afterwards, what will happen? to england the ship is bound, and in england i know you only. remembering your great heart, i call on it for what help you can render to these holy men. _addio_, friend. you are remembered in my constant prayers to christ, the virgin, and all the saints. "emilia." at a sign from my father--who had sunk back in his chair and sat gripping its arms--i passed on this epistle to my uncle gervase, who read it and ran his hand through his hair. "dear me!" said he, running his eye over the attentive monks, "this lady, whoever she may be--" "she is a crowned queen, brother gervase," my father interrupted; "and moreover she is the noblest woman in the world." "as to that, brother," returned my uncle, "i am saying nothing. but speaking of what i know, i say she can be but poorly conversant with your worldly affairs." my father half-lifted himself from his seat. "and is that how you take it?" he demanded sharply. "is that all you read in the letter? brother, i tell you again, this lady is a queen. what should a queen know of my degree of poverty?" "nevertheless--" began my uncle. but my father cut him short again. "i had hoped," said he, reproachfully, "you would have been prompt to recognize her noble confidence. mark you how, no question put, she honours me. 'do this, for my sake'--who but the greatest in the world can appeal thus simply?" "none, maybe," my uncle replied; "as none but the well-to-do can answer with a like ease." "you come near to anger me, brother; but i remember that you never knew her. is not this house large? are not four-fifths of my rooms lying at this moment un-tenanted? very well; for so long as it pleases them, since she claims it, these holy men shall be our guests. no more of this," my father commanded peremptorily, and added, with all the gravity in the world, "you should thank her consideration rather, that she sends us visitors so frugal, since poverty degrades us to these economies. but there is one thing puzzles me." he took the letter again from my uncle and fastened his gaze on the brother basilio. "she says she has much ado to protect herself." "indeed, sir john," answered brother basilio, "i fear the queen, our late liege-lady, speaks somewhat less than the truth. she wrote to you from a poor lodging hard by bastia, having ventured back to corsica out of tuscany on business of her own; and on the eve of sailing we heard that she had been taken prisoner by the genoese." "what!" my father rose, clutching the arms of his chair. of stone they were, like the chair itself, and well mortised: but his great grip wrenched them out of their mortises and they crashed on the dais. "what! you left her a prisoner of the genoese!" he gazed around them in a wrath that slowly grew cold, freezing into contempt. "go, sirs; since she commands it, room shall be found for you all. my house for the while is yours. but go from me now." [ ] tilled, planted. chapter vi. how my father out of nothing built an army, and in five minutes planned an invasion. walled townes, stored arcenalls and armouries, goodly races of horse, chariots of warre, elephants, ordnance, artillery, and the like: all this is but a sheep in a lion's skin, except the breed and disposition be stout and warlike. nay, number it selfe in armies importeth not much where the people is of weake courage: for (as _virgil_ saith) it never troubles a wolfe, how many the sheepe be."--bacon. for the rest of the day my father shut himself in his room, while my uncle spent the most of it seated on the brewhouse steps in a shaded corner of the back court, through which the monks brought in their furniture and returned to the ship for more. the bundles they carried were prodigious, and all the morning they worked without halt or rest, ascending and descending the hill in single file and always at equal distances one behind another. watching from the terrace down the slope of the park as they came and went, you might have taken them for a company of ants moving camp. but my uncle never wholly recovered from the shock of their first freight, to see man by man cross the court with a stout coffin on his back and above each coffin a pack of straw: nor was he content with fra basilio's explanation that the brethren slept in these coffins by rule and saved the expense of beds. "for my part," said my uncle, "considering the numbers that manage it, i should have thought death no such dexterity as to need practice." "yet bethink you, sir, of st. paul's words. 'i protest,' said he, 'i die daily.'" "why, yes, sir, and so do we all," agreed my uncle, and fell silent, though on the very point, as it seemed, of continuing the argument. "i did not choose to be discourteous, lad," he explained to me later: "but i had a mind to tell him that we do daily a score of things we don't brag about--of which i might have added that washing is one: and i believe 'twould have been news to him." i had never known my uncle in so rough a temper. poor man! i believe that all the time he sat there on the brewhouse steps, he was calculating woefully the cost of these visitors; and it hurt him the worse because he had a native disposition to be hospitable. "but who is this lady that signs herself emilia?" i asked. "a crowned queen, lad, and the noblest lady in the world--you heard your father say it. this evening he may choose to tell us some further particulars." "why this evening?" i asked, and then suddenly remembered that to-day was the th of july and st. swithun's feast; that my father would not fail to drink wine after dinner in the little temple below the deer-park; and that he had promised to admit me to-night to make the fourth in st. swithun's brotherhood. he appeared at dinner-time, punctual and dressed with more than his usual care (i noted that he wore his finest lace ruffles); and before going in to dinner we were joined by the vicar, much perturbed--as his manner showed--by the news of a sudden descent of papists upon his parish. indeed the good man so bubbled with it that we had scarcely taken our seats before the stream of questions overflowed. "who were these men?" "how many!" "whence had they come, and why?" etc. i glanced at my father in some anxiety for his temper. but he laughed and carved the salmon composedly. he had a deep and tolerant affection for mr. grylls. "where shall i begin!" said he. "they are, i believe, between twenty and thirty in number, though i took no care to count; and they belong to the trappistine order, to which i have ever been attracted; first, because i count it admirable to renounce all for a faith, however frantic, and secondly for the memory of bouthillier de rance, who a hundred years ago revived the order after five hundred years of desuetude." "and who was he?" inquired the vicar. "he was a young rake in paris, tonsured for the sake of the family benefices, who had for mistress no less a lady than the duchess de rohan-montbazon. one day, returning from the country after a week's absence and letting himself into the house by a private key, he rushed upstairs in a lover's haste, burst open the door, and found himself in a chamber hung with black and lit with many candles. his mistress had died, the day before, of a putrid fever. but--worse than this and most horrible--the servants had ordered the coffin in haste; and, when delivered, it was found to be too short. upon which, to have done with her, in their terror of infection, they had lopped off the head, which lay pitiably dissevered from the trunk. for three years after the young man travelled as one mad, but at length found solace in his neglected abbacy of soligny-la-trappe, and in reviving its extreme cistercian rigours." "i had supposed the trappists to be a french order in origin, and confined to france," said the vicar. "they have offshoots: of which i knew but one in italy, that settled some fifty years back in a monastery they call buon-solazzo, outside florence, at the invitation of the grand duke of tuscany. but i have been making question of our guests through dom basilio, their guest-master and abbot _de facto_ (since their late abbot, an old man whom he calls dom polifilo, died of exposure on the mountains some three days before they embarked); and it appears that they belong to a second colony, which has made its home for these ten years at casalabriva in corsica, having arrived by invitation of the queen emilia of that island, and there abiding until the genoese burned the roof over their heads." the vicar sipped his wine. "you have considered," he asked, "the peril of introducing so many papists into our quiet parish?" "i have not considered it for a moment," answered my father, cheerfully. "nor have i introduced them. but if you fear they'll convert--pervert--subvert--invert your parishioners and turn 'em into papists, i can reassure you. for in the first place thirty men, or thirty thousand, of whom only one can open his mouth, are, for proselytizing, equal to one man and no more." "they can teach by their example if not by their precept," urged the vicar. "their example is to sleep in their coffins. my good sir, if you will not trust your english doctrine to its own truth, you might at least rely on the persuasiveness of its comforts. nay, pardon me, my friend," he went on, as the vicar's either cheekbone showed a red flush, "i did not mean to speak offensively; but, englishman though i am, in matters of religion my countrymen are ever a puzzle to me. at a great price you won your freedom from the bishop of rome and his dictation. i admire the price and i love liberty; yet liberty has its drawbacks, as you have for a long while been discovering; of which the first is that every man with a maggot in his head can claim a like liberty with yourselves, quoting your own words in support of it. let me remind you of that passage in which rabelais--borrowing, i believe, from lucian--brings the good pantagruel and his fellow-voyagers to a port which he calls the port of lanterns. 'there (says he) upon a tall tower pantagruel recognized the lantern of la rochelle, which gave us an excellent clear light. also we saw the lanterns of pharos, of nauplia, and of the acropolis of athens, sacred to pallas,' and so on; whence i draw the moral that coast-lights are good, yet, multiplied, they complicate navigation." "and apply your moral by erecting yet another!" "fairly retorted. yet how can you object without turning the sword of liberty against herself? have you never heard tell, by the way, of captain byng's midshipman?" "who was he?" "i forget his name, but he started his first night aboard ship by kneeling down and saying his prayers, as his mother had taught him." "i commend the boy," said my uncle. "i also commend him: but the crowd of his fellow-midshipmen found it against the custom of the service and gave him the strap for it. this, however, raised him up a champion in one of the taller lads, who protested that their conduct was tyrannous: 'and,' said he, very generously, 'to-morrow night i too propose to say my prayers. if any one object, he may fight me." thus, being a handy lad with his fists, he established the right of religious liberty on board. by-and-by one or two of the better disposed midshipmen followed his example: by degrees the custom spread along the lower deck, where the dispute had happened in full view of the whole ship's company, seamen and marines; and by the time she reached her port of halifax she hadn't a man on board (outside the ward-room) but said his prayers regularly." "a notable christian triumph," was the vicar's comment. "quite so. at halifax," pursued my father, "captain byng took aboard out of hospital another small midshipman, who on his first night no sooner climbed into his hammock than the entire mess bundled him out of it. 'we would have you to know, young man,' said they, 'that private devotion is the rule on board our ship. it's down on your knees this minute or you get the strap.' "i leave you," my father concluded, "to draw the moral. for my part the tale teaches me that in any struggle for freedom the real danger begins with the moment of victory." said my uncle gervase after a pause, "then these corsicans of yours, brother, stand as yet in no real danger, since the genoese are yet harrying their island with fire and sword." "in no danger at all as regards their liberty," answered my father, poising his knife for a first cut into the saddle of mutton, "though in some danger, i fear me, as regards their queen. they have, however, taken the first and most important step by getting the news carried to me. the next is to raise an army; and the next after that, to suit the plan of invasion to our forces. indeed," wound up my father with another flourish of his carving-knife, "i am in considerable doubt where to make a start." "i hold," said my uncle, eyeing the saddle of mutton, "that you save the gravy by beginning close alongside the chine." "i was thinking for my part that either porto or sagone would serve us best," said my father, meditatively. dinner over, the four of us strolled out abreast into the cool evening and down through the deer-park to the small ionic temple, where billy priske had laid out fruit, wine, and glasses; and there, with no more ceremony than standing to drink my health, the three initiated me into the brotherhood of st. swithun. it gave me a sudden sense of being grown a man, and this sense my father very promptly proceeded to strengthen. "i had hoped," said he, putting down his glass and seating himself, "to delay prosper's novitiate. i had designed, indeed, that after staying his full time at oxford he should make the grand tour with me and prepare himself for his destiny by a leisured study of cities and men. but this morning's news has forced me to reshape my plans. listen-- "in the early autumn of , being then at the court of tuscany, i received sudden and secret orders to repair to corte, the capital of corsica, an island of which i knew nothing beyond what i had learnt in casual talk from the count domenico rivarola, who then acted as its plenipotentiary at florence. he was a man with whom i would willingly have taken counsel, but my orders from england expressly forbade it. rivarola in fact was suspected--and justly as my story will show--of designs of his own for the future of the island; and although, as it will also show, we had done better to consult him, walpole's injunctions were precise that i should by every means keep him in the dark. "the situation--to put it as briefly as i can--was this. for two hundred years or so the island had been ruled by the republic of genoa; and, by common consent, atrociously. for generations the islanders had lived in chronic revolt, under chiefs against whom the genoese--or, to speak more correctly, the bank of genoa--had not scrupled to apply every device, down to secret assassination. _uno avolso non deficit alter_: the corsicans never lacked a leader to replace the fallen: and in the succession was shared by two noble patriots, giafferi and hyacinth paoli. "under their attacks the genoese were slowly but none the less certainly losing their hold on the island. their plight was such that, although no one knew precisely what they would do, every one foresaw that, failing some heroic remedy, they must be driven into the sea, garrison after garrison, and lose corsica altogether; and of all speculations the most probable seemed that they would sell the island, with all its troubles, to france. now, for france to acquire so capital a _point d'appui_ in the mediterranean would obviously be no small inconvenience to england: and therefore our ministers--who had hitherto regarded the struggles of the islanders with indifference--woke up to a sudden interest in corsican affairs. "they had no pretext for interfering openly. but if the corsicans would but take heart and choose themselves a king, that king could at a ripe moment be diplomatically acknowledged; and any interference by france would at once become an act of violent usurpation. (for let me tell you, my friends--the sufferings of a people count as nothing in diplomacy against the least trivial act against a crown.) the nuisance was, the two paolis, giafferi and hyacinth, had no notion whatever of making themselves kings; nor would their devoted followers have tolerated it. yet--as sometimes happens--there was a third man, of greater descent than they, to whom at a pinch the crown might be offered, and with a far more likely chance of the corsicans' acquiescence. this was a count ugo colonna, a middle-aged man, descended from the oldest nobility of the island, and head of his family, which might more properly be called a clan; a patriot, in his way, too, though lacking the fire of the paolis, to whom he had surrendered the leadership while remaining something of a figure-head. in short my business was to confer with him at corte, persuade the corsican chiefs to offer him the crown, and persuade him to accept it. "i arrived then at the capital and found count ugo willing enough, though by no means eager, for the honour. he was, in fact, a mild-mannered gentleman of no great force of character, and frequently interrupted our conference to talk of a bowel-complaint which obviously meant more to him than all the internal complications of europe: and next to his bowel-complaint--but some way after--he prized his popularity, which ever seemed more important than his country's welfare: or belike he confused the two. he was at great pains to impress me with the sacrifices he had made for corsica-- which in the past had been real enough: but he had come to regard them chiefly as matter for public speaking, or excuse for public bowing and lifting of the hat. you know the sort of man, i dare say. to pass that view of life, at his age, is the last test of greatness. "still, the notion of being crowned king of corsica tickled his vanity, and would have tickled it more had he begotten a son to succeed him. it opened new prospects of driving through crowds and bowing and lifting his hat: and he turned pardonably sulky when the two paolis treated my proposals with suspicion. they had an immense respect for england as the leader of the free peoples: but they wanted to know why in tuscany i had not taken their count rivarola into my confidence. in fact they were in communication with their plenipotentiary already, and half way towards another plan, of which very excusably they allowed me to guess nothing. "the upshot was that my interference threw count ugo into a pet with them. he only wanted them to press him; was angry at not being pressed; yet believed that they would repent in time. meanwhile he persuaded me to ride back with him to one of his estates, a palace above the valley of the taravo. "i know not why, but ever the vow of jephthah comes to my mind as i remember how we rode up the valley to count ugo's house in the hour before sunset. 'and behold, his daughter came out to meet him with timbrels and with dances, and she was his only child.' he had made no vow and was incapable, poor man, of keeping any so heroic; and she came out with no timbrel or dance, but soberly enough in her sad-coloured dress of the people. yet she came out while we rode a good mile off, and waited for us as we climbed the last slope, and she was his only child. "how shall i tell you of her? she helped my purpose nothing, for at first she was vehemently opposed to her father's consenting to be king. her politics she derived in part from the reading of plutarch's lives and in part from her own simplicity. they were childish, utterly: yet they put me to shame, for they glowed with the purest love of her country. she has walked on fiery ploughshares since then; she has trodden the furnace, and her beautiful bare feet are seared since they trod the cool vintage with me on the slopes above the taravo. . . . priske, open the first of those bottles, yonder, with the purple seal! here is that very wine, my friends. pour and hold it up to the sunset before you taste. had ever wine such a royal heart? i will tell you how to grow it. choose first of all a vineyard facing south, between mountains and the sea. let it lie so that it drinks the sun the day through; but let the protecting mountains carry perpetual snow to cool the land breeze all the night. having chosen your site, drench it for two hundred years with the blood of freemen; drench it so deep that no tap-root can reach down below its fertilizing virtue. plant it in defeat, and harvest it in hope, grape by grape, fearfully, as though the bloom on each were a state's ransom. next treat it after the recipe of the wine of cos; dropping the grapes singly into vats of sea water, drawn in stone jars from full fifteen fathoms in a spell of halcyon weather and left to stand for the space of one moon. drop them in, one by one, until the water scarcely cover the mass. let stand again for two days, and then call for your maidens to tread them, with hymns, under the new moon. ah, and yet you may miss! for your maidens must be clean, and yet fierce as though they trod out the hearts of men, as indeed they do. a king's daughter should lead them, and they must trample with innocence, and yet with such fury as the prophet's who said 'their blood shall be sprinkled upon my garments, and i will stain all my raiment: for the day of vengeance is in my heart, and the year of my redeemed is come.' . . ." my father lifted his glass. "to thee, emilia, child and queen!" he drank, and, setting down his glass, rested silent for a while, his eyes full of a solemn rapture. "my friends," he went on at length, with lowered voice, "know you that old song? "'methought i walked still to and fro, and from her company could not go-- but when i waked it was not so: in youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.' "all that autumn i spent under her father's roof, and--my leave having been extended--all the winter following. the old count had convinced himself by this time that by accepting the crown he would confer a signal service on corsica, and had opened a lengthy correspondence with the two paolis, whose hesitation to accept this view at once puzzled and annoyed him. for me, i wished the correspondence might be prolonged for ever, for meanwhile i lived my days in company with emilia, and we loved. "i was a fool. yet i cannot tax myself that i played false to duty, though by helping to crown her father i was destroying my own hopes, since as heiress to his throne emilia must be far removed from me. we scarcely thought of this, but lived in our love, we two. so the winter passed and the spring came and the _macchia_ burst into flower. "prosper, you have never set eyes on the _macchia_, the glory of your kingdom. but you shall behold it soon, lad, and smell it--for its fragrance spreads around the island and far out to sea. it belts corsica with verdure and a million million flowers--cistus and myrtle and broom and juniper; clematis and vetch and wild roses run mad. deeper than the tall forests behind it the _macchia_ will hide two lovers, and under the open sky hedge off all the world but their passion . . . in the _macchia_ we roamed together, day after day, and forgot the world; forgot all but honour; for she, my lady, was a child of sixteen, and as her knight i worshipped her. ah, those days! those scented days! "but while we loved and count ugo wrote letters, the two paolis were doing; and by-and-by they played the strangest stroke in all corsica's history. that spring, at aleria on the east coast, there landed a man of whom the corsican's had never heard. he came out of nowhere with a single ship and less than a score of attendants--to be precise, two officers, a priest, a secretary, a major-domo, an under-steward, a cook, three tunisian slaves, and six lackeys. he had sailed from algiers, with a brief rest in the port of leghorn, and he stepped ashore in turkish dress, with scarlet-lined cloak, turban, and scimetar. he called himself theodore, a baron of westphalia, and he brought with him a ship-load of arms and ammunition, a thousand zechins of tunis, and letters from half a dozen of the great powers promising assistance. whether these were genuine or not, i cannot tell you. "led by the two paolis--this is no fairy tale, my friends--the corsicans welcomed and proclaimed him king, without even waiting for despatches from count rivarola (who had negotiated) to inform them of the terms agreed upon. they led him in triumph to corte, and there, in their ancient capital, crowned and anointed him. he gave laws, issued edicts, struck money, distributed rewards. he put himself in person at the head of the militia, and blocked up the genoese in their fortified towns. for a few months he swept the island like a conqueror. "all this, as you may suppose, utterly disconcerted the count ugo colonna, who saw his dreams topple at one stroke into the dust. but the chiefs found a way to reconcile him. their new king theodore must marry and found a dynasty. let a bride be found for him in colonna's daughter, and let children be born to him of the best blood in corsica. "the count recovered his good temper: his spirits rose at a bound: he embraced the offer. his grandsons should be kings of corsica. and she--my emilia-- "we met once only after her father had broken the news to her. he had not asked her consent; he had told her, in a flutter of pride, that this thing must be, and for her country's sake. she came to me, in the short dusk, upon the terrace overlooking the taravo. she was of heart too heroic to linger out our agony. in the dusk she stretched out both hands--ah, god, the child she looked! so helpless, so brave!--and i caught them and kissed them. then she was gone. "a week later they married her to king theodore in the cathedral of corte, and crowned her beside him. before the winter he left the island and sailed to holland to raise moneys! for the promises of the great powers had come to nothing, even if they were genuinely given. for myself, i had bidden good-bye to corsica and sailed for tuscany on the same day that emilia was married. "now i must tell you that on the eve of sailing i wrote a letter to the queen--as queen she would be by the time it reached her--wishing her all happiness, and adding that if, in the time to come, fate should bring her into poverty or danger, my estate and my life would ever be at her service. to this i received, as i had expected, no answer: nor did she, if ever she received it, impart its contents to her husband. he--the rascal--had a genius for borrowing, and yet 'twas i that had to begin by seeking him out to feed him with money. "news came to me that he was in straits in holland, and had for a year been drumming the banks in vain: also that the genoese, whom his incursion had merely confounded, were beginning to lift their heads and take the offensive again. at first he had terrified them like a mad dog; the one expedient they could hit on was to set a price upon his head. certainly he had gifts. he contrived--and by sheer audacity, mark you, backed by a fine presence--to drive them into such a panic that, months after he had sailed, they were petitioning france to send over troops to help them. the corsicans sent a counter-embassy. 'if,' said they to king louis, 'your majesty force us to yield to genoa, then let us drink this bitter cup to the health of the most christian king, and die.' king louis admired the speech but nibbled at the opportunity. our own government meanwhile had either lost heart or suffered itself to be persuaded by the genoese minister in london. in the july after my emilia's marriage, our late queen caroline, as regent for the time of great britain, issued a proclamation forbidding any subject of king george to furnish arms or provisions to the corsican malcontents. "and now you know, my dear prosper, why i cast away the career on which i had started with some ambition. my lady lacked help, which as a british subject i was prohibited from offering. my conscience allowed me to disobey: but not to disobey and eat his majesty's bread. i flung up my post, and as a private man hunted across europe for king theodore." i ran him to earth in amsterdam. he was in handsome lodgings, but penniless. it was the first time i had conversed with him; and he, i believe, had never seen my face. i found him affable, specious, sanguine, but hollow as a drum. for _her_ sake i took up and renewed the campaign among the jew bankers. "to be short, he sailed back for corsica in a well-found ship, with cannon and ammunition on board, and some specie--the whole cargo worth between twenty and thirty thousand pounds. he made a landing at tavagna and threw in almost all his warlike stores. his wife hurried to meet him: but after a week, finding that the french were pouring troops into the island, and becoming (they tell me) suddenly nervous of the price on his head, he sailed away almost without warning. they say also that on the passage he murdered the man whom his creditors had forced him to take as supercargo, sold the vessel at leghorn, and made off with the specie--no penny of which had reached his queen or his poor subjects. she--sad childless soul-- driven with her chiefs and counsellors into the mountains before the combined french and genoese, escaped a year later to tuscany, and hid herself with her sorrows in a religious house ten miles from florence. "so ended this brief reign: and you, prosper, have met the chief actor in it. a very few words will tell the rest. the french overran the island until ' , when the business of the austrian succession forced them to withdraw their troops and leave the genoese once more face to face with the islanders. promptly these rose again. giafferi and hyacinth paoli had fled to naples; hyacinth with two sons, pascal and clement, whom he trained there (as i am told) in all the liberal arts and in undying hatred of the genoese. these two lads, returning to the island, took up their father's fight and have maintained it, with fair success as i learn. from parts of the island they must have completely extruded the enemy for a while; since my lady made bold, four years ago, to settle these visitors of ours in her palace above the taravo. it would appear, however, that the genoese have gathered head again, and his business with them may explain why pascal paoli has not answered the letter i addressed to him, these eight months since, notifying my son's claim upon the succession. or he may have reckoned it indecent of me to address him in lieu of his queen, who had returned to the island. i had not heard of her return. i heard of it to-day for the first time, and of her peril, which shall hurry us ten times faster than our pretensions. prosper," my father concluded, "we must invade corsica, and at once." "good lord!" exclaimed my uncle. "how!" "in a ship," my father answered him as simply. "how otherwise?" said my uncle, "but where is your ship?" answered my father, "if you will but step outside and pick up one of these fir-cones in the grass, you can almost toss it on to her deck. she is called the _gauntlet_, and her skipper is captain jo pomery. i might have racked my brain for a month to find such a skipper or a ship so well found and happily named as this which providence has brought to my door. i attach particular importance to the name of a ship." my uncle ran his hands through his hair. "but to invade a kingdom," he protested, "you will need also an army!" "certainly. i must find one." "but where?" "it must be somewhere in the neighbourhood, and within twenty-four hours," replied my father imperturbably. "time presses." "but an army must be paid. you have not only to raise one, but to find the money to support it." "you put me in mind of an old german tale," said my father, helping himself to wine. "once upon a time there were three brothers--but since, my dear gervase, you show signs of impatience, i will confine myself to the last and luckiest one. on his travels, which i will not pause to describe in detail, he acquired three gifts--a knapsack which, when opened, discharged a regiment of grenadiers; a cloth which, when spread, was covered with a meal; and a purse which, when shaken, filled itself with money." "will you be serious, brother?" cried my uncle. "i am entirely serious!" answered my father. "the problem of an army and its pay i propose to solve by enlisting volunteers; and the difficulty of feeding my troops (i had forgotten it and thank you for reminding me) will be minimized by enlisting as few as possible. myself and prosper make two; priske, here, three; i would fain have you accompany us, gervase, but the estate cannot spare you. let me see--" he drummed for a moment on the table with his fingers. "we ought to have four more at least, to make a show: and seven is a lucky number." "you seriously design," my uncle demanded, "to invade the island of corsica with an army of seven persons?" "most seriously i do. for consider. to begin with, this theodore-- a vain hollow man--brought but sixteen, including many non-combatants, and yet succeeded in winning a crown. you will allow that to win a crown is a harder feat than to succeed to one. on what reckoning then, or by what rule-of-three sum, should prosper, who goes to claim what already belongs to him, need more than seven? "further," my father continued, "it may well be argued that the fewer he takes the better; since we sail not against the corsicans but against their foes, and therefore should count on finding in every corsican a soldier for our standard. "thirdly, the corsicans are a touchy race, whom it would be impolitic to offend with a show of foreign strength. "fourthly, we must look a little beyond the immediate enterprise, and not (if we can help it) saddle prosper's kingdom with a standing army. for, as bacon advises, that state stands in danger whose warriors remain in a body and are used to donatives; whereof we see examples in the turk's janissaries and the pretorian bands of rome. "and fifthly, we have neither the time nor the money to collect a stronger force. the occasion presses: and _fronte capillata est, post haec occasio calva_. time turns a bald head to us if we miss our moment to catch him by the forelock." "the abantes," put in mr. grylls, "practised the direct contrary: of whom homer tells us that they shaved the forepart of their heads, the reason being that their enemies might not grip them by the hair in close fighting. i regret, my dear sir john, you never warned me that you designed prosper for a military career. we might have bestowed more attention on the warlike customs and operations of the ancients." my father sipped his wine and regarded the vicar benevolently. for closest friends he had two of the most irrelevant thinkers on earth and he delighted to distinguish between their irrelevancies. "but i would not," he continued, "have you doubt that the prime cause of our expedition is to deliver my lady from the genoese; or believe that prosper will press his claims unless she acknowledge them." "i am wondering," said my uncle, "where you will find your other four men." "prosper and i will provide them to-morrow," my father answered, with a careless glance at me. "and now, my friends, we have talked over-long of corsica and nothing as yet of that companionship which brings us here--it may be for the last time. priske, you may open another four bottles and leave us. gervase, take down the book from the cupboard and let the vicar read to us while the light allows." "the marker tells me," said the vicar, taking the book and opening it, "that we left in the midst of chapter --_on the luce or pike_. "ay, and so i remember," my uncle agreed. the vicar began to read-- "'and for your dead bait for a pike, for that you may be taught by one day's going a-fishing with me or any other body that fishes for him; for the baiting of your hook with a dead gudgeon or a roach and moving it up and down the water is too easy a thing to take up any time to direct you to do it. and yet, because i cut you short in that, i will commute for it by telling you that that was told me for a secret. it is this: dissolve gum of ivy in oil of spike, and therewith anoint your dead bait for a pike, and then cast it into a likely place, and when it has lain a short time at the bottom, draw it towards the top of the water and so up the stream, and it is more than likely that you have a pike follow with more than common eagerness. and some affirm that any bait anointed with the marrow of the thigh-bone of a heron is a great temptation to any fish. "'these have not been tried by me, but told me by a friend of mine, that pretended to do me a courtesy. but if this direction to catch a pike thus do you no good, yet i am certain this direction how to roast him when he is caught is choicely good--'" "upon my soul, brother," interrupted my uncle gervase, removing the pipe from his mouth, "this reads like a direction for the taking of corsica." chapter vii. the company of the rose. "alway be merry if thou may, but waste not thy good alway: have hat of floures fresh as may, chapelet of roses of whitsonday for sich array ne costneth but lyte." _romaunt of the rose_. _somerset_. "let him that is no coward pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me." _first part of king henry vi_. early next morning i was returning, a rosebud in my hand, from the neglected garden to the east of the house, when i spied my father coming towards me along the terraces, and at once felt my ears redden. "good morning, lad!" he hailed. "but where is mine?" i turned back in silence and picked a bud for him. "so," said i, "'twas you, sir, after all, that wrote the advertisement?" "hey?" he answered. "i? certainly not. i noted it and sent you the news-sheet in half a hope that you had been the advertiser." "you were mistaken, sir." he halted and rubbed his chin. "then who the devil can he be, i wonder? well, we shall discover." "you ride to falmouth this morning?" "we have an army to collect," he answered, gripping me not unkindly by the shoulder. we rode into falmouth side by side in silence, billy priske following by my father's command, and each with a red rose pinned to the flap of his hat. upon the way we talked, mainly of the trappist brothers, and of dom basilio, who (it seemed) had at one time been an agent of the british legation at florence, and in particular had carried my father's reports and instructions to and fro between corsica and that city, avoiding the vigilance of the genoese. "a subtle fellow," was my father's judgment, "and, as i gave him credit, in the matter of conscience as null as cellini himself: the last man in the world to turn religious. but the longer you live the more cause will you find to wonder at the divine spirit which bloweth where it listeth. take these methodists, who are to preach in falmouth to-day. i have seen wesley, and stood once for an hour listening to him. for aught i could discover he had no great eloquence. he said little that his audience might not have heard any sunday in their own churches. his voice was hoarse from overwork, and his manner by no means winning. yet i saw many notorious ruffians sobbing about him like children: some even throwing themselves on the ground and writhing, like the demoniacs of scripture. the secret was, he spoke with authority: and the secret again was a certain kingly neglect of trifles--he appeared not to see those signs by which other men judge their neighbours or themselves to be past help. or take these trappists: dom basilio tells me that more than half of them are ex-soldiers and rough at that. to be sure i can understand why, having once turned religious, an old soldier runs to the trappist rule. he has been bred under discipline, and has to rely on discipline. 'tis what he understands, and the harder he gets it the more good he feels himself getting--" we were nearing the town by the way of arwennack, and just here a turn of the road brought us in sight of a whitewashed cottage and put a period to my father's discourse, as a garden gate flew open and out into the highway ran a lean young man with an angry woman in pursuit. his shoulders were bent and he put up both hands to ward off her clutch. but in the middle of the road she gripped him by the collar and caught him two sound cuffs on the nape of the neck. she turned as we rode up. "the villain!" she cried, still keeping her grip. "oh, protect me from such villains!" "but, my good woman," remonstrated my father, reining up, "it scarcely appears that you need protecting. who is this man?" "a thief, your honour! didn't i catch him prowling into my garden? and isn't it for him to say what his business was? i put it to your honour"--here she caught the poor wretch another cuff--"what honest business took him into my garden, and me left a widow-woman these sixteen years?" "ai-ee!" cried the accused, still shielding his neck and cowering in the dust--a thin ragged windlestraw of a youth, flaxen-headed, hatchet-faced, with eyes set like a hare's. "have pity on me sirs, and take her off!" "let him stand up," my father commanded. "and you sir, tell me-- what were you seeking in this good woman's garden?" "a rose, sir--hear my defence!--a rose only, a small rose!" his voice was high and cracked, and he flung his hands out extravagantly. "oh, york and lancaster--if you will excuse me, gentlemen--that i should suffer this for a mere rose? the day only just begun too! and why, sirs, was i seeking a rose? ay, there's the rub." he folded his arms dramatically and nodded at the woman. "there's the gall and bitterness, the worm in the fruit, the peculiar irony--if you'll allow me to say so--of this distressing affair. listen, madam! if i wanted a rose of you, 'twas for your whole sex's sake: your sex's, madam--every one of whom was, up to five or six months ago, the object with me of something very nearly allied to worship." "lord help the creature!" cried the woman. "what's he telling about? and what have you to do with my sex, young man? which is what the lord made it." "it is _not_, madam. make no mistake about it: 'twere blasphemy to think so. but speaking generally, what i--as a man--have to do with your sex is to protect it." "a nice sort of protector you'd make!" she retorted, planting her knuckles on her hips and eyeing him contemptuously. "i am a beginner, madam, and have much to learn. but you shall not discourage me from protecting you, though you deny me the rose which was to have been my emblem. every woman is a rose, madam, as says the poet dunbar-- "'sweet rose of vertew and of gentilness, richest in bonty and in bewty clear and every vertew that is werrit dear, except only that ye are merciless--" "you take me? 'merciless,' madam?" "i don't understand a word," said she, puzzled and angry. "he was a scotsman: and you find it a far cry to loch awe. well, well--to resume-- "'into your garth this day i did pursue--'" "by 'garth' meaning 'garden': a good word, and why the devil it should be obsolescent is more than i can tell you--" but here my father cut him short. "my good mrs. ede," said he, turning to the woman, "i believe this young man intended no harm to you and very little to your garden. you are quits with him at any rate. take this shilling, step inside, and choose him a fair red rose for the price and also in token of your forgiveness, while he picks up his hat which is lying yonder in the dust." "hey?" the youth started back, for the first time perceiving the badges in our hats. "are you too, sirs, of this company of the rose?" his face fell, but with an effort he recovered himself and smiled. "you are not disappointed, i hope?" inquired my father. "why--to tell you the truth, sir--i had looked for a rendezvous of careless jolly fellows. for cavaliers of your quality it never occurred to me to bargain." he held up a flap of his ragged coat and shook it ruefully. my father frowned. "and i, sir, am disappointed. a moment since i took you for an original; but it appears you share our common english vice of looking at the world like a lackey." "i, sir?" the young man waved a hand. "i am original? give me leave to assure you that this island contains no more servile tradesman. why, my lord--for i take it i speak to a gentleman of title?--" "of the very humblest, sir. i am a plain knight bachelor." the original cringed elaborately, rubbing his hands. "a title is a title. well, sir, as i was about to say, i worship a lord, but my whole soul is bound up in a ledger: and hence (so to speak) these tears: hence the disreputable garb in which you behold me. if i may walk beside you, sir, after this good woman has fetched me the rose-- thank you, madam--and provided me with a pin from the _chevaux de frise_ in her bodice--and again, madam, i thank you: you wear the very cuirass of matronly virtue--i should enjoy, sir, to tell you my history. it is a somewhat curious one." "i feel sure, sir"--my father bowed to him from the saddle--"it will lose nothing in the telling." the young man, having fastened the rose in his hat, bade adieu to his late assailant with a bow; waved a hand to her; lifted his hat a second time; turned after us and, falling into stride by my father's stirrup, forthwith plunged into his story. the travels of phineas fett. "my name, sir, is phineas fett--" he paused. "i don't know how it may strike you: but in my infant ears it ever seemed to forebode something in the admiralty--a comfortable post, carrying no fame with it, but moderately lucrative. in wilder flights my fancy has hovered over the pipe office (addison, sir, was a fine writer; though a bit of a prig, between you and me)." "there was a phineas pett, a great shipbuilder for the navy in king charles the second's time. i believe, too, he had a son christened after him, who became a commissioner of the navy." "you don't say so! the mere accident of a letter . . . but it proves the accuracy of our childish instincts. a commissionership--whatever the duties it may carry--would be the very thing, or a storekeepership, with a number of ledgers: it being understood that shipping formed my background, in what i believe is nautically termed the offing. i know not what exact distance constitutes an offing. my imagination ever placed it within sight and sufficiently near the scene of my occupation to pervade it with an odour of hemp and tar." he paused again, glanced up at my father, and--on a nod of encouragement--continued-- "the nuisance is, i was born in the midlands--to be precise, at west bromicheham--the son of a well-to-do manufacturer of artificial jewellery. the only whiff of the brine that ever penetrated my father's office came wafted through an off-channel of his trade. he did an intermittent business in the gilding of small idols, to be shipped overseas and traded as objects of worship among the negroes of the american plantations. jewellery, however, was his stand-by. in the manufacture of meretricious ware he had a plausibility amounting to genius, in the disposing of it a talent for hard bargains; and the two together had landed him in affluence. well, sir, being headed off my boyhood's dream by the geographical inconvenience of warwickshire--for a lad may run away to be a sailor, sir, but the devil take me if ever i heard of one running off to be a supercargo, and even this lay a bit beyond my ambition--i recoiled upon a passion to enter my father's business and increase the already tidy patrimonial pile. "but here comes in the cross of my destiny. my father, sir, had secretly cherished dreams of raising me above his own station. to him a gentleman--and he ridiculously hoped to make me one--was a fellow above working for his living. he scoffed at my enthusiasm for trade, and at length he sent for me and in tones that brooked no denial commanded me to learn the violin. "never shall i forget the chill of heart with which i received that fatal mandate. i have no ear for music, sir. in tenderer years indeed i had made essay upon the jew's harp, but had relinquished it without a sigh. "'the violin!' i cried, though the words choked me. 'father, anything but that! if it were the violoncello, now--' "but he cut me short in cold incisive accents. 'the violin, or you are no son of mine.' "i fled from the house, my home no longer. on the way to the front door i had sufficient presence of mind, and no more, to make a _detour_ to the larder and possess myself of the longest joint; which my heated judgment, confusing temporal with linear measurement, commended to me as the most lasting. it proved to be a shin of beef: unnutritious except for soup (and i carried no tureen), useless as an object of barter. with this and two half-crowns in my pocket i slammed the front-door behind me and faced the future." mr. fett paused impressively. "and you call me an original, sir!" he went on in accents of reproach; "me, who started in life with two half-crowns in my pocket, the conventional outfit for a career of commercial success!" "they have carried you all the way to falmouth!" "the one of them carried me so far as to coventry, sir: where, finding a fair in progress as i passed through the town, and falling in with three bridesmaids who had missed their wedding-party in the crowd, i spent the other in treating them to the hobby-horses at one halfpenny a ride. four halfpennies--there were four of us--make twopence, and two's into thirty are fifteen rides; a bold investment of capital, and undertaken (i will confess it) not only to solace the fair ones but to ingratiate myself with the fellow who turned the handle of the machine. to him i applied for a job. he had none to offer, but introduced me to a company of strolling players who (as fortune would have it) were on the point of presenting _hamlet_ with a _dramatis_ personae decimated by coventry ale. they cast me for 'polonius' and some other odds and ends. you may remember, sir, that at one point the prince of denmark is instructed to 'enter reading.' that stage direction i caught at, and by a happy 'improvisation' spread it over the entire play. not as 'polonius' only, but as `bernardo' upon the midnight platform, as 'osric,' as 'fortinbras,' as the 'second gravedigger,' as one of the odd players--always i entered reading. in my great scene with the prince we entered reading together. they killed me, still reading, behind the arras; and at a late hour i supped with the company on irish stew; for, incensed by these novelties, the audience had raided a greengrocer's shop between the third and fourth acts and thereafter rained their criticism upon me in the form of cabbages and various esculent roots which we collected each time the curtain fell. "every cloud, sir, has a silver lining. i continued long enough with this company to learn that in our country an actor need never die of scurvy. but i weary you with my adventures, of which indeed i am yet in the first chapter." "you shall rehearse them on another occasion. but will you at least tell us how you came to falmouth?" "why, in the simplest manner in the world. a fortnight since i happened to be sitting in the stocks, in the absurd but accursed town of bovey tracey in devonshire. my companion--for the machine discommodated two--was a fiddler, convicted (like myself) of vagrancy; a bottle-nosed man, who took the situation with such phlegm as only experience can breed, and munched a sausage under the commonalty's gaze. 'good lord,' said i to myself, eyeing him, 'and to think that he with my chances, or i with his taste for music, might be driving at this moment in a coach and pair!' "'sir,' said i, 'are you attached to that instrument of yours?' 'so deeply,' he answered, 'that, like nero, i could fiddle if bovey tracey were burning at this moment.' 'you can perform on it creditably?' i asked. 'in a fashion to bring tears to your eyes,' he answered me, and offered to prove his words. 'not for worlds,' said i; 'but it grieves me to think how fortune distributes her favours.' i told him of my father. 'i should like to make the acquaintance of such a man,' said he. 'you shall,' said i; and fetching a pencil and a scrap of paper out of my pocket, i wrote as follows:-- "_to mr. jonathan fett, manufacturer of flams, w. bromicheham_." "the public stocks, bovey tracey, devon. june st (longest day)." "dear father, adopt bearer, in lieu of your affectionate son, phineas." "the fiddler at first suspected a jest: but on my repeated assurances took the letter thankfully, and at parting, on our release, pressed on me the end of his sausage wrapped in a piece of newspaper. i ate the sausage moodily and was about to throw the paper away when my eye caught sight of an advertisement in the torn left-hand corner. i read it, and my mind was made up. i am here, and (thanks to you, sir) with a rose in my hat." by the time mr. fett concluded his narrative we had reached the outskirts of the town, and found ourselves in a traffic which, converging upon the market strand from every side-street and alley, at once carried us along with it and constrained us to a walking pace. my father, finding the throng on the market strand too dense for our horses, turned aside to the three cups inn across the street, gave them over to the ostler, and led us upstairs to a window which overlooked the gathering. the market strand at falmouth is an open oblong space, not very wide, leading off the main street to the water's edge, and terminating in steps where as a rule the watermen wait to take off passengers to the packets. a lamp-post stands in the middle of it, and by the base of this the preachers--a grey-headed man and two women in ugly bonnets-- were already assembled, with but a foot or two dividing them from the crowd. close behind the lamp-post stood a knot of men conversing together one of whom stepped forward for a word with the grey-headed preacher. he wore a rose in his hat, and at sight of him my heart gave a wild incredulous leap. it was nat fiennes! i pushed past my father and flung the open window still wider. the grey-haired preacher had opened the bible in his hand and was climbing the stone base of the lamp-post when a handful of filth struck the back of the book and bespattered his face. i saw nat whip out his sword and swing about angrily in the direction of the shot, while the two women laid hands on either arm to check him; and at the same moment my father spoke up sharply in my ear. "tumble out, lad," he commanded. "we are in bare time." i vaulted over the window-ledge and dropped into the street; my father after me, and mr. fett and billy close behind. indeed, that first shot had but given the signal for a general engagement; and as we picked ourselves up and thrust our way into the crowd, a whole volley of filth bespattered the group of methodists. in particular i noted the man with whom nat fiennes, a minute since, had been conversing--a little bald-headed fellow of about fifty-five or sixty, in a suit of black which, even at thirty paces distant, showed rusty in the sunshine. an egg had broken against his forehead, and the yellow of it trickled down over his eyes; yet he stood, hat in hand, neither yielding pace nor offering to resist. nat, less patient, had made a rush upon the crowd, which had closed around and swallowed him from sight. by its violent swaying he was giving it something to digest. one of the two women shrank terrified by the base of the lamp-post. the other--a virago to look at, with eyes that glared from under the pent of her black bonnet--had pulled the grey-headed preacher down by his coat-tails, and, mounting in his room, clung with an arm around the lamp-post and defied the persecutors. "why am i here, friends?" she challenged them. "o generation of vipers, why am i here? answer me, you men of belial--you, whose fathers slew the prophets! because i glory to suffer for the right; because to turn the other cheek is a christian's duty, and as a christian woman i'll turn it though you were twice the number, and not be afraid what man can do unto me." now, my father was well known in falmouth and pretty generally held in awe. at sight of him advancing, the throng fell back and gave us passage in a sudden lull which reached even to where nat fiennes struggled in the grasp of a dozen longshoremen who were hailing him to the quay's edge, to fling him over. he broke loose, and before they could seize him again came staggering back, panting and dishevelled. "prosper!" he cried, catching sight of me, and grinning delightedly all over his muddied face. "i knew you would come! and your father, too? splendid, lad, splendid?" "ye men of falmouth"--the woman by the lamp-post lifted her voice more shrilly--"what shall i testify of the hardness of your hearts? shall i testify that your mayor sending his crier round, has threatened to whip us through falmouth streets at the cart-tail? shall i testify--" but here my father lifted a hand. "gently, madam; gently, i am not defending his worship if he issued any such proclamation; but 'tis an ancient punishment for scolds, and i advise you to lend him no colour of excuse." "and who may _you_ be, sir?" she demanded, looking down, angry, but checked in spite of herself by my father's air of authority. "one," he answered, "who has come to see fair play, and who has--as you may see--for the moment some little influence with this rabble. i will continue to exert it while i can, if you on your part will forbear to provoke; for the tongue, madam, has its missiles as well as the hands." "i thank you, sir," said the grey-headed preacher, stepping forward and thrusting a book into my father's hands. "we had best begin with a hymn, i think. i have some experience of the softening power of music on these occasions." "we will sing," announced the woman, "that beautiful hymn beginning, 'into a world of ruffians sent.' common metre, my friends, and sister tresize will give the pitch: "into a world of ruffians sent, i walk on hostile ground--" my father bared his head and opened the hymn-book; the rest of us, bareheaded too, ranged ourselves beside him; and so we stood facing the mob while the verses were sung in comparative quiet. the words might be provocative, but few heard them. the tune commanded an audience, as in cornwall a tune usually will. the true secret of the spell, however, lay in my father's presence and bearing. a british crowd does not easily attack one whom it knows as a neighbour and born superior; and it paid homage now to one who, having earned it all his life, carelessly took it for granted. "begad, sir," said mr. fett in my ear, "and the books say that the feudal system is dead in england! why, here's the very flower of it! damme, though, the old gentleman is splendid; superlative, sir; it's ten to one against coriolanus, and no takers. between ourselves, coriolanus was a pretty fellow, but talked too much. phocion, sir? did i hear you mention phocion?" "you did not," i answered. "and quite right," said he; "with your father running, i wouldn't back phocion for a place. all the same," mr. fett admitted, "this is what mr. gray of peterhouse, cambridge, would call a fearful joy, and i'd be thankful for a distant prospect of the way out of it." "indeed, sir"--my father, overhearing this, turned to him affably-- "you touch the weak spot. for the moment i see no way out of the situation, nor any chance but to prolong it; and even this," he added, "will not be easy unless the lady on the lamp-post sensibly alters the tone of her discourse." indeed, at the conclusion of the singing she had started again to address the crowd, albeit--acting on my father's hint--in more moderate tones, and even, as i thought, somewhat tepidly. her theme was what she called convictions of sin, of which by her own account she had wrestled with a surprising quantity; but in the rehearsal of them, though fluent, she seemed to lose heart as her hearers relaxed their attention. "confound the woman!" grumbled my father. "she had done better, after all, to continue frantic. the crowd came to be amused, and is growing restive again." "sir," interposed mr. fett, "give me leave to assure you that an audience may be amused and yet throw things. were this the time and place for reminiscences, i could tell you a tale of stony stratford (appropriately so-called, sir), where, as 'juba' in mr. addison's tragedy of _cato_, for two hours i piled the pelion of passion upon the ossa of elocutionary correctness, still without surmounting the zone of plant life; which in the arts, sir, must extend higher than geographers concede. and yet i evoked laughter; from which i may conclude that my efforts amused. the great demosthenes, sir, practised declamation with his mouth full of pebbles--for retaliatory purposes, i have sometimes thought." here my father, who had been paying no attention to mr. fett's discourse, interrupted it with a sharp but joyful exclamation; and glancing towards him i saw his face clear of anxiety. "we are safe," he announced quietly, nodding in the direction of the three cups. "what we wanted was a fool, and we have found him." chapter viii. tribulations of a mayor "like the mayor of falmouth, who thanked god when the town jail was enlarged."--_old byword_. his nod was levelled at a horseman who had ridden down the street and was pressing upon the outskirts of the crowd: and this was no less a dignitary than the mayor of falmouth, preceded on foot by a beadle and two mace-bearers, all three of them shouting "way! make way for the mayor!" with such effect that in less than half a minute the crowd had divided itself to form a lane for them. "eh? eh? what is this? what is the meaning of all this?" demanded his worship, magisterially, as, having drawn rein, he fumbled in his tail pocket, drew forth a pair of horn spectacles, adjusted them on his nose, and glared round upon the throng. "that, sir," answered my father, stepping forward, "is what we are waiting to learn." "sir john constantine?" the mayor bowed from his saddle. "you will pardon me, sir john, that for the moment i missed to recognize you. the fact is, i suffer, sir john, from some--er--shortness of sight: a grave inconvenience, at times, to one in my position." "indeed?" said my father, gravely. "and yet, as i have heard, 'tis a malady most incident to borough magistrates." "you don't say so?" the mayor considered this for a moment. "the visitations of providence are indeed inscrutable, sir john. it would give me pleasure to discuss them with you, on some--er--more suitable occasion, if i might have the honour. but as i was about to say, i am delighted to see you, sir john: your presence here will strengthen my hands in dealing with this--er--unlawful assembly." "_is_ this an unlawful assembly?" my father asked. "it is worse, sir john; it is far worse. i have been studying the law, and the law admits of no dubiety. it is unlawful assembly where three or more persons meet together to carry out some private enterprise in circumstances calculated to excite alarm. mark those words, sir john--" some private enterprise. "when the enterprise is not private but meant to redress a public grievance, or to reform religion, the offence becomes high treason." "does the law indeed say so?" "it does, sir john. the law, let me tell you, is very fierce against any reforming of religion. nay more, sir john, under the first of king george the first, statute two--i forget what chapter--by the act commonly called the riot act, it is enacted that if a dozen or more go about reforming of religion or otherwise upsetting the public peace and refuse to go about their business within the space of one hour after i tell 'em to, the same becomes felony without benefit of clergy." "good lord!" exclaimed billy priske, pulling off his hat and eyeing the rose in its band. "and further," his worship continued, "any man wearing the badge or ensign of the rioters shall himself be considered a rioter without benefit of clergy." all this while the crowd had been pressing closer and closer upon us, under compulsion (as it seemed) of reinforcements from the waterside, the purlieus of the market strand being, by now, so crowded that men and women were crying out for room. at this moment, glancing across the square, i was puzzled to see a woman leaning forth from a first-floor window and dropping handfuls of artificial flowers upon the heads of the throng. while i watched, she retired--her hands being empty--came back with a band-box, and scattered its contents broadcast, pausing to blow a kiss towards the mayor. i plucked my father's sleeve to call his attention to this; but he and the mayor were engaged in argument, his worship maintaining that the methodists--and my father that their assailants--were the prime disturbers of the peace. "and how, pray," asked my father, "are these poor women to disperse, if your ruffians won't let 'em?" "as to that, sir, you shall see," promised the mayor, and turned to the town crier. "john sprott, call silence. make as much noise about it as you can, john sprott. and you, nandy daddo, catch hold of my horse's bridle here." he rose in his stirrups and, searching again in his tail-pocket, drew forth a roll of paper. "silence!" bawled the crier. "louder, if you please, john sprott: louder, if you can manage it! and say 'in the name of king george,' john sprott; and wind up with 'god save the king.' for without 'god save the king' 'tis no riot, and a man cannot be hanged for it. so be very particular to say 'god save the king,' john sprott, and put 'em all in the wrong." john sprott bawled again, and this time achieved the whole formula. "that's better, john sprott. and you--" his worship turned upon the methodists, "you just listen to this, now--" "_our sovereign lord the king--_" here, as the methodists stood before him with folded hands, a lump of filth flew past the mayor's ear and bespattered the lamp-post. "damme, who did that?" his worship demanded. "john sprott, who threw that muck?" "i don't know the man's name, your worship: but he's yonder, there, in a striped shirt open at the neck, with a little round hat on the back of his head; and, what's more, i see'd him do it." "then take down his description, john sprott, and write that at the words 'our sovereign lord' he shied a lump of muck." john sprott pulled out a note-book and entered the offence. "and after 'muck,' john sprott, write 'god save the king.' i don't know that 'tis necessary, but you'll be on the safe side." his worship unfolded the proclamation again, cleared his throat, and resumed: "_our sovereign lord the king chargeth and commandeth all persons, being assembled, immediately to disperse themselves and peacefully to depart to their habitations or to their lawful business, upon the pains contained in the act made in the first year of george the first for preventing--_" a handful of more or less liquid mud here took him on the nape of the neck and splashed over the paper which he held in both hands. "arrest that man!" he shouted, bouncing about in a fury. at the same moment my father gripped my elbow as a volley of missiles darkened the air, and we fell back--all the company of the rose--shoulder to shoulder, to protect the methodists, as a small but solid phalanx of men came driving through the crowd with mischief in their faces. "but wait awhile! wait awhile!" called out billy priske, as my father plucked out his sword. "these be no enemies, master, to us or the methodists, but honest sea-fardingers--packet-men all--and, look you, with roses in their hats!" "roses? faith, and so they have!" cried my father, lowering his guard. "but what the devil, then, is the meaning of it?" he was answered on the moment. the official whom his worship called nandy daddo had made a rush into the crowd, charging it with his mace as with a battering-ram, and was in the act of clutching the man who had thrown the filth, when the phalanx of packet-men broke through and bore him down. a moment later i saw his gold-laced hat fly skimming over the heads of the throng, and his mace wrenched from him and held aloft in the hands of a red-faced man, who flourished it twice and rushed upon the mayor, shouting at the same time with all his lungs: "townshends! this way, townshends!" whereat the packet-men cheered and pressed after him, driving the crowd of falmouth to right and left. clearly what mischief they meant was intended for the mayor: and the mayor, for a short-sighted man, detected this very promptly. also he showed surprising agility in tumbling out of his saddle; which he had scarcely done before the crupper resounded with a whack, of which one of the borough maces bears an eloquent dent to this day. the mayor, catching his toe in the stirrup as he slipped off, staggered and fell at our feet. but the body of his horse, interposed between him and the rioters, protected him for an instant, and in that instant my father and nat fiennes dragged him up and thrust him to the rear while we faced the assault. for now, and without a word said, the methodists were forgotten, and we of the rose were standing for law and order against this other company of the rose, of whose quarrel we knew nothing at all. our attitude indeed, and the sight of drawn swords (to oppose which they had no weapons but short cudgels), appeared to take them aback for the moment. the press, however, closing on us, as we backed to cover the mayor's retreat, offered less and less occasion for sword play; and, the seamen still advancing and outnumbering us by about three to one, the whole affair began to wear an ugly look. at this juncture relief came to us in the strangest fashion. i had clean forgotten the little methodist man in black; whom, to be sure, i had no occasion to remember but for the quiet resolution of his carriage as he had stood with the burst egg trickling over his face. but now, to the surprise of us all, he sprang forward upon the second mace-bearer, snatched the mace from his hand and laid about him in a sudden frenzy; at the first blow, delivered at unawares, catching the ringleader on the crown and felling him like an ox. for a second, perhaps, he stared, amazed at his own prowess, and with that the lust of battle seized him. he rained blows; yet with cunning, running forth and back into our ranks as each was delivered; and between the blows he capered, uttering shrill inarticulate cries. this diversion indeed saved us. for the rabble, pressing up to see the fun, left a space more or less clear on the far side of the market strand, and for this space we stampeded, dragging the mayor along with us. the next thing i remember was fighting side by side with nat before a door beneath the window where i had seen the woman throwing down her handfuls of artificial flowers. the lower windows were barred, but the door stood open; and we fought to defend it whilst my father lifted the mayor of falmouth by his coat-collar and the seat of his breeches and flung him inside. then we too backed and, ducking indoors under the arms of the little man in black--who stood on the step swinging the borough mace as though to scythe off the head of any one who approached within five feet of it--seized him by the coat-tails, dragged him inside and, slamming to the door (which shut with two flaps), locked and bolted it and leant against it with all our weight. yet a common house-door is but a flimsy barricade against a mob, especially if that mob be led by five-and-twenty stout-bodied seaman. we had shut it merely to gain time, and when the cudgels outside began to play tattoo upon its upper panels i looked for no more than a minute's respite at the best. it puzzled me therefore when--and immediately upon two ugly blows that had well-nigh shaken the lock from its fastenings--the shouting suddenly subsided into a confused hubbub of voices, followed by a clang and rattle of arms upon the cobblestones. this last sound appeared to hush the others into silence. i stood listening, with my hip pressed against the lock to hold it firm against the next concussion. none came: but presently some one rapped with his knuckles on the upper panel and a voice, authoritative but civil enough, challenged us in the name of king george to open. to this i had almost answered bidding him go to the devil, when a damsel put her head over the stair-rail of the landing above and called down to us to obey and open at once: and looking up in the dim light of the passage i recognized her for the one who had scattered the flowers, just now, to the rioters. "pardon me," said i, "but how shall i know you are not playing us a trick?" "my good child," she replied, "open the door and don't stand arguing. the riot is over and the square full of military. the person who knocks is captain bright of the pendennis garrison. if you don't believe me, step upstairs here and look out of window." "my father--" i began. "your father is right enough, and so is that fool of a mayor--or will be when he has drunk down a glass of cordial." nevertheless i would not obey her until i had sent nat fiennes upstairs to look; who within a minute called over the stair-head that the woman told the truth and i had my father's leave to open. thereupon i pulled open the upper flap of the door, and stood blinking at a tall officer in gorgeous regimentals. "hullo!" said he. "good morning!" "good morning!" said i. "and forgive me that i kept you waiting." "don't mention it," said he very affably. "my fault entirely, for coming late; or rather the mayor's, who sent word that we weren't needed. i took the liberty to doubt this as soon as my sentries reported that a couple of boats' crews were putting ashore from the _townshend_ packet: and here we are in consequence. got him safe?" "the mayor?" said i. "yes, i believe he is upstairs at this moment, drinking brandy-and-water and pulling himself together." the captain grinned amiably. "sorry to disturb him," said he; "but the mob is threatening to burn his house, and i'd best take him along to read the riot act and put things ship-shape." "he has read it already, or some part of it." "some part of it won't do. he must read the whole proclamation, not forgetting 'god save the king.'" "if you can find the paper," said i, "there's a lump of mud on it, marking the place where he left off." the captain grinned again. "i doubt he'll have to begin afresh after breaking off to drink brandy-and-water with moll whiteaway. for a chief magistrate that will need some explaining. and yet," mused the captain, as he stepped into the passage, "you may have done him a better turn than ever you guessed; for, when the mob sees the humour of it, belike it'll be more for laughing than setting fire to his house." "but who is moll whiteaway?" i asked. he stared at me. "you mean to say you didn't know?" he asked slowly. "you didn't bring him here for a joke?" "a joke?" i echoed. "a mighty queer joke, sir, you'd have thought it, if your men had been five minutes earlier." he leaned back against the wall of the passage. "and you brought him here _by accident?_ well, if this don't beat cock-fighting!" "but who is this moll whiteaway?" i repeated. the question again seemed to take his breath away. for answer he could only point to a small brass plate in the lower flap of the door; and, stooping, i read: _miss whiteaway, milliner, modes and robes_. "oh!" said i. "that accounts for the band-box of flowers." "does it?" he asked. "she flung them out of window to the packet-men." "which, doubtless, seemed to you an everyday proceeding--just a milliner's usual way of getting rid of her summer stock. my good young sir, did you ever hear tell of a 'troacher'? nay, spare that ingenuous blush: moll is a loose fish, but i mean less than your modesty suspects. a 'troacher' is a kind of female smuggler that disposes of the goods the packet-men bring home in their bunks; and moll whiteaway is the head of the profession in falmouth. now, our worthy mayor took oath the other day to put down this smuggling on board the packets; and he began yesterday with the _townshend_. he and the port searcher swept the ship, sir. they dug portuguese brandy in kegs out of the seamen's beds and parcels of silk out of the very beams. they shook two case-bottles out of the chaplain's breeches, which must have galled him sorely in his devotions. they netted close on two hundred pounds' worth of contraband in the fo'c's'le alone--" "good heavens!" i interjected. "and as the riot began he was calling himself short-sighted!" captain bright laughed, clapped me on the shoulder and led the way upstairs, where (strange to say) we found the mayor again deploring his defective vision. he lay in an easy-chair amid an army of band-boxes, bonnet stands, and dummies representing the female figure; and sipped miss whiteaway's brandy while he discoursed in broken sentences to an audience consisting of that lady, my father, nat fiennes, mr. fett, and the little man in black (who, by the way, did not appear to be listening, but stood and pondered the borough mace, which he held in his hands, turning it over and examining the dents). "it is a great drawback, sir john--a great drawback," his worship lamented. "a man in my position, sir, should have the eye of an eagle; instead of which on all public occasions i have to rely on john sprott. my good woman"--he turned to miss whiteaway--"would you mind taking a glance out of window and telling me what has become of john sprott?" "he's down below under protection of the soldiers," announced miss whiteaway; "and no harm done but his hat lost and his gown split up the back." "i shall never have the same confidence in john sprott. he takes altogether too sanguine a view of human nature. why, only last november--you remember the great gale of november the st, sir john? i was very active in burying the poor bodies brought ashore next day and for several days after; for, as you remember, a couple of indymen dragged their anchors and broke up under pendennis battery: and john sprott said to me in the most assured way, 'the town'll never forget your kindness, sir. you mark my words,' he said, 'this here action will stand you upon the pinnacles of honour till you and me, if i may respectfully say it, sit down together in the land of marrow and fatness.' after that you'd have thought a man might count on some popularity. but what happened? a day or two later--that is to say, on november the th--i was sitting in my shop with a magnifying glass in my eye, cleaning out a customer's watch, when in walked half a dozen boys carrying a man's body between 'em. you could tell that life was extinct by the way his head hung back and his legs trailed limp on the floor as they brought him in, and his face looked to me terribly swollen and discoloured. 'dear, dear!' said i. 'what? another poor soul? take him up to the mortewary, that's good boys,' i said; 'and you shall have twopence apiece out of the poor-box.' how d'ye think they answered me? they bust out a-laughing, and cries one: 'if you please, sir, 'tis meant for _you!_ 'tis the fifth of november, and we'm goin' to burn you in effigy.' i chased 'em out of the shop, and later on in the day i spoke to john sprott about it. 'well now,' said john sprott,' i passed a lot of boys just now, burning a guy at the top of the moor, and i had my suspicions; but the thing hadn't a feature of yours to take hold on, barrin' the size of its feet.' and that's what you call popularity!" wound up the mayor with bitterness. "that's what a man gets for rising early and lying down late to serve his country!" "excuse me, mr. mayor," put in captain bright, "but they are threatening to burn worse than your effigy fact i heard some talk of setting fire to your house and shop. nay," he went on as the mayor bounced up to his feet, "there's no real cause for alarm. i have sent on my lieutenant with fifty men to keep the mob on the move, and have stationed a dozen outside here to escort you home." "the riot act--where's my riot act?" cried his worship, searching his pockets. "i never read out 'god save the king,' and without 'god save the king' a man may burn all my valybles and make turbulent gestures and show of arms, and harry and murder to the detriment of the public peace, and refuse to move on when requested, and all the time in the eyes of the law be a babe unborn. where's the riot act, i say? for without it i'm a lost man and good-bye to falmouth!" "then 'tis lucky that i came provided with a copy." captain bright produced a paper from the breast of his tunic. the mayor took it with trembling hands. "why, 'tis a duplicity!" he cried. "a very duplicity! and, what's more, printed in the same language word for word." he caught the mace from the little man in black. "lead the way, captain!" chapter ix. i enlist an army. "if i be not ashamed of my soldiers, i am a soused gurnet." _sir john falstaff_. my father turned to me as they descended the stair. "this is all very well, lad," said he, "but we have yet to find our army. after the murder of julius caesar, now--" "i did enact julius caesar once," quoted mr. fett, in parenthesis. "i was killed i' the capitol; brutus killed me." my father frowned. "after the murder of julius caesar, when the mob for two days had rome at their mercy, i have read somewhere that two men appeared out of nowhere, and put themselves at the head of the rioters. none knew them; but so boldly they comported themselves, heading the charges, marshalling the ranks, here throwing up barricades, there plucking down doors and gates, breaking open the prisons and setting fire to private houses, that presently the whisper spread they were castor and pollux; till, at length, falling into the hands of the aediles, these _dioscuri_ were found to be two poor lunatics escaped from a house of detention. if we could discover another such pair among the mob, now!" "we are wasting time here for certain," said i. "and where, by the way, is billy priske?" "if you waste your time upstairs here, gentlemen," said miss whiteaway, "belike you may do better in the parlour, where i had prepared for some friends of mine with two-three chickens and a ham." "ah, to be sure," said i; "the packet-men!" "never you worry, young sir," she answered tartly, "so long as they don't mind eating after their betters. and as for your man priske, i saw him twenty minutes ago escape towards church street with the methodists." "hang it!" put in nat fiennes, "if i hadn't clean forgotten the methodists!" "we left them scurvily," said i; "every jack and jill of them but our friend here." i nodded toward the little man in black. "and he not only saved himself, but was half the battle." the little man seemed to come out of himself with a start, and gazed from one to another of us perplexedly. "excuse me, gentlemen." he drew himself up with dignity. "do my ears deceive me, or are you mistaking me for a methodist?" "indeed, and are you not, sir?" asked my father. "why, good god, gentlemen!--if you'll excuse me--but i'm the parish clerk of axminster!" my father recovered himself with a bow. "in devon?" he asked gravely, after a pause in which our silence paid tribute to the announcement. "in devon, sir; a county remarkable for its attachment to the principles of the church of england. and that i should have lived to be mistaken for a methodist!" "but, surely, john wesley himself is a clerk in holy orders? and, i have heard, a great stickler for the church's authority." "he may say so, sir," answered the little man, darkly. "he may say so. but, if he means it, why does he go about encouraging such a low class of people? a man, sir, is known by the company he keeps." "is that in the bible?" my father inquired. "i seem to remember, on the contrary, that in the matter of consorting with publicans and sinners--" "it won't work, sir. it has been tried in axminster before now, and you may take my word for it that it won't work. you mustn't suppose, gentlemen," he went on, including us all in the argument, "you mustn't take me for one of those parrot-christians who just echo what they hear in the pulpits on sundays. i _think_ about these things; and i find that your extreme doctrines may do all very well for the east and for hot countries where you can go about half-naked and nobody takes any notice; but the church of england, as its name implies, is the only church for england. a truly christian church, gentlemen, because it selects its doctrines from the gospels; and english, sir, to the core, because it selects 'em with a special view to the needs of our beloved country. and what (if i may so put it) is the basis of that selection? the same, sirs, which we all admit to be the basis of england's welfare and the foundation of her society; in other words, the land. the land, gentlemen, is solid; and our reformed religion (say what you will, i am not denying that it has, and will ever have, its detractors) is the religion for solid englishmen." my father put out a hand and arrested mr. fett, who had been regarding the speaker with joyful admiration, and at this point made a movement to embrace him. "i must have his name!" murmured mr. fett. "he shall at least tell us his name!" "badcock, sir; ebenezer badcock," answered the little man, producing a black-edged visiting-card. "but," urged my father, "you must forgive us, mr. badcock, if we find it hard to reconcile your conduct this morning with these sentiments, on which, for the moment, i offer no comment except that they are admirably expressed. what song the sirens sang, mr. badcock, or what name achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, are questions (as sir thomas browne observes) not beyond conjecture, albeit the emperor tiberius posed his grammarians with 'em. but when a man openly champions street-preaching, and goes on to lay about him with a mace--" "ah!" exclaimed mr. badcock, with sudden eagerness. "and what--by the way, sir--did you think of that performance?" "why, to be sure, you behaved valiantly." the little man blushed with pleasure. "you really think so? it struck you in that light, did it? well, now i am glad--yes, sir, and proud--to hear that opinion; because, to tell you the truth, i thought it pretty fair myself. the fact is, gentlemen, i wasn't altogether sure what my behaviour would be at the critical moment. you may deem it strange that a man should arrive at my time of life without being sure whether he's a coward or a brave man; but axminster--if you knew the place--affords few opportunities for that sort of thing." "allow us to reassure you, then," said my father. "but there remains the question, why you did it?" mr. badcock rubbed his hands. "appearances were against me, i'll allow," he answered, with a bashful chuckle; "but you may set it down to tchivalry. we all have our weaknesses, i hope, sir; and tchivalry is mine." "chivalry?" echoed my father. "you spell it with an 's'? excuse me; whatever schooling i have picked up has been at odd times; but i am always open to correction, i thank the lord." "but why call it a weakness, mr. badcock?" "call it a hobby; call it what you like. _i_ look upon it as a debt, sir, due to the memory of my late wife. an admirable woman, sir, and by name artemisia; which, i have sometimes thought, may partially account for it. allow me, gentlemen." he drew a small shagreen case from his breast-pocket, opened it, and displayed a miniature. "her portrait?" "in a sense. as a matter of fact, i will not conceal from you, gentlemen, that it came to me in the form of a pledge--that being my late profession--and i have never been able to trace the original. but, as i said when first i showed it to the late mrs. b., 'my dear, you might have sat for it.' a well-developed woman, gentlemen, though in the end she went out like the snuff of a candle, that being the way sometimes with people who have never known an hour's sickness. 'am i really like that, ebenezer?' she asked. 'in your prime, my dear,' said i--she having married me late in life owing to her romantic nature--'in your prime, my dear, i'll defy any one to tell you and this party from two peas.' 'i wish i knew who she was,' said my wife. 'hadn't you best leave well alone?' said i; 'for i declare till this moment i hadn't dreamed that another such woman as yourself existed in the world, and it gives me a kind of bigamous feeling which i can't say i find altogether unpleasant.' 'then i'll keep the thing,' says she, very positively, 'until the owner turns up and redeems it;' which he never did, being, as i discovered, a strolling portrait painter very much down on his luck. so there the mystery remained. but (as i was telling you), though a first-rate manager, my poor dear wife had a number of romantic notions; and often she has said to me after i'd shut up shop, 'if wishes grew on brambles, ebenezer, it's not a pawnbroker's wife i'd be at this moment.' 'well, my dear,' i'd say to soothe her, 'there _is_ a little bit of that about the profession, now you come to mention it.' 'and them there was a time,' she'd go on, 'when i dreamed of marryin' a red-cross knight!' 'i have my higher moments, artemisia,' i'd say, half in joke; 'why not try shutting your eyes?' but afterwards, when that splendid woman was gone for ever, and my daughter heeb (which is a classical name given her by her mother) comfortably married to a wholesale glover, and me left at home a solitary grandfather--which, proud as you may be of it, is a slight occupation--i began to think things over and find there was more in my poor wife's notions than i'd ever allowed. and the upshot was that seeing this advertisement by chance in a copy of the _sherborne messenger_, i determined to shut up shop and let axminster think i was gone on a holiday, while i gave it a trial; for, you see, i was not altogether sure of myself." "excuse me, badcock," interrupted mr. fett, advancing towards him with outstretched arms; "but have you perused the books of chivalry, or is this the pure light of nature?" "books, sir?" answered mr. badcock, seriously. "i never knew there were any books about it. i never heard of tchivalry except from my late wife; and you'll excuse the force of habit, but she pronounced it the same as in chibbles." "you never read of the meeting of amadis and sir galaor?" mr. badcock shook his head. "nor of percival and galahad, nor of sir balin and sir balan? no? then embrace me!" "sir?" "embrace me!" "sit down, the pair of you," my father commanded. "i have a proposal to make, which, if i mistake not, will interest you both. mr. badcock, i have heard your aspirations, and can fulfil them in a degree that will surprise you. i like you, mr. badcock." "the feeling, sir, is mutchual." mr. badcock bowed with much amiability. "is time an object with you?" "none whatever, sir. i am on a holiday." "will you be my guest to-night?" "with the more pleasure, sir, after my experience of the inns in these parts. though i may have presented her to you in a somewhat romantic light, my artemisia _did_ know how to make a bed; and twenty-two years of her ministrations, not to mention her companionship, have coddled me in this particular." "and you, sir"--my father turned to mr. fett--"will you accompany us?" "with what ulterior object?" demanded mr. fett. "you will excuse my speaking as a business man, and overlook the damned bad manners of the question for the sake of its pertinence." my father smiled. "why, sir, i was proposing to invite you to a sea voyage with me." "there was a time, before commerce claimed me, when the mere hint of a nautical expedition had evoked an emotion which, if it survive at all, lingers but as in a sea-shell the whisper of the parent ocean." "as a supercargo, at four shillings _per diem_," suggested my father. "say no more, sir; i am yours." "as for mr. fiennes--nay, lad, i remember you well." my father turned to him with that sweet courtesy which few ever resisted. "and blush not, lad, if i guess that to you we all owe this meeting; 'twere a bravery well beseeming your blood. as for mr. fiennes, he will accompany us in heart if he cannot in presence--being, as i understand, destined for the law?" "why, sir, as for that," stammered nat, "i have had the devil's own dispute with my father." "you treated him with all respect, i hope?" "with all the respect in the world, sir. but it scarcely matters, since he has cast me off, and without a penny." "why, then, you can come too!" cried my father, gripping him by the hand. "bravo, prosper! that makes five; and with billy priske, when we can find him, six; and that leaves but one to find before dinner-time." he pulled out his watch. "lord!" he cried, "and 'tis high time to feel hungry, too. if this lady now will repeat her hospitable offer--" i thought at the moment, and i thought once or twice during the meal downstairs, that my father was taxing this poor woman's hospitality. i doubted that he, himself so carelessly hospitable, might forget to offer her payment; and lingered after the others had trooped into the passage, with purpose to remind him privately. "come," said he, and made a notion to leave, still without offering to pay. on the threshold i had almost turned to whisper to him when the woman came after and touched his arm. "nay, sir john," said she, eagerly, in a low hoarse voice, "let the lad hear me thank you. he is old enough to understand and clean enough to profit. shut the door, child. you know me, sir john?" my father bent his head. "i never forget a face," said he, quietly. "take notice of that, boy. your father remembers me, whom to my knowledge he never saw but once, and then as a magistrate, when he sat to judge me. never mind the offence, lad. i am a sinful woman, and the punishment was--" "nay, nay!" put in my father, gently. "the punishment was," she continued, hardening her voice, "to strip me to the waist and whip me in public. the law allowed this, and this they would have done to me. but your father, being chairman of the bench--for the offence lay outside the borough--would have none of it, and argued and forced three other magistrates to give way. little good he did, you may say, seeing that my name is such in falmouth that, only by entering my door, the mayor just now did what all his cleverness could never have done--stopped a riot by a silly brutal laugh--the chief magistrate taking shelter with moll whiteaway! you can't get below that for fun, as the folk will take it; and yet i say your father did good, for he saved me from the worst. and to-day of his goodness he has not remembered my sins, but treated me as though they were not; and today, as only a good man can, he goes from my house, no man thinking to laugh except at his simplicity, even though it were known that i kissed his hand. god bless you, sir john, and teach your son to be merciful to women!" my father was ever so shy of his own kind actions that, when detected by chance or painfully tracked out in one, he kept always a quotation ready to justify what pure impulse had prompted. so now, as we hurried across the deserted market strand to catch up with the other three, he must needs brazen things out with the authority of bishop jeremy taylor. "it was a maxim of that excellent divine," said he, "that christian censure should never be used to make a sinner desperate; for then he either sinks under the burden or grows impudent and tramples upon it. a charitable modest remedy, says he, preserves that which is virtue's girdle-fear and blushing. honour, dear lad, is the peculiar counsellor of well-bred natures, and these are few; but almost in all men you will find a certain modesty toward sin, and were i a king my judges should be warned that their duty is to chasten; whereas by punishing immoderately they can but effect the exact opposite." we found our trio waiting for us on the far side of the square; and, having fetched our horses and left an order at the inn for billy priske on his return to mount and follow us, wended our way out of the town. the streets on this side were deserted and mournful, the shopkeepers having fastened their shutters for fear of the mob, of whose present doings no sound reached us but a faint murmuring hubbub borne on the afternoon air from the northward--that is, from the direction of the green bank and the penryn road. my father led the way at a foot's pace, and seemed to ride pondering, for his chin was sunk on his chest and he had pulled his hat-brim well over his eyes (but this may have been against the july sun). after him tramped mr. fett in eager converse with the little pawnbroker, now questioning him, now halting to regard him, as a man who has dug up a sudden treasure and for the moment can only gaze at it and hug himself. nat and i brought up the rear, he striding at my stirrup and pouring forth the tale of his adventures since we parted. a dozen times he rehearsed the scene of the parental quarrel, and interrupted each rehearsal with a dozen anxious questions. "ought he to have given this answer?--to have uttered that defiance? did i think he had shown self-control; had he treated the old gentleman with becoming respect? would i put myself in his place? suppose it had been my own father, now--" "but yours, lad, is a father in a thousand," he broke off bitterly. "i had never a notion that father and son could be friends, as are you and he. he is splendid--splendid!" i glanced at him quickly and turned my face aside, suspecting that he took my father for a madman, and was kindly concealing the discovery. nevertheless i hardened my voice to answer-- "you will say so when you know him better. and my uncle gervase runs him a good second." "faith, then, i wish you'd persuade your uncle to adopt me. i'm not envious, prosper, in a general way, but your luck gives me a duced orphanly feeling. have i been over-hasty? that is the question; whether 'twas nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of accusing conscience or to up and have it out with the old man." "pardon me, gentlemen"--mr. fett wheeled about suddenly on the road ahead of us--"but it was by accident that i overheard you, and by a singular coincidence at that moment i happened to be discussing the same subject with mr. badcock here." "what subject?" "missiles, sir. it appears that, when his blood is up, mr. badcock finds himself absolutely careless of missiles. he declares that, with a sense of smell as acute as most men's, he was unaware to-day of having been struck with a rotten egg until i, at ten paces' distance, drew his attention to it. now, that is a degree of courage--insensibility--call it what you will--to which i make no pretence. the cut and thrust, gentlemen, the couched lance, even, within limits, the battering ram, would have, i feel confident, comparatively few terrors for me. but missiles i abominate. drawing, as i am bound to do, my anticipations of the tented field from experience gathered--i say it literally, gathered--before the footlights, i confess to some sympathy with the gentleman who assured harry percy that but for these vile guns he would himself have been a soldier. you will not misunderstand me. i believe on my faith that as a military man i was born out of my time. the scythed chariots of boadicea, for instance, must have been damned inconvenient; yet i can conceive myself jumping 'em. but a stone, as i learnt in my boyhood--a stone, sirs, and _a fortiori_ a bullet--" "hist!" broke in my father, at the same moment reining up. "prosper, what do you make of that noise, up yonder?" i listened. "it sounds to me like a heavy cart--" "or a waggon. to my hearing there are two horses." "and runaway ones, by the shouting." we had reached a point of the road, not far from home, where a steep lane cut across it: a track seldom used but scored with old ruts, sunk between hedges full sixteen feet high, leading down from a back gate of constantine and a deserted lodge to a quay by the waterside. not once in three months, within my remembrance, did cart or waggon pass along this lane, which indeed grew a fine crop of grass and docks between the ruts. "nay," said my father, after a few seconds, "i gave you a false alarm, gentlemen. the shouting, whatever it means, is over. your pardon, mr. fett, that i interrupted you." "sir," said mr. fett, stepping put him to reconnoitre the lane, "i was but remarking what a number of the wise have observed before me, that a stone which has left the hand is in the hands of the dev--" he ducked his head with a cry as a stone whizzed past him and within a foot of it. on the instant the loud rattle and thunder of cartwheels broke forth again, and now but a short distance up the lane; also a voice almost as loudly vociferating; and, almost before mr. fett could run back to us, a whole volley of stones flew hurtling across the road. "hi, there! halt!" my father struck spur and rode forward, in time to catch at and check the leader of two horses slithering downhill tandem-fashion before the weight of a heavy cart. "confound you, sir! what the devil d'you mean by flinging stones in this manner across the middle of the king's highway." the man--he was one of the seamen of the _gauntlet_--stood up in the cart upon a load of stones and grinned. in one hand he gripped the reins, in the other a fistful of flints. "your honour's pardon," said he, lifting his forearm and drawing the back of it across his dripping brow, "but the grey mare for'rad won't pull, and the whip here won't reach her. i couldn't think upon no better way." "you mean to tell me you have been pelting that poor brute all down the lane?" "i couldn't think upon no better way," the seaman repeated wistfully, almost plaintively. "she's what you might call sensitive to stones." "intelligent beast!" commented mr. fett. "and i bought that mare only six months ago!" (in truth my father had found the poor creature wandering the roads and starving, cast off by her owner as past work, and had purchased her out of mere humanity for thirty shillings.) "but what business have you to be driving my cart and horses?" he demanded. "and what's the meaning of these stones you're carting?" "ballast, your honour." "ballast?" "i don't know how much of it'll ever arrive at this rate," confessed the seaman, dropping the handful of flints and scratching his head. "tis buying speed at a terrible cost of jettison. but cap'n pomery's last order to me was to make haste about it, if we're to catch to-morrow's tide." "captain pomery sent you for these stones?" "why, lord love your honour, a vessel can't discharge two dozen papist monks and cattle and implements to correspond without wantin' _something_ in their place. nice flat stones, too, the larger-sized be, and not liable to shift in a sea-way." but here another strange noise drew our eyes up the lane, as an old man in a smock-frock--a pensioner of the estate, and by name john worthyvale--came hobbling round the corner and down the hill towards us, using his long-handled road hammer for a staff and uttering shrill tremulous cries of rage. "vengeance, sir john! vengeance for my l'il heap o' stones!" "why, worthyvale, what's the matter?" asked my father, soothingly. "my l'il heap o' stones, sir john; my poor l'il heap o' stones! what's to become o' me, master? where will your kindness find a bellyful for me, if these murderin' seamen take away my l'il heap o' stones?" my father laid a hand on the old man's shoulder. "captain pomery wants them for ballast, worthyvale. you understand? it appears he can find none so suitable.'' "no, i _don't_ understand!" exclaimed the old fellow, fiercely. "this has been a black week for me, sir john. first of all my darter's youngest darter comes and tells me she've picked up with a man. seems 'twas only last year she was runnin' about in short frocks; but, dang it! the time must ha' slipped away somehow whilst i've a-sat hammerin' stones, an' now there'll be no person left to mind me. next news, i hear from master gervase that you be goin' foreign, sir john, with master prosper here. the world gets that empty, i wish i were dead, i do. an' now they've a-took my l'il heap o' stones!" "and this old man's sires," said my father to me, but so that he did not hear, "held land in domesday book--twelve virgates of land with close on forty carucates of arable, villeins and borderers and bondservants, six acres of wood, a hundred and twenty of pasture; and he makes his last stand on this heap of stones. ballast?" he turned to the seaman. "did i not tell captain pomery to ballast with wine?" "we were carrying it all the forenoon," the seaman answered. "there was two hogsheads of claret." "and the hogshead of madeira, with what remained of the brown sherry? likewise in bottles twelve dozen of the hermitage and as much again of the pope's wine, of avignon?" "it all went in, sir. master gervase checked it on board by the list." "for the rest we are reduced to stones? then, prosper, there remains no other course open to us." "than what, sir?" i asked. "we must enlist this old man; and that fulfils our number." "old john worthyvale?" "why not? he can sit in the hold and crack stones until i devise his part in the campaign. say no more. i have an inkling he will prove not the least useful man of our company." "as to that, sir," i answered, with a shrug of the shoulders and a glance at mr. fett and mr. badcock, "i don't feel able to contradict you." "then here we are assembled," said my father, cheerfully, with the air of one closing a discussion; "the more by token that here comes billy priske. why, man," he asked, as billy rode up--but so dejectedly that his horse seemed to droop its ears in sympathy-- "what ails you? not wounded, are you?" "worse," answered billy, and groaned. "we were told you got quit of the crowd. "so i did," said billy. "damn it!" "they followed you?" i asked. "no, they didn't, and i wish they had." "then what on earth has happened?" "what has happened?" having no hair of his own to speak of, billy reached forward and ran his fingers through his horse's mane. "i've engaged to get married. that's what has happened." "good lord!" "to a female methody, in a quaker bonnet. i had no idea of any such thing when i followed her. she was sittin' on the first milestone out of falmouth and jabbin' her heel into the dust, like a person in a pet. first of all, when i spoke to her, she wouldn't tell what had annoyed her; but later on it turned out she had come expectin' to be made a martyr of, and everything was lookin' keenly that way until sir john came and interfered, as she put it." "and she said," suggested mr. fett, "that she didn't mind what man could do unto her?" "the very words she used, sir!" said billy, his brow clearing as a prisoner's will when counsel supplies him with a defence. "and, when you took her at her word, like a christian woman she turned the other cheek?" "she did, sir, and no harm meant; but just doing it gay, as a man will." "but when you explained this, she wouldn't take no for an answer?" "she would not, sir. she seemed not to understand. then i looked at her bonnet and, a thought striking me, i tried `nay' instead. but that didn't work no better than the other. if you could hide me for tonight, sir john--" "you had best sleep on the _gauntlet_ to-night," said my father. "if the woman calls, i will have a talk with her. what is her name, by the way?" "martha." "but i mean her full name." "i didn't get so far as to inquire, sir john. but the point is, she knows mine." chapter x. of the discourse held on board the "gauntlet." "the pilot assured us that, considering the gentleness of the winds and their pleasant contentions, as also the clearness of the atmosphere and the calm of the current, we stood neither in hope of much good nor in fear of much harm . . . and advised us to let the ship drive, nor busy ourselves with anything but making good cheer." --_the fifth book of the good pantagruel_. it appeared that, unknown to me, my father had already made his arrangements with captain pomery, and we were to sail with the morning's tide. during supper--which billy priske had no sooner laid than he withdrew to collect his kit and carry it down to the ship, taking old worthyvale for company--our good vicar arrived, as well to bid us good-bye as in some curiosity to learn what recruits we had picked up in falmouth. i think the sight of them impressed him; but at the tale of our day's adventures, and especially when he heard of our championing the methodists, his hands went up in horror. "the methodists!" for two years past the vicar had occupied a part of his leisure in writing a pamphlet against them: and by "leisure" i mean all such days as were either too inclement for fishing, or thunderous so that the trout would not rise. "my dear friend, while you have been sharpening the sword of saint athanasius against 'em, the rabble has been beforehand with you and given 'em bloody noses. the blood of the martyrs is the seed of heresy--if you call the wesleyans heretics--as well as of the church." the vicar sighed. "i have been slack of pace and feeble of will. yes, yes, i deserve the reproach." my father laid a hand on his shoulder. "tut, tut! cannot you see that i was not reproaching, but rather daring to commend you for an exemplar? there is a slackness which comes of weak will; but there is another and a very noble slackness which proceeds from the two strongest things on earth, confidence and charity; charity, which naturally inclines to be long-suffering, and confidence which, having assurance in its cause, dares to trust that natural inclination. dissent in the first generation is usually admirable and almost always respectable: men don't leave the church for fun, but because they have thought and discovered, as they believe, something amiss in her--something which in nine cases out of ten she would be the better for considering. but dissent in the second and third generation usually rests on bad temper, which is not admirable at all, though often excusable because the church's persecution has produced it. believe me, my dear vicar, that if all the bishops followed your example and slept on their wrath against heresy, they would wake up and find nine-tenths of the heretics back in the fold. indeed i wish your good lady would let you pack your nightcap and come with us. you could hire a curate over from falmouth." "could i write my pamphlet at sea?" "no: but, better still, by the time you returned the necessity for it would be over." the vicar smiled. "_you_ counsel lethargy?--you, who in an hour or two start for corsica, and with no more to-do than if bound on a picnic!" "ay, but for love," answered my father. "in love no man can be too prompt." "i believe you, sir," hiccuped mr. fett, who had been drinking more than was good for him. "and so, begad, does your man priske. did any one mark, just now, how like a shooting star he glided in the night from venus' eye? love, sir?" he turned to me. "the tender passion? is that our little game? is _that_ the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of ilium? o troy! o helen! you'll permit me to add, with a glance at our friend priske's predicament, o dido! at five shillings _per diem_ i realize the twin ambitions of a life-time and combine the supercargo with the buck. well, well! _cherchez la femme!_" "you pronounce it 'share-shay?'" inquired mr. badcock. "now i have seen it spelt the same as in 'church.'" "the same as in ch--?" mr. fett fixed him with a glassy but reproachful eye. "badcock, you are premature, premature and indelicate." here my father interposed and, heading the talk back to the methodists, soon had the vicar and the little pawnbroker in full cry--parson and clerk antiphonal, "matched in mouth like bells"--on church discipline; which gave him opportunity, while nat and i at our end of the table exchanged the converse and silences of friendship, to confer with my uncle gervase and run over a score of parting instructions on the management of the estate, the ordering of the household, and, in particular, the entertainment of our trappist guests. perceiving with the corner of his eye that we two were restless to leave the table, he pushed the bottle towards us. "my lads," said he, "when the drinking tires let the talk no longer detain you." we thanked him, and with a glance at mr. fett--who had fallen asleep with his head on his arms--stepped out upon the moonlit terrace. i waited for nat to speak and give me a chance to have it out with him, if he doubted (as he must, methought) my father's sanity. but he gazed over the park at our feet, the rolling shadows of the woodland, the far estuary where one moonray trembled, and stretching out both hands drew the spiced night-air into his lungs with a sob. "o prosper!" "you are wondering where to find your room?" said i, as he turned and glanced up at the grey glimmering facade. "the simplest way is to pick up the first lantern you see in the hall, light it, walk upstairs, enter what room you choose and take possession of its bed. you have five hours to sleep, if you need sleep. or shall i guide you?" "no," said he; "the first is the only way in this enchanted house. but i was thinking that by rights, while we are standing here, those windows should blaze with lights and break forth with the noise of dancing and minstrelsy. to such a castle, high against such a velvet night as this, would sir lancelot come, or sir gawain, or sir perceval, at the close of a hard day." "wait for the dawn, lad, and you will find it rather the castle overgrown with briers." "and, in the heart of them, the rose!" "you will find no sleeping beauty, though you hunt through all its rooms. she lies yonder, nat, somewhere out beyond the sea there." "in a few hours we sail to her. o prosper, and we will find her! this is better than any dream, lad: and this is life!" he gazed into my eyes for a moment in the moonlight, turned on his heel, and strode away from me toward the great door, which--like every door in the house--stood wide all the summer night. i was staring at the shadow of the porch into which he had disappeared, when my father touched my elbow. "there goes a good lad," said he, quietly. "and my best friend." "he has sobered down strangely from the urchin i remember on winchester meads; and in the sobering he has grown exalted. a man might almost say," mused my father, "that the imp in him had shed itself off and taken flesh in that master fett i left snoring with his head on my dining-table. an earthy spirit, that master fett; earthy and yet somewhat inhuman. your nat fiennes has the clue of life--if only atropos do not slit it." here the vicar came out to take his leave, winding about his neck and throat the comforter he always wore as a protective against the night-air. it appeared later that he was nettled by mr. badcock's collapsing beneath the table just as they had reached no. xx. of the thirty-nine articles and passed it through committee by consent. "god bless you, lad!" said he, and shook my hand. "in seeking your kingdom you start some way ahead of saul the son of kish. you have already discovered your father's asses." he trudged away across the dewy park and was soon lost in the darkness. in the dim haze under the moon, having packed mr. badcock and mr. fett in a hand-cart, we trundled them down to the shore and lifted them aboard. they resisted not, nor stirred. by three o'clock our dispositions were made and captain pomery professed himself ready to cast off. i returned to the house for the last time, to awake and fetch nat fiennes. as i crossed the wet sward the day broke and a lark sprang from the bracken and soared above me singing. but i went hanging my head, heavy with lack of sleep. i tried five rooms and found them empty. in the sixth nat lay stretched upon a tattered silk coverlet. he sprang up at my touch and felt for his sword. "past three o'clock and fine clear mornin'!" sang i, mimicking the oxford watch, and with my foot the tap of his staff as he had used to pass along holy well. "hey! now the day dawis, the jolly cock crawis--" "the wind will head us in the upper reach: but beyond it blows fair for corsica!" he leapt to his feet and laughed, blithe as the larks now chorussing outside the window. but my head was heavy, and somehow my heart too, as we walked down to the shore. my uncle gervase stood on the grass-grown quay; my father on the deck. they had already said their goodbyes. with his right hand my uncle took mine, at the same time laying his left on my shoulder; and said he-- "farewell, lad. the rivers in corsica be short and eager, as i hear; and slight fishing in them near the coast, the banks being overgrown. but it seems there are good trout, and in the mountain pools. "whether they be the same as our british trout i cannot discover. i desire you to make certain. also if the sardines of those parts be the same as our cornish pilchards, but smaller. belike they start from the mediterranean sea and reach their full size on our coasts. "the migrations of fishes are even less understood than those of the birds. yet both (being annual) will teach you, if you consider them, to think little of this parting. god knows, lad, how sorely i spare you. "do justice, observe mercy, and walk humbly before thy god. this if they should happen to make you king, as your father promises. "they have an animal very like a sheep, but wilder and fiercer. if you have the luck to shoot one, i shall be glad of his skin. "'twill be a job here, making two ends meet. but as our lord said, sufficient for the day is its evil. i have put a bottle of tar-water in your berth. "i have often wished to set eyes on the mediterranean sea. a sea without tides must be but half a sea--speaking with all respect to the almighty, who made it. "you will pick up the wind in the lower reach. "there was a trick or two of fence i taught you aforetime. i had meant to remind you of 'em. but enough, lad. shake hands. . . . the lord have you in his keeping!" good man! for a long while after we had thrust off from the quay, the two seamen in the cock-boat towing us, he stood there and waved farewells; but turned before we reached the river bend, and went his way up through the woods--since in cornwall it is held unlucky to watch departing friends clean out of sight. almost at once i went below in search of my hammock, and there slept ten solid hours by the clock; a feat of which i never witted until, coming upon deck, i rubbed my eyes to find no sight of land, but the sea all around us, and captain pomery at the helm, with the sun but a little above his right shoulder. the sky, but for a few fleeced clouds, was clear; a brisk north-westerly breeze blew steady on our starboard quarter, and before it the ketch ran with a fine hiss of water about her bluff bows. my father and nat were stretched with a board between them on the deck by the foot of the mizzen, deep in a game of chequers: and without disturbing them i stepped amidships where mr. fett lay prone on his belly, his chin propped on both hands, in discourse with billy and mr. badcock, who reclined with their backs against the starboard bulwark. "tut, man!" said mr. fett, cheerfully, addressing billy. "you have taken the right classical way with her: think of theseus and ariadne, phaon and sappho. . . . we are back in the world's first best age; when a man, if he wanted a woman to wife, sailed in a ship and abducted her, as did the tyrian sea-captain with io daughter of inachus, jason with medea, paris with helen of greece; and again, when he tired of her, left her on an island and sailed away. there was sappho, now; she ran and cast herself off a rock. and medea, she murdered her children in revenge. but we are over hasty, to talk of children." billy groaned aloud, "i meant no harm to the woman." "nor did these heroes. as i was saying, on board this ship i find myself back in the world's dawn, ready for any marvels, but responsible (there's the beauty of it) only to my ledger. as supercargo i sit careless as a god on olympus. my pen is trimmed, my ink-pot filled, and my ledger ruled and prepared for miracles. _item_, a golden fleece. _item_, a king's runaway daughter, slightly damaged: "whatever befel the good ship _argo_ it didn't affect the supercargo," who whistled and sat composing blank verse, having discovered that jason rhymed most unheroically with bason: "neglecting the daughter of aeson sat jason, a bason his knees on--" "you don't help a man much, sir, so far as i understand you," grumbled billy, with a nervous glance around the horizon. "well, then i'll prescribe you another way. nobody believes me when i tell the following story: but 'tis true nevertheless. so listen-- mr. fett's story of the interrupted betrothal. "to the south of the famous city of oxford, between it and the town of abingdon, lies a neat covert called bagley wood: in the which, on a sunday evening a bare two months ago, i chose to wander with my stage copy of mr. otway's _orphan_--a silly null play, sirs, if not altogether the nonsense for which abingdon, two nights later, condemned it. while i wandered amid the undergrowth, conning my part, my attention was arrested by a female voice on the summer breeze, most pitiably entreating for help. i closed my book and bent my steps in the direction of the outcries. judge of my amazement when, parting the bushes in a secluded glade, i came upon a distressed but not uncomely maiden, buried up to her neck in earth beneath the spreading boughs of a beech. to exhume and release her cost me, unprovided as i was with any tool for the purpose, no little labour. at length, however, i disengaged her and was rewarded with her story; which ran, that a faithless swain, having decoyed her into the recesses of the wood, had pushed her into a pit prepared by him; and that but for the double accident of having miscalculated her inches and being startled by my recitations of otway into a terror that the whole countryside was after him with hue and cry, he had undoubtedly consummated his fell design. after cautioning her to be more careful in future i parted from the damsel (who to the last protested her gratitude) and walked homeward to my lodgings, on the way reflecting how frail a thing is woman when matched against man the libertine." billy priske's eyes had grown round in his head. mr. badcock, after sitting in thought for a full minute, observed that the incident was peculiar in many respects. "is that the end of the yarn?" i asked. "i never met the lady again," confessed mr. fett. "as for the story," he added with a sigh, "i am accustomed to have it disbelieved. yet let me tell you this. on my return i related it to the company, who received it with various degrees of incredulity--all but a youthful stroller who had joined us at banbury and earned promotion, on the strength of his looks, from 'walking gentleman' to what is known in the profession as 'first lover.' on the strength of this, again, he had somewhat hastily aspired to the hand of our leading tragedy lady--a mature person, who knew her own mind. my narrative seemed to dispel the atmosphere of gloom which had hung about him for some days; and the next morning, having promised to accompany his betrothed on a stroll up the river bank, he left the inn with a light, almost jaunty, tread. from the balcony i watched them out of sight. by-and-by, however, i spied a figure returning alone by the towpath; and, concealing myself, heard young romeo in the courtyard carelessly demanding of the ostler the loan of a spade. from behind my curtain i watched him as again he made his way up the shore with the implement tucked under his arm. i waited in a terrible suspense. each minute seemed an hour. a thunderstorm happening to break over the river at this juncture (as such things do), the scene lacked no appropriate accessory. at length, between two flashes of lightning, i perceived in the distance my two turtles returning, and gave voice to my relief. they were walking side by side, but no longer arm-in-arm. young romeo hung his head dejectedly: and on a closer view the lady's garments not only dripped with the storm but showed traces of earth to the waist. the rest they kept to themselves. i say no more, save that after the evening's performance (of 'all for love') young romeo came to me and announced that his betrothal was at an end. they had discovered (as he put it) some incompatibility of temper." my father and nat fiennes had finished their game and come forward in time to hear the conclusion of this amazing narrative. billy priske stared at his master in bewilderment. "a spade!" growled billy, mopping his brow and letting his gaze travel around the horizon again before settling, in dull wrath, on mr. fett. "what's the use, sir, of makin' a man feel like a villain and putting thoughts into his head without means to fulfil 'em?" "sit you quiet," said my father, "while i try to drive mr. fett's story out of your head with an honester one." "about a spade, master?" "there is a spade in the story." my father's story of the shipwrecked lovers. "in the year a certain portuguese sea-captain, gonsalvez zarco by name, and servant of the famous henry of portugal, was cruising homeward in a leaky caravel from a baffled voyage in search of the fortunate islands. he had run into a fog off cape blanco in africa, and had been pushing through it for two days when the weather lifted and the look-out spied a boat, empty but for one man, drifting a mile and more to leeward. zarco ran down for the boat, and the man, being brought aboard, was found to be an escaped moorish prisoner on his way back to spain. he gave his name as morales, and said that he had sometime been a pilot of seville, but being captured by the moors off algeciras, had spent close on twenty years in servitude to them. in the end he and six other christians had escaped in a boat of their own making, but with few victuals. when these were consumed his companions had perished one by one, horribly, and he had been sailing without hope, not caring whither, for a day and a night before his rescue came. "now this much he told them painfully, being faint with fasting and light-headed: but afterwards falling into a delirium, he let slip certain words that caused captain zarco to bestow him in a cabin apart and keep watch over him until the ship reached lagos, whence he conveyed him secretly and by night to prince henry, who dwelt at that time in an arsenal of his own building, on the headland of sagres. there prince henry questioned him, and the old man, taken by surprise, told them a story both true and wonderful. "in his captivity he had made friends with a fellow prisoner, an englishman named prince or prance (since dead, after no less than thirty years of servitude), who had fallen among the moors in the manner following. in his youth he had been a seaman, and one day in the year he was standing idle on bristol quay when a young squire accosted him and offered to hire him for a voyage to france, naming a good wage and pressing no small share of it upon him as earnest money. the ship (he said, naming her) lay below at avonmouth and would sail that same night. prince knew the ship and her master, and judged from the young squire's apparel and bearing that here was one of those voluntary expeditions by which our young nobles made it a fashion to seek fame at the expense of our enemies the french; a venture dangerous indeed but carrying a hopeful chance of high profits. he agreed, therefore, and joined the ship a little after nightfall. toward midnight arrived a boat with our young squire and one companion, a lady of extreme beauty, who had no sooner climbed the ship's side than the master cut the anchor-cable and stood out for sea. "the names of these pretty runaways were robert machin and anne d'arfet, wife of a sour merchant of bristol; and all their care was to flee together and lose all the world for love. but they never reached france; for having run prosperously down channel and across from the land's end until they sighted ushant, they met a north-easterly gale which blew them off the coast; a gale so blind and terrible and persistent that for twelve days they ran before it, in peril of death. on the thirteenth day they sighted an island, where, having found (as they thought) good anchorage, they brought the ship to, and rowed the lady ashore through the surf. between suffering and terror she was already close upon death. "now this man prince said that 'though the seamen laid their peril at her door, holding the monstrous storm to be a judgment direct from heaven upon her sin, yet not one of them, considering her childish beauty, had the heart to throw her an ill word or so much as an accusing look: but having borne her ashore they built a tabernacle of boughs and roofed it with a spare sail for her and for her lover, who watched beside her till she died. "on the morning of her death the seamen, who slept on the beach at a little distance, were awakened by a terrible cry: whereat, gazing seaward--as a seaman's first impulse is--they missed all sight of their ship. either the gale, reviving, had parted her moorings and blown her out to sea, or else the two or three left on board her treacherously slipped her cable. at all events, no more was ever heard of her. "the seamen supposed then that master machin had called out for the loss of the ship. but coming to him they found him staring at the poor corpse of his lady; and when they pointed to sea he appeared to mark not their meaning. only he said many times, 'is she gone? is she gone?' whether he spoke of the ship or of the lady they could not tell. thereafter he said nothing, but turned his face away from all offers of food, and on the fifth day the seaman buried him beside his mistress and set up a wooden cross at their heads. "after this (said prince), finding no trace of habitation on the island, and being convinced that no ship ever passed within sight of it, the seamen caught and killed four of the sheep which ran wild upon the cliffs, and with the flesh of them provisioned the boat in which they had come ashore, and took their leave. for eleven days they steered as nearly due east as they could--that being the quarter in which they supposed the mainland to lie, until a gale overtook them, and, drowning the rest, cast four of them alive on the coast near mogador, where the moors fell on them and sold them into slavery, to masters living wide apart. yet, and howsoever the others perished, in the mouth of this one man the story lived and came after many days to ears that understood it. "for prince henry, hearing the pilot's tale, believed verily that this must be the island for which his sea-captains had been searching, and in sent zarco forth again to seek it, with the old man on board. they reached porto santo, where they heard of a dark line visible in all clear weather on the southern horizon, and sailing for it through the fogs, came to a marshy cape, and beyond this cape to high wooded land which morales recognized at once from his fellow-prisoner's description. yes, and bringing them to shore he led them, unerring, to the wooden cross above the beach; and there, over the grave of these lovers, zarco took seizin of the island in the name of king john of portugal, prince henry, and the order of christ. "from this," my father concluded, "we may learn, first, that human passion, of all things the most transient, may be stronger and more enduring than death; of all things the unruliest and most deserving to be chastened, it may rise naked from the scourge to claim the homage of all men; nay, that this mire in which the multitude wallows may on an instant lift up a brow of snow and challenge the divinity himself, saying, 'we are of one essence, shall not i too work miracles?' secondly--" "your pardon, master," put in billy, "but in all the fine speeches about love and war and suchlike that i've heard you read out of books afore now, i could never make out what use they be to common fellows like myself. say 'tis a battle: you start us off with a shout, which again starts off our betters a-knocking together other folks' heads and their own: but afterwards, when i'm waiting and wondering what became of billy priske, all the upshot is that some thousand were slaughtered and maybe enough to set some river running with blood. likewise with these seamen, that never ran off with their neighbours' wives, but behaved pretty creditable under the circumstances, which didn't prevent their being spilt out of boats and eaten by fishes or cast ashore and barbecued by heathen turks--a pretty thing this love did for them, i say. and so to come to my own case, which is where this talk started, i desire with all respect, master, that you will first ease my mind of this question--be i in love, or bain't i?" "surely, man, _you_ must know that?" billy shook his head. "i've what you might call a feeling t'wards the woman: and yet not rightly what you might call a feeling, nor yet azactly, as you might say, t'wards her. and it can't be so strong as i reckoned, for when she spoke the word 'marriage' you might ha' knocked me down with a straw." "eh?" put in mr. fett, "was she the first to mention it?" "me bein' a trifle absent-minded, maybe, on that point," explained billy. his gaze happening to wander to the wheel, encountered captain jo pomery's; and captain jo, who had been listening, nodded encouragement. "speakin' as a seafarin' man and the husband o' three at one time and another," said he, "they always do so." "my artemisia," said mr. badcock, "was no exception; though a powerful woman and well able to look after herself." "'tis their privilege," agreed captain pomery. "you must allow 'em a few." "but contrariwise," billy resumed, "it must be stronger than i reckoned, for here i be safe, as you may say, and here i should be grateful; whereas i bain't, and, what's more, my appetite's failin'. be you goin' to give me something for it?" he asked, as mr. badcock dived a hand suddenly into a tail pocket and drew forth what at first appeared to be the neck of a bottle, but to closer view revealed itself as the upper half of a flute. a second dive produced the remainder. "good lord! badcock has another accomplishment!" ejaculated mr. fett. "the gift of music," said mr. badcock, screwing the two portions of the instrument together, "is born in some. the great batch--john sebastian batch, gentlemen--as i am credibly informed, composed a fugue in his bed at the tender age of four." "he was old enough to have given his nurse warning," said mr. fett. "with me," pursued mr. badcock, modestly, "it has been the result of later and (i will not conceal the truth, sirs) more assiduous cultivation. this instrument"--he tapped it affectionately--"came to me in the ordinary way of trade and lay unredeemed in my shop for no less than eight years; nor when exposed for sale could it tempt a purchaser. 'you must do something with it,' said my artemisia--an excellent housewife, gentlemen, who wasted nothing if she could help it. i remember her giving me the same advice about an astrolabe, and again about a sun-dial corrected for the meridian of bury st. edmunds. 'my dear,' i answered, 'there is but one thing to be done with a flute, and that is to learn it.' in this way i discovered what i will go no further than to describe as my bent." mr. badcock put the flute to his lips and blew into it. a tune resulted. "but," persisted billy priske, after a dozen bars or so, "the latest thing to be mentioned was my appetite: and 'tis wonderful to me how you gentlemen are letting the conversation stray, this afternoon." "the worst of a flute," said mr. badcock, withdrawing it from his lips with obvious reluctance, "and the objection commonly urged by its detractors, is that a man cannot blow upon it and sing at the same time." "i don't say," said billy, seriously, "as that mayn't be a reas'nable objection; only it didn't happen to be mine." "you have heard the tune," said mr. badcock. "now for the words-- "i attempt from love's sickness to fly, in vain, since i am myself my own fever and pain." "bravo!" my father cried. "mr. badcock has hit it. you are in love, billy, and beyond a doubt." "be i?" said billy, scratching his head. "well, as the saying is, many an ass has entered jerusalem." chapter xi. we fall in with a sallee rover. "we laid them aboard the larboard side-- with hey! with ho! for and a nonny no! and we threw them into the sea so wide, and alongst the coast of barbary." _the sailor's onely delight_. my father, checked in the midst, or rather at the outset, of a panegyric upon love, could not rest until he had found an ear into which to deliver it; but that same evening, after the moon had risen, drew nat aside on the poop, and discharged the whole harangue upon him; the result being that the dear lad, who already fancied himself another rudel in quest of the lady of tripoli, spent the next two days in composing these verses, the only ones (to my knowledge) ever finished by him: nat fiennes' song to the undiscovered lady. "thou, thou, that art my port, my refuge, and my goal, i have no chart, no compass but a heart trembling t'ward thee and to no other pole. "my star! adrift on seas that well-nigh overwhelm, still when they lift i strain toward the rift, and steer, and hold my courage to the helm. "with ivory comb, daylong thou dalliest dreaming where the rainbow foam enisles thy murmuring home: home too for me, though i behold it ne'er! "yet when the bird is tired, and each little wave, aloft is heard a call, reminds thee gird thy robe and climb to where the summits rave: "yea, to the white lone sea-mark shaken on the verge-- 'what of the night?' ah, climb--ah, lift the light! ah, lamp thy lover labouring in the surge! "fray'd rope, burst sail, drench'd wing, as moth toward the spark-- i fetch, i fail, glad only that the gale breaks not my faith upon the brutal dark. "be it frost or fire, thy bosom, i believed it warm: i did aspire for that, and my desire-- burn thou or freeze--fought thro' and beat the storm. "thou, thou, that art my sole salvation, fixed, afar, i have no chart, no compass but a heart hungry for thee and for no other star." "humph!" said i, by way of criticism, when these verses were shown to me. "where be the mackerel lines, captain jo? there's too much love-talk aboard this ship of yours." "mackerel?" said captain jo. "why, where's your bait?" "you shall lend me an inch off your pipe-stem," said i, and, to tease nat, began to hum the senseless old song: "she has ta'en a siller wand an' gi'en strokes three, an' chang'd my sister masery to a mack'rel of the sea. and every saturday at noon the mack'rel comes to me, an' she takes my laily head an' lays it on her knee, an' kames it wi' a kame o' pearl, an' washes it i' the sea--" "mackerel?" said captain pomery. "if ye found one fool enough to take hold at the rate we're sailing, ye'd pull his head off." "why, then, he would be off his head," answered i: "and there are plenty here to make him feel at home." in truth i was nettled; jealous, as a lad in his first friendship is quick to be. were not nat and i of one age? then why should he be leaving thoughts we might share, to think of woman? i had chafed at oxford against his precocious entanglements. here on shipboard his propensity was past a joke; with no goose in sight to mistake for a swan, he must needs conjure up an imaginary princess for his devotion. what irritated most of all was his assuming, because i had not arrived at his folly, the right to treat me as a child. south and across the bay of biscay the weather gave us a halcyon passage; the wind falling lighter and lighter until, within ten leagues of gibraltar, we ran into a flat calm, and captain pomery's face began to show his vexation. the vexation i could understand--for your seaman naturally hates calm weather--but scarcely the degree of it in a man of temperament so placid. hitherto he had taken delight in the strains of mr. badcock's flute. suddenly, and almost pettishly, he laid an embargo on that instrument, and moreover sent word down to the hold and commanded old worthyvale to desist from hammering on the ballast. all noise, in fact, appeared to irritate him. mr. badcock pocketed his flute in some dudgeon, and for occupation fell to drinking with mr. fett; whose potations, if they did not sensibly lighten the ship, heightened, at least, her semblance of buoyancy with a deck-cargo of empty bottles. my father put no restraint upon these topers. "drink, gentlemen," said he; "drink by all means so long as it amuses you. i had far rather you exceeded than that i should appear inhospitable." "magnifshent old man," mr. fett hiccuped to me confidentially, "_an'_ magnifshent liquor. as the song shays--i beg your pardon, the shong says--able 'make a cat speak an' man dumb-- "like 'n old courtier of the queen's an' the queen's old courtier--" chorus, mr. bawcock, _if_ you please, an', by the way, won't mind my calling you bawcock, will you? good shakespearean word, bawcock: euphonious, too-- "accomplisht eke to flute it and to sing, euphonious bawcock bids the welkin ring." "if," said mr. badcock, in an injured tone and with a dark glance aft at captain pomery, "if a man don't _like_ my playing, he has only to say so. i don't press it on any one. from all i ever heard, art is a matter of taste. but i don't understand a man's being suddenly upset by a tune that, only yesterday, he couldn't hear often enough." out of the little logic i had picked up at oxford i tried to explain to him the process known as _sorites_; and suggested that captain pomery, while tolerant of "i attempt from love's sickness to fly" up to the hundredth repetition, might conceivably show signs of tiring at the hundred-and-first. yet in my heart i mistrusted my own argument, and my wonder at the skipper's conduct increased when, the next dawn finding us still becalmed, but with the added annoyance of a fog that almost hid the bowsprit's end, his demeanour swung back to joviality. i taxed him with this, in my father's hearing. "i make less account of fogs than most men," he answered. "i can smell land; which is a gift and born with me. but this is no weather to be caught in anywhere near the sallee coast; and if we're to lose the wind, let's have a good fog to hide us, i say." he went on to assure us that the seas hereabouts were infested with moorish pirates, and to draw some dismal pictures of what might happen if we fell in with a prowling sallateen. with all his fears he kept his reckoning admirably, and we half-sailed, half-drifted through the strait, and so near to the rock of gibraltar that, passing within range of it at the hour of reveilly, we heard the british bugles sounding to us like ghosts through the fog. captain pomery here was in two minds about laying-to and waiting for a breeze; but a light slant of wind encouraged him to carry the _gauntlet_ through. it bore us between the invisible strait, and for a score of sea-miles beyond; then, as casually as it had helped, it deserted us. day broke and discovered us with the moorish coast low on our starboard horizon. to mr. fett and mr. badcock this meant nothing, and my father might have left them to their ignorance had he not in the course of the forenoon caught them engaged upon a silly piece of mischief, which was, to scribble on small sheets of paper various affecting narratives--as that the _gauntlet_ was sinking, or desperately attacked by pirates, in such and such a latitude and longitude--insert them in empty bottles, and commit them to the chances of the deep. the object (as mr. fett explained it) being to throw billy priske's sweetheart off the scent. for two days past he had been slyly working upon billy's fears, and was relating to him how, with two words, a moorish lady had followed gilbert a becket from palestine to london, and found him there--when my father, attracted by the smell of pitch, strolled forward and caught mr. badcock in the act of sealing the bottles from a ladle which stood heating over a lamp. in the next five minutes the pair learnt that my father could lose his temper, and the lesson visibly scared them. "your pardon, sir," twittered mr. fett. "'twas a foolish joke, i confess." "i may lend some point to it," answered my father grimly, "by telling you what i had a mind to conceal, that you stand at this moment at no far remove from one of the worst dangers you have playfully invented. the wind has dropped again, as you perceive. along the coast yonder live the worst pirates in the world, and with a glass we may all but discern the dreadful barracks in which so many hundreds of our fellow-christians lie at this moment languishing. please god we are only visible from the hill-country, and coast tribes may miss to descry us! for our goal lies north and east, and to fail of it would break my heart. but 'twere a high enterprise for england some day to smoke out these robbers, and i know none to which a christian man could more worthily engage himself." mr. badcock shivered. "in our parish church," said he, "we used to take up a collection for these poor prisoners every septuagesima. many a sermon have i listened to and wondered at their sufferings, yet idly, as no doubt axminster folk would wonder at this plight of mine, could they hear of it at this moment." "my father, his wrath being yet recent, did not spare to paint our peril of capture and the possible consequences in lively colours; but observing that nat and i had drawn near to listen, he put on a cheerfuller tone. "he will turn all this to the note of love, and within five minutes," i whispered to nat, "or i'll forfeit five shillings." my father could not have heard me; yet pat on the moment he rose to the bet as a fish to a fly. "yet love," said he, "love, the star of our quest, has shone before now into these dungeons, these dark ways of blood, these black and cruel hearts, and divinely illuminated them; as a score of histories bear witness, and among them one you shall hear." the story of the rover and the lord provost's daughter. "in edinburgh, in the canongate, there stands a tenement known as morocco land, over the second floor of which leans forward, like a figure-head, the wooden statue of a moor, black and naked, with a turban and a string of beads; and concerning this statue the following tale is told. "in the reign of king james or king charles i.--i cannot remember which--there happened a riot in edinburgh. of its cause i am uncertain, but in the progress of it the mob, headed by a young man named andrew gray, set fire to the lord provost's house. the riot having been quelled, its ringleaders were seized and cast into the tol-booth, and among them this andrew gray, who in due course was brought to judgment, and in spite of much private influence (for he came of good family) condemned to die. before the day of execution, however, his friends managed to spirit him out of prison, whence he fled the country; and so escaped and in time was forgotten. "many years after, at a time when the plague was raging through edinburgh, a barbary corsair sailed boldly up the firth of forth and sent a message ashore to the lord provost, demanding twenty thousand pounds ransom, and on a threat, if it were not paid within twenty-four hours, to burn all the shipping in the firth and along the quays. he required, meanwhile, a score of hostages for payment, and among them the lord provost's own son. "the lord provost ran about like a man demented; since, to begin with, audacious as the terms were, the plague had spared him scarcely a hundred men capable of resistance. moreover, he had no son, but an only daughter, and she was lying sick almost to death with the distemper. so he made answer, promising the ransom, but explaining that he for his part could send no hostage. to this the sallee captain replied politely--that he had some experience of the plague, and possessed an elixir which (he made sure) would cure the maiden if the lord provost would do him the honour to receive a visit; nay, that if he failed to cure her, he would remit the city's ransom. "you may guess with what delight the father consented. the pirate came ashore in state, and was made welcome. the elixir was given; the damsel recovered; and in due course she married her paynim foe, who now revealed himself as the escaped prisoner, andrew gray. he had risen high in the service of the emperor of morocco, and had fitted out his ship expressly to be revenged upon the city which had once condemned him to death. the story concludes that he settled down, and lived the rest of his life as one of its most reputable citizens." "but what was the elixir?" inquired mr. badcock. "t'cht!" answered my father testily. "i agree with you, sir," said mr. fett. "mr. badcock's question was a foolish one. speaking, however, as a mere man of business, and without thought of rounding off the story artistically, i am curious to know how they settled the ransom?" captain pomery had taken in all canvas, to be as little conspicuous as possible; and all that day we lay becalmed under bare poles. not content with this, he ordered out the boat, and the two seamen (mike halliday and roger wearne their names were) took turns with nat and me in towing the _gauntlet_ off the coast. it was back-breaking work under a broiling sun, but before evening we had the satisfaction to lose all sight of land. still we persevered and tugged until close upon midnight, when the captain called us aboard, and we tumbled asleep on deck, too weary even to seek our hammocks. at daybreak next morning (sunday) my father roused me. a light wind had sprung up from the shore, and with all canvas spread we were slipping through the water gaily; yet not so gaily (doubted captain pomery) as a lateen-sailed craft some four or five miles astern of us--a craft which he announced to be a moorish xebec. the _gauntlet_--a flattish-bottomed ship--footed it well before the wind, but not to compare with the xebec, which indeed was little more than a long open boat. after an hour's chase she had plainly reduced our lead by a mile or more. then for close upon an hour we seemed to have the better of the wind, and more than held our own; whereat the most of us openly rejoiced. for reasons which he kept to himself captain pomery did not share in our elation. for sole armament (besides our muskets) the ketch carried, close after of her fore-hatchway, a little obsolete -pounder gun, long since superannuated out of the falmouth packet service. in the dim past, when he had bid for her at a public auction, captain pomery may have designed to use the gun as a chaser, or perhaps, even then, for decoration only. she served now--and had served for many a peaceful passage--but as a peg for spare coils of rope, and her rickety carriage as a supplement, now and then, for the bitts, which were somewhat out of repair. my father casting about, as the chase progressed, to put us on better terms of defence, suggested unlashing this gun and running her aft for a stern-chaser. captain pomery shook his head. "where's the ammunition? we don't carry a single round shot aboard, nor haven't for years. besides which, she'd burst to a certainty." "there's time enough to make up a few tins of canister," argued my father. "or stay--" he smote his leg. "didn't i tell you old worthyvale would turn out the usefullest man on board?" "what's the matter with worthyvale?" "while we've been talking, worthyvale has been doing. what has he been doing?" why, breaking up the ballast, and, if i'm not mistaken, into stones of the very size to load this gun." "give badcock and me some share of credit," pleaded mr. fett. "speaking less as an expert than from an imagination quickened by terror of all missiles, i suggest that a hundredweight or so of empty bottles, nicely broken up, would lend a d--d disagreeable diversity to the charge--" "not a bad idea at all," agreed my father. "and a certain sting to our defiance; since i understand these ruffians drink nothing stronger than water," mr. fett concluded. we spent the next half-hour in dragging the gun aft, and fetching up from the hold a dozen basket-loads of stone. it required a personal appeal from my father before old worthyvale would part with so much of his treasure. during twenty minutes of this time, the xebec, having picked up with the stronger breeze, had been shortening her distance (as captain pomery put it) hand-over-fist. but no sooner had we loaded the little gun and trained her ready for use, than my father, pausing to mop his brow, cried out that the moor was losing her breeze again. she perceptibly slackened way, and before long the water astern of her ceased to be ruffled. an oily calm spreading across the sea from shoreward overhauled her by degrees, overtook, and held her, with sails idle and sheets tautening and sagging as she rolled on the heave of the swell. captain pomery promptly checked our rejoicing, telling us this was about the worst that could happen. "we shall carry this wind for another ten minutes at the most," he assured us. "and these devils have boats." so it proved. within ten minutes our booms were swinging uselessly; the sea spread calm for miles around us; and we saw no fewer than three boats being lowered from the xebec, now about four miles away. "there is nothing but to wait for 'em," said my father, seating himself on deck with his musket across his knees. "mr. badcock!" "sir?" "to-day is sunday." "it is, sir. six days shalt thou labour and do all thou hast to do, but on the seventh day (if you'll excuse me) there's a different kind of feeling in the air. at home, sir, i have observed that even the rooks count on it." "you have a fine voice, mr. badcock, and have been, as i gather, an attentive hearer of sermons." "i may claim that merit, sir." "if you can remember one sufficiently well to rehearse it to us, i feel that it would do us all good." mr. badcock coughed. "oh, sir," he protested, "i couldn't! i reelly couldn't. you'll excuse me, but i hold very strong opinions on unlicensed preaching." he hesitated; then suddenly his brow cleared. "but i can read you one, sir. _reading_ one is altogether another matter." "you have a book of sermons on board?" "before starting, sir, happening to cast my eye over the book-case in the bedroom . . . a volume of dr. south's, sir, if you'll excuse my liberty in borrowing it." he ran and fetched the volume, while we disposed ourselves to listen. "where shall i begin, sir?" "wherever you please. the book belongs to my brother gervase. for myself i have not even a bowing acquaintance with the good doctor." "the first sermon, sir, is upon human perfection." "it should have been the last, surely?" "not so, sir; for it starts with adam in the garden of eden." "let us hear, then." mr. badcock cleared his throat and read: "the image of god in man is that universal rectitude of all the faculties of the soul, by which they stand apt and disposed to their respective offices and operations." "hold a moment," interrupted my father, whose habit of commenting aloud in church had often disconcerted mr. grylls. "are you quite sure, mr. badcock, that we are not starting with the doctor's peroration?" "this is the first page, sir." "then the doctor himself began at the wrong end. prosper, will you take a look astern and report me how many boats are coming?" "three, sir," said i. "the third has just pushed off from the ship." "thank you. proceed, mr. badcock." "and first for its noblest faculty, the understanding. it was then sublime, clear, and aspiring, and as it were the soul's upper region, lofty and serene, free from the vapours and disturbances of the inferior affections. . . . like the sun it had both light and agility; it knew no rest but in motion; no quiet but in activity. . . . it did arbitrate upon the several reports of sense, and all the varieties of imagination; not like a drowsy judge, only hearing, but also directing their verdict. in sum, it was vegete quick and lively; open as the day, untainted as the morning, full of the innocence and sprightliness of youth; it gave the soul a bright and a full view into all things." "a fine piece of prose," remarked mr. fett as mr. badcock drew breath. "a fine fiddlestick, sir!" quoth my father. "the man is talking largely on matters of which he can know nothing; and in five minutes (i bet you) he will come a cropper." mr. badcock resumed-- "for the understanding speculative there are some general maxims and notions in the mind of man, which are the rules of discourse and the basis of all philosophy." "as, for instance, never to beg the question," snapped my father, who from this point let scarce a sentence pass without pishing and pshawing. "now it was adam's happiness in the state of innocence to have these clear and unsullied. he came into the world a philosopher--" ("instead of which he went and ate an apple.") "he could see consequents yet dormant in their principles, and effects yet unborn and in the womb of their causes." ("'tis a pity, then, he took not the trouble to warn eve.") "his understanding could almost pierce to future contingencies. . . ." ("ay, 'almost.' the fellow begins to scent mischief, and thinks to set himself right with a saving clause. why 'almost'?" ) "his conjectures improving even to prophecy, or to certainties of prediction. till his fall he was ignorant of nothing but sin; or, at least, it rested in the notion without the smart of the experiment." my father stamped the butt of his musket upon deck. "'rested in the notion,' did it? nothing of the sort, sir! it rested in the apple, which he was told not to eat; but, nevertheless, ate. born a philosopher, was he? and knew the effect of every cause without knowing the difference between good and evil? why, man, 'twas precisely against becoming a philosopher that the almighty took pains to warn him!" mr. badcock hastily turned a page. "the image of god was no less resplendent in that which we call man's practical understanding--namely, that storehouse of the soul in which are treasured up the rules of action and the seeds of morality. now of this sort are these maxims: 'that god is to be worshipped,' 'that parents are to be honoured,' 'that a man's word is to be kept.' it was the privilege of adam innocent to have these notions also firm and untainted--" my father flung up both hands. "oh! so adam honoured his father and his mother?" "belike," suggested billy priske, scratching his head, "eve was expecting, and he invented it to keep her spirits up." "i assure you, sir," mr. badcock protested with dignity, "dr. south was the most admired preacher of his day. her late majesty offered him the deanery of westminster." "i could have found a better preferment for him, then; that of select preacher to the marines." "if you will have patience, sir--" "prosper, how near is the leading boat?" "a good mile away, sir, as yet." "then i will have patience, mr. badcock." "the doctor, sir, proceeds to make some observations on love, with which you will find yourself able to agree. love, he says-- "'is the great instrument and engine of nature, the bond and cement of society; the spring and spirit of the universe. . . . now this affection in the state of innocence was happily pitched upon its right object--'" "'happily,' did you say? 'happily'? why, good heavens, sir! how many women had adam to go gallivanting after? enough, enough, gentleman! to your guns! and in the strength of a faith which must be strong indeed, to have survived its expositors!" by this time, through our glasses, we could discern the faces of the pirates, who, crowded in the bows and stern-sheets of the two leading boats, weighted them almost to the water's edge. the third had dropped, maybe half a mile behind in the race, but these two came on, stroke for stroke, almost level--each measuring, at a guess, some sixteen feet, and manned by eight rowers. they bore down straight for our stern, until within a hundred yards; then separated, with the evident intention of boarding us upon either quarter. at fifty yards the musketeers in their bows opened fire, while my father whistled to old worthyvale, who, during dr. south's sermon, had been bringing the points of half a dozen handspikes to a red heat in the galley fire. the two seamen, nat and i, retorted with a volley, and nat had the satisfaction to drop the steersman of the boat making towards our starboard quarter. unluckily, as it seemed--for this was the boat on which my father was training our -pounder--this threw her into momentary confusion at a range at which he would not risk firing, and allowed her mate to run in first and close with us. the confusion, however, lasted but ten seconds at the most; a second steersman stepped to the helm; and the boat came up with a rush and grated alongside, less than half a minute behind her consort. now the _gauntlet_, as the reader will remember, sailed in ballast, and therefore carried herself pretty high in the water. moreover, our enemies ran in and grappled us just forward of her quarter, where she carried a movable panel in her bulwarks to give access to an accommodation ladder. while nat, captain pomery, mr. fett, and the two seamen ran to defend the other side, at a nod from my father i thrust this panel open, leapt back, and mr. badcock aiding, ran the little gun out, while my father depressed its muzzle over the boat. in our excess of zeal we had nearly run her overboard; indeed, i believe that overboard she would have gone had not my father applied the red-hot iron in the nick of time. the explosion that followed not only flung us staggering to right and left, but lifted her on its recoil clean out of her rickety carriage, and kicked her back and half-way across the deck. recovering myself, i gripped my musket and ran to the bulwarks. a heave of the swell had lifted the boat up to receive our discharge, which must have burst point-blank upon her bottom boards; for i leaned over in bare time to see her settling down in a swirl beneath the feet of her crew, who, after vainly grabbing for hold at the _gauntlet's_ sides, flung themselves forward and were swimming one and all in a sea already discoloured for some yards with blood. my father called to me to fire. i heard; but for the moment the dusky upturned faces with their bared teeth fascinated me. they looked up at me like faces of wild beasts, neither pleading nor hating, and in response i merely stared. a cry from the larboard bulwarks aroused me. three moors, all naked to the waist, had actually gained the deck. a fourth, with a long knife clenched between his teeth, stood steadying himself by the main rigging in the act to leap; and in the act of turning i saw captain pomery chop at his ankles with a cutlass and bring him down. we made a rush on the others. one my father clubbed senseless with the butt of his musket; another the two seamen turned and chased forward to the bows, where he leapt overboard; the third, after hesitating an instant, retreated, swung himself over the bulwarks, and dropped back into the boat. but a second cry from mr. fett warned us that more were coming. mr. fett had caught up a sack of stones, and was staggering with it to discharge it on our assailants when this fresh uprush brought him to a check. "that fellow has more head than i gave him credit for," panted my father. "the gun, lad! quick, the gun!" we ran to where the gun lay, and lifted it between us, straining under its weight; lurched with it to the side, heaved it up, and sent it over into the second boat with a crash. prompt on the crash came a yell, and we stared in each other's faces, giddy with our triumph, as john worthyvale came tottering out of the cook's galley with two fresh red-hot handspikes. the third boat had come to a halt, less than seventy yards away. a score of bobbing heads were swimming for her, the nearer ones offering a fair mark for musketry. we held our fire, however, and watched them. the boat took in a dozen or so, and then, being dangerously overcrowded, left the rest to their fate, and headed back for the xebec. the swimmers clearly hoped nothing from us. they followed the boat, some of them for a long while. through our glasses we saw them sink one by one. chapter xii. how we landed on the island. "friend sancho," said the duke, "the isle i have promised you can neither stir nor fly. and whether you return to it upon the flying horse, or trudge back to it in misfortune, a pilgrim from house to house and from inn to inn, you will always find your isle just where you left it, and your islanders with the same good will to welcome you as they ever had."-- _don quixote_. night fell, and the xebec had made no further motion to attack: but yet, as the calm held, captain pomery continued gloomy; nor did his gloom lift at all when the enemy, as soon as it was thoroughly dark, began to burn flares and torches. "that will be a signal to the shore," said he. "though, please god, they are too far for it to reach." the illumination served us in one way. while it lasted, no boat could push out from the xebec without our perceiving it. the fires lasted until after eight bells, when the captain, believing that he scented a breeze ahead, turned us out into the boat again, to tow the ketch toward it. for my part, i tugged and sweated, but scented no breeze. on the contrary, the night seemed intolerably close and sultry, as though brooding a thunderstorm. when the xebec's fires died down, darkness settled on us like a cap. the only light came from the water, where our oars swirled it in pools of briming,[ ] or the tow-rope dropped for a moment and left for another moment a trail of fire. neither mr. fett nor mr. badcock could pull an oar, and old worthyvale had not the strength for it. the rest of us--all but the captain, who steered and kept what watch he could astern--took the rowing by hourly relays, pair and pair: billy priske and i, my father and mike halliday, nat and roger wearne. it had come round again to billy's turn and mine, and the hour was that darkest one which promises the near daylight. captain pomery, foreboding that dawn would bring with it an instant need of a clear head, and being by this time overweighted with drowsiness, had stepped below for forty winks, leaving wearne in charge of the helm. my father and nat had tumbled into their berths. we had left mr. badcock stationed and keeping watch on the larboard side, near the waist; and now and then, as we tugged, i fancied i could see the dim figures of mr. fett and mike halliday standing above us in converse near the bows. of imminent danger--danger close at hand--i had no fear at all, trusting that the still night would carry any sound of mischief, and, moreover, that no boat could approach without being signalled, a hundred yards off, by the briming in the water. so intolerably hot and breathless had the night become that i spoke to billy to ease a stroke while i pulled off my shirt. i had drawn it over my head and was slipping my arms clear of the sleeves, when i felt, or thought i felt, a light waft of wind on my right cheek--the first breath of the gathering thunderstorm--and turned up my face towards it. at that instant i heard a short warning cry from somewhere by the helm; not a call of alarm, but just such a gasp as a man will utter when slapped on the shoulder at unawares from behind; then a patter of naked feet rushing aft; then a score of outcries blending into one wild yell as the whole boatload of moors leapt and swarmed over the starboard bulwarks. the tow-rope, tautening under the last stroke of our oars, had drawn the boat back in its recoil, and she now drifted close under the _gauntlet's_ jibboom, which ran out upon a very short bowsprit. i stood up, and reaching for a grip on the dolphin-striker, swung myself on to the bobstay and thence to the cap of the bowsprit, where i sat astride for a moment while billy followed. we were barefoot both and naked to the waist. cautiously as a pair of cats, we worked along the bowsprit to the foremast stay, at the foot of which the foresail lay loose and ready for hoisting. with a fold of this i covered myself and peered along the pitch-dark deck. no shot had been fired. i could distinguish no sound of struggle, no english voice in all the din. the ship seemed to be full only of yellings, rushings to-and-fro of feet, wild hammerings upon timber, solid and hollow: and these pell-mell noises made the darkness, if not darker, at least more terribly confusing. the cries abated a little; the noise of hammering increased, and at the same time grew persistent and regular, almost methodical. i had no sooner guessed the meaning of this--that the ruffians were fastening down the hatches on their prisoners--than one of them, at the far end of the ship, either fetched or found a lantern, lit it, and stood it on the after-hatch. its rays glinted on the white teeth and eyeballs and dusky shining skins of a whole ring of moors gathered around the hatchway and nailing all secure. now for the first time it came into my mind that these rovers spared to kill while there remained a chance of taking their prisoners alive; that their prey was ever the crew before the cargo; and that, as for the captured vessel, they usually scuttled and sank her if she drew too much water for their shallow harbours, or if (like the _gauntlet_) she lacked the speed for their trade. the chances were, then, that my father yet lived. yet how could i, naked and unarmed, reach to him or help him? a sound, almost plumb beneath me, recalled me to more selfish alarms. the moors, whether they came from the xebec or, as we agreed later, more probably from shore, in answer to the xebec's signal-lights-- must have dropped down on us without stroke of oars. it may be that for the last half a mile or more they had wriggled their boat down to the attack by means of an oar or sweep shipped in the stern notch: a device which would avoid all noise and, if they came slowly, all warning but the ripple of briming off the bows. in any case they had not failed to observe that the ketch was being towed; and now, having discharged her boarding-party, their boat pushed forward to capture ours, which lay beneath us bumping idly against the _gauntlet's_ stem. i heard some half a dozen of them start to jabber as they found it empty. i divined--i could not see--the astonishment in their faces, as they stared up into the darkness. just then--perhaps in response to their cries--a comrade on deck ran forward to the bows and leaned over to hail them, standing so close to me that his shoulder brushed against the fold of the foresail within which i cowered. like me he was bare to the waist, but around his loins he wore a belt scaled with silver sequins, glimmering against the ray of the lantern on the after-hatch, and maybe also in the first weak light of the approaching dawn. . . . a madness took me at the sight. in a sudden rage i gripped the forestay with my left hand, lowered my right, and, slipping my fingers under his belt, lifted him--he was a light man--swung him outboard and overboard, and dropped him into the sea. i heard the splash; with an ugly thud, which told me that some part of him had struck the boat's gunwale. i waited--it seemed that i waited many seconds--expecting the answering yell, or a shot perhaps. still gripping the forestay with my left hand, i bent forward, ready to leap for deck. but even as i bent, the bowsprit shook under me like a whip, and the deck before me opened in a yellow sheet of fire. the whole ship seemed to burst asunder and shut again, the flame of the explosion went wavering up the rigging, and i found myself hanging on to the forestay and dangling over emptiness. while i dangled i heard in the roaring echoes another splash, and knew that billy priske had been thrown from his hold; a splash, and close upon it a heavy grinding sound, a crash of burst planks, an outcry ending in a wail as the lifting sea bore back the moor's boat and our own together upon the gauntlet's stem and smashed them like egg-shells. then, as the ketch heaved and heaved again in the light of the flames that ran up the tarry rigging, at one stride the dawn was on us; with no flush of sunshine, but with a grey, steel-coloured ray that cut the darkness like a sword. i had managed to hoist myself again to the bowsprit, and, straddling it, had time in one glance aft to take in the scene of ruin. yet in that glance i saw it--the yawning hole, the upheaved jagged deck-planks, the dark bodies hurled to right and left into the scuppers--by three separate lights: by the yellow light of the flames in the rigging, by the steel-grey light of dawn, and by a sudden white-hot flush as the lightning ripped open the belly of heaven and let loose the rain. while i blinked in the glare, the mizzen-mast crashed overside. i cannot tell whether the lightning struck and split it, or whether, already blasted by the explosion, it had stood upright for those few seconds until a heave of the swell snapped the charred stays and released it. nay, even the dead beat of the rain may have helped. in all my life i have never known such rain. its noise drowned the thunderclap. it fell in no drops or threads of drops, but in one solid flood as from a burst bag. it extinguished the blaze in the rigging as easily as you would blow out a candle. it beat me down prone upon the bowsprit, and with such force that i felt my ribs giving upon the timber. it stunned me as a bather is stunned who, swimming in a pool beneath a waterfall, ventures his head into the actual cascade. it flooded the deck so that two minutes later, when i managed to lift my head, i saw the bodies of two moors washed down the starboard scuppers and clean through a gap in the broken bulwarks, their brown legs lifting as they toppled and shot over the edge. no wind had preceded the storm. the lightning had leapt out of a still sky--still, that is, until jarred and set vibrating by the explosion. but now, as the downpour eased, the wind came on us with a howl, catching the ship so fierce a cuff, as she rolled with mainsail set and no way on her, that she careened until the sea ran in through her lee scuppers, and, for all the loss of her mizzen-mast, came close to being thrown on her beam ends. while she righted herself--which she began to do but slowly--i leapt for the deck and ran aft, avoiding the jagged splinters, in time to catch sight of my father's head and shoulders emerging through the burst hatchway. "hullo!" he sang out cheerfully, lifting his voice against the wind. "god be praised, lad! i was fearing we had lost you." "but what has happened?" i shouted. before he could answer a voice hailed us over stern, and we hurried aft to find billy priske dragging himself towards the ship by the raffle of mizzen-rigging. we hoisted him in over the quarter, and he dropped upon deck in a sitting posture. "is my head on?" he asked, taking it in both hands. "you are hurt, billy?" "not's i know by," answered billy, and stared about him. "what's become o' the brown vermin?" "they seem to have disappeared," said my father, likewise looking about him. "but what on earth has happened?" i persisted, catching him by the shoulder and shouting in his ear above the roar of a second sudden squall. "i--blew up--the ship. captain wouldn't listen--academical fellows, these skippers--like every one else brought up in a profession. so i mutinied and blew--her--up. he's wounded, by the way." "tell you what," yelled billy, staggering up, "we'll be at the bottom in two shakes if somebody don't handle her in these puffs. why, where's the wheel?" "gone," answered my father. "blown away, it appears." "_and_ she don't right herself!" "ballast has shifted. the gunpowder blew it every way. well, well--poor old john worthyvale won't mourn it. i left him below past praying for." "look here, master prosper," shouted billy. "if the ship won't steer we must get that mains'l in, or we're lost men. run you and cast off the peak halliards while i lower! the lord be praised, here's mike, too," he cried, as mike halliday appeared at the hatchway, nursing a badly burnt arm. "glad to see ye, mike, and wish i could say the same to poor roger. the devils knifed poor roger, i reckon." "no, they did not," said my father, in a lull of the wind. "they knocked him on the back of the head and slid his body down the after-companion. the noise of him bumping down the ladder was what first fetched me awake. he's a trifle dazed yet, but recovering." "'tis a short life he'll recover to, unless we stir ourselves." billy clutched my father's arm. "look 'ee, master! see what they heathens be doin'!" "we have scared 'em," said my father. "they are putting about." "_something_ has scared 'em, sure 'nough. but if 'tis from us they be in any such hurry to get away, why did they take in a reef before putting the helm over? no, no, master: they know the weather hereabouts, and we don't. we've been reckonin' this for a thunderstorm--a short blow and soon over. they know better, seemin' to me. else why don't they tack alongside and finish us?" "i believe you are right," said my father, after a long look to windward. "and i'm sure of it," insisted billy. "what's more, if we can't right the ballast a bit and get steerage way on her afore the sea works up, she'll go down under us inside the next two hours. there's the pumps, too: for if she don't take in water like a basket i was never born in wendron parish an' taught blastin'. why, master, you must ha' blown the very oakum out of her seams!" my father frowned thoughtfully. "that's true," said he; "i have been congratulating myself too soon. billy, in the absence of captain pomery i appoint you skipper. you have an ugly job to face, but do your best." "skipper, be i? then right you are!" answered billy, with a cheerful smile. "an' the first order is for you and master prosper here to tumble below an' heft ballast for your lives. be the two specimens safe?" "eh?" it took my father a second, maybe, to fit this description to messrs. badcock and fett. "ah, to be sure! yes, i left them safe and unhurt." "what's no good never comes to harm," said billy. "send 'em on deck, then, and i'll put 'em on to the pumps." we left billy face to face with a job which indeed looked to be past hope. the wheel had gone, and with it the binnacle; and where these had stood, from the stump of the broken mizzen-mast right aft to the taffrail, there yawned a mighty hole fringed with splintered deck-planking. the explosion had gutted after-hold, after-cabin, sail-locker, and laid all bare even to the stern-post. `twas a marvel the stern itself had not been blown out: but as a set-off against this mercy--and the most grievous of all, though as yet we had not discovered it--we had lost our rudder-head, and the rudder itself hung by a single pintle. "nevertheless," maintained my father, as we toiled together upon the ballast, "i took the only course, and in like circumstances i would venture it again. the captain very properly thought first of his ship: but i preferred to think that we were in a hurry." "how did you contrive it?" i asked, pausing to ease my back, and listening for a moment to the sound of hatchets on deck. (they were cutting away the tangle of the mizzen rigging.) "very simply," said he. "there must have been a dozen hammering on the after-hatch, and i guessed they would have another dozen looking on and offering advice: so i sent halliday to fetch a keg of powder, and poured about half of it on the top stair of the companion. the rest halliday took and heaped on a sea-chest raised on a couple of tables close under the deck. we ran up our trains on a couple of planks laid aslant, and touched off at a signal. there were two explosions, but we timed them so prettily that i believe they went off in one." "they did," said i. "my wits must have been pretty clear, then--at the moment. afterwards (i don't mind confessing to you) i lay for some minutes where the explosion flung me. in my hurry i had overdone the dose." we had been shovelling for an hour and more. already the ship began to labour heavily, and my father climbed to the deck to observe the alteration in her trim. he dropped back and picked up his shovel again in a chastened silence. in fact, deputy-captain priske (who had just accomplished the ticklish task of securing the rudder and lashing a couple of ropes to its broken head for steering-gear) had ordered him back to work, using language not unmixed with objurgation. for all our efforts the _gauntlet_ still canted heavily to leeward, and as the gale grew to its height the little canvas necessary to heave-to came near to drowning us. towards midnight our plight grew so desperate that billy, consulting no one, determined to risk all-- the unknown dangers of the coast, his complete ignorance of navigation, the risk of presenting her crazy stern timbers to the following seas--and run for it. at once we were called up from the hold and set to relieve the half-dead workers at the pumps. all that night we ran blindly, and all next day. the gale had southerned, and we no longer feared a lee-shore: but for forty-eight hours we lived with the present knowledge that the next stern wave might engulf us as its predecessor had just missed to do. the waves, too, in this inland sea, were not the great rollers--the great kindly giants--of our atlantic gales, but shorter and more vicious in impact: and, under heaven, our only hope against them hung by the two ropes of billy's jury steering-gear. they served us nobly. towards sunset of the second day, although to eye and ear the gale had not sensibly abated, and the sea ran by us as tall as ever, we knew that the worst was over. we could not have explained our assurance. it was a feeling--no more--but one which any man will recognize who has outlived a like time of peril on the sea. we did not hope again, for we were past the effort to hope. numb, drenched, our very skins bleached like a washerwoman's hands, our eyes caked with brine, our limbs so broken with weariness of the eternal pumping that when our shift was done, where we fell there we lay, and had to be kicked aside--we had scarcely the spirit to choose between life and death. yet all the while we had been fighting for life like madmen. towards the close of the day, too, roger wearne had made shift to crawl on deck and bear a hand. captain pomery lay in the huddle of the forecastle, no man tending him: and old worthyvale awaited burial, stretched in the hold upon the ballast. at whiles, as my fingers cramped themselves around the handle of the pump, it seemed as though we had been fighting this fight, tholing this misery, gripping the verge of this precipice for years upon years, and this nightmare sat heaviest upon me when the third morning broke and i turned in the sudden blessed sunshine--but we blessed it not--and saw what age the struggle had written on my father's face. i passed a hand over my eyes, and at that moment mr. fett, who had been snatching an hour's sleep below--and no man better deserved it-- thrust his head up through the broken hatchway, carolling-- "to all you ladies now at land we men at sea indite, but first would have you understand how hard it is to write: our paper, pen, and ink and we roll up and down our ships at sea, with a fa-_la_-la!" "catch him!" cried my father, sharply; but he meant not mr. fett. his eyes were on billy priske, who, perched on the temporary platform, where almost without relief he had sat and steered us, shouting his orders without sign of fatigue, sank forward with the rudder ropes dragging through, his hands, and dropped into the hold. for me, i cast myself down on deck with face upturned to the sun, and slept. i woke to find my father seated close to me, cross-legged, examining a sextant. "the plague of it is," he grumbled, "that even supposing myself to have mastered this diabolical instrument, we have ne'er a compass on board." glancing aft i saw that mike halliday had taken billy's place at the helm. at my elbow lay nat, still sleeping. mr. badcock had crawled to the bulwarks, and leaned there in uncontrollable sea-sickness. until the gale was done i believe he had not felt a qualm. now, on the top of his nausea, he had to endure the raillery of mr. fett, whose active fancy had already invented a grotesque and wholly untruthful accusation against his friend--namely, that when assailed by the moors, and in the act of being kicked below, he had dropped on his knees and offered to turn mohammedan. that evening we committed old worthyvale's body to the sea, and my father, having taken his first observation at noon, carefully entered the latitude and longitude in his pocket-book. on consulting the chart we found the alleged bearings somewhere south of asia-minor--to be exact, off the coast of pamphylia. my father therefore added the word "approximately" to his entry, and waited for captain pomery to recover. though the sea went down even more quickly than it had arisen, the pumps kept us fairly busy. all that night, under a clear and starry sky, we steered for the north-east with the wind brisk upon our starboard quarter. "i have no chart, no compass but a heart," quoted i in mischief to nat. but nat, having passed through a real gale, had saved not sufficient fondness for his verse to blush, for it. we should have been mournful for old worthyvale, but that night we knew only that it was good, being young, to have escaped death. under the stars we made bad jokes on mr. badcock's sea-sickness, and sang in chorus to mr. fett's solos-- "with a fa-la, fa-la, fa-la-la! to all you ladies now at land . . ." next morning captain pomery (whose hurt was a pretty severe concussion of the skull, the explosion having flung him into the panelling of the ship's cabin, and against the knee of a beam) returned to duty, and professed himself able, with help, to take a reckoning. he relieved us of another anxiety by producing a pocket-compass from his fob. my father held the sextant for him, while nat, under instructions, worked out the sum. with a compass, upon a chart spread on the deck, i pricked out the bearings--with a result that astonished all as i leapt up and stared across the bows. "why, lad, by the look of you we should be running ashore!" exclaimed my father. "and so we should be at this moment," said i, "were not the reckoning out." captain pomery reached out for the paper. "the reckoning is right enough," said he, after studying it awhile. "then on what land, in heaven's name, are we running?" my father demanded testily. "why, on corsica," i answered, pointing with my compass's foot as he bent over the chart. "on corsica. where else?" it wanted between three and four hours of sunset when we made the landfall and assured ourselves that what appeared so like a low cloud on the east-north-eastern horizon was indeed the wished-for island. we fell to discussing our best way to approach it; my father at first maintaining that the coast would be watched by genoese vessels, and therefore we should do wisely to take down sail and wait for darkness. against this, captain pomery maintained-- . that we were carrying a fair wind, and the lord knew how long that would hold. . that the moon would rise in less than three hours after dark, and thenceforth we should run almost the same risk of detection as by daylight. . that in any case we could pass for what we really were, an english trader in ballast, barely escaped from shipwreck, dismasted, with broken steerage, making for the nearest port. "man," said captain pomery, looking about him, "we must be a poor set of liars if we can't pitch a yarn on _this_ evidence!" my father allowed himself to be persuaded, the more easily as the argument jumped with his impatience. accordingly, we stood on for land, making no concealment; and the wind holding steady on our beam, and the sun dropping astern of us in a sky without a cloud, 'twas incredible how soon we began to make out the features of the land. it rose like a shield to a central boss, which trembled, as it were, into view and revealed itself a mountain peak, snowcapped and shining, before ever the purple mist began to slip from the slopes below it and disclose their true verdure. no sail broke the expanse of sea between us and the shore; and, as we neared it, no scarp of cliff, no house or group of houses broke the island's green monotony. from the water's edge to the high snow-line it might have been built of moss, so vivid its colour was, yet soft as velvet, and softer and still more vivid as we approached. within two miles of shore, and not long before dark, the wind (as captain pomery had promised) broke off and headed us, blowing cool and fresh off the land. i was hauling in the foresheet and belaying when a sudden waft of fragrance fetched me upright, with head thrown back and nostrils inhaling the breeze. "ay," said my father, at my elbow, "there is no scent on earth to compare with it. you smell the _macchia_, lad. drink well your first draught of it, delicious as first love." "but somewhere--at some time--i have smelt it before," said i. "the same scent, only fainter. why does it remind me of home?" my father considered. "i will tell you," he said. "in the corridor at home, outside my bedroom door, stands a wardrobe, and in it hang the clothes i wore, near upon twenty years ago, in corsica. they keep the fragrance of the _macchia_ yet; and if, as a child, you ever opened that wardrobe, you recall it at this moment." "yes," said i, "that was the scent." my father leaned and gazed at the island with dim eyes. still no sign of house or habitation greeted us as we worked by short tacks towards a deep bay which my father, after a prolonged consultation of the chart, decided to be that of sagona. a sharp promontory ran out upon its northern side, and within the shelter of this captain pomery looked to find good anchorage. but the _gauntlet_, after all her battering, lay so poorly to the wind that darkness overtook us a good mile from land, and before we weathered the point and cast anchor in a little bight within, the moon had risen. it showed us a steep shore near at hand, with many grey pinnacles of granite glimmering high over dark masses of forest trees, and in the farthest angle of the bight its rays travelled in silver down the waters of a miniature creek. the hawser ran out into five fathoms of water. we had lost our boat: but billy priske had spent his afternoon in fashioning a raft out of four empty casks and a dozen broken lengths of deck-planking; and on this, leaving the seamen on board, the rest of us pushed off for shore. for paddles we used a couple of spare oars. the water, smooth as in a lake, gave us our choice to make a landing where we would. my father, however, who had taken command, chose to steer straight for the entrance of the little creek. there, between tall entrance rocks of granite, we passed through it into the shadow of folding woods where the moon was lost to us. sounding with our paddles, we found a good depth of water under the raft, lit a lantern, and pushed on, my father promising that we should discover a village or at least a hamlet at the creek-head. "and you will find the inhabitants--your subjects, prosper-- hospitable, too. whatever the island may have been in seneca's time, to deserve the abuse he heaped on it in exile, to-day the corsicans keep more of the old classical virtues than any nation known to me. in vendetta they will slay one another, using the worst treachery; but a stranger may walk the length of the island unarmed--save against the genoese--and find a meal at the poorest cottage, and a bed, however rough, whereon he may sleep untroubled by suspicion." the raft grated and took ground on a shelving bank of sand, and nat, who stood forward holding the lantern, made a motion to step on shore. my father restrained him. "prosper goes first." i stepped on to the bank. my father, following, stooped, gathered a handful of the fine granite sand, and holding it in the lantern's light, let it run through his fingers. "hat off, lad! and salute your kingdom!" "but where," said i, "be my subjects?" it seemed, as we formed ourselves into marching order, that i was on the point to be answered. for above the bank we came to a causeway which our lanterns plainly showed us to be man's handiwork; and following it round the bend of a valley, where a stream sang its way down to the creek, came suddenly on a flat meadow swept by the pale light and rising to a grassy slope, where a score of whitewashed houses huddled around a tall belfry, all glimmering under the moon. "in corsica," repeated my father, leading the way across the meadow, "every householder is a host." he halted at the base of the village street. "it is curious, however, that the dogs have not heard us. their barking, as a rule, is something to remember." he stepped up to the first house to knock. there was no door to knock upon. the building stood open, desolate. our lanterns showed the grass growing on its threshold. we tried the next and the next. the whole village lay dead, abandoned. we gathered in the street and shouted, raising our lanterns aloft. no voice answered us. [ ] phosphorescence. chapter xiii. how, without fighting, our army wasted by enchantment. "adrian. the air breathes upon us here most sweetly. . . . gonzalo. here is everything advantageous to life. antonio. true: save means to live." "caliban. be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not." _the tempest_. upon a sudden thought my father hurried us towards the tall belfry. it rose cold and white against the moon, at the end of a nettle-grown lane. a garth of ilex-oaks surrounded it; and beside it, more than half-hidden by the untrimmed trees, stood a ridiculously squat church. by instinct, or, rather, from association of ideas learnt in england, i glanced around this churchyard for its gravestones. there were none. yet for the second time within these few hours i was strangely reminded of home, where in an upper garret were stacked half a dozen age-begrimed paintings on panel, one of which on an idle day two years ago i had taken a fancy to scour with soap and water. the painting represented a tall man, crowned and wearing eastern armour, with a small slave in short jacket and baggy white breeches holding a white charger in readiness; all three figures awkwardly drawn and without knowledge of anatomy. for background my scouring had brought to light a group of buildings, and among them just such a church as this, with just such a belfry. of architecture and its different styles i knew nothing; but, comparing the church before me with what i could recollect of the painting, i recognized every detail, from the cupola, high-set upon open arches, to the round, windowless apse in which the building ended. my father, meanwhile, had taken a lantern and explored the interior. "i know this place," he announced quietly, as he reappeared, after two or three minutes, in the ruinous doorway; "it is called paomia. we can bivouac in peace, and i doubt if by searching we could find a better spot." we ate our supper of cold bacon and ship-bread, both slightly damaged by sea-water--but the wine solaced us, being excellent--and stretched ourselves to sleep under the ilex boughs, my father undertaking to stand sentry till daybreak. nat and i protested against this, and offered ourselves; but he cut us short. he had his reasons, he said. it must have been two or even three hours later that i awoke at the touch of his hand on my shoulder. i stared up through the boughs at the setting moon, and around me at my comrades asleep in the grasses. he signed to me not to awake them, but to rise and follow him softly. passing through the screen of ilex, we came to a gap in the stone wall of the garth, and through this, at the base of the hillside below the forest, to a second screen of cypress which opened suddenly upon a semicircle of turf; and here, bathed in the moon's rays that slanted over the cypress-tops, stood a small doric temple of weather-stained marble, in proportions most delicate, a background for a dance of nymphs, a fit tiring-room for diana and her train. its door--if ever it had possessed one--was gone, like every other door in this strange village. my father led the way up the white steps, halted on the threshold, and, standing aside lest he should block the moonlight, pointed within. i stood at his shoulder and looked. the interior was empty, bare of all ornament. on the wall facing the door, and cut in plain letters a foot high, two words in greek confronted me-- philopatri stephanopouloi. "a tomb?" i asked. "yes, and a kinsman's; for the stephanopouli were of blood the emperors did not disdain to mate with. in the last rally the turks had much ado with them as leaders of the moreote tribes around maina, and north along taygetus to sparta. yes, and there were some who revived the spartan name in those days, maintaining the fight among the mountains until the turks swarmed across from crete, overran maina and closed the struggle. yet there was a man, constantine stephanopoulos, the grandfather of this philopater, who would buy nothing at the price of slavery, but, collecting a thousand souls-- men, women, and children--escaped by ship from porto vitilo and sailed in search of a new home. at first he had thought of sicily; but, finding no welcome there, he came (in the spring of , i think) to genoa, and obtained leave from the genoese to choose a site in corsica." "and it was here he planted his colony?" "in this very valley; but, mind you, at the price of swearing fealty to the republic of genoa--this and the repayment of a beggarly thousand piastres which the republic had advanced to pay the captain of the ship which brought them, and to buy food and clothing. very generous treatment it seemed. yet you have heard me say before now that liberty never stands in its worst peril until the hour of success; then too often men turn her sword against her. so these men of lacedaemon, coming to an island where the rule of genoa was a scourge to all except themselves, in gratitude, or for their oath's sake, took sides with the oppressor. therefore the corsicans, who never forget an injury, turned upon them, drove them for shelter to ajaccio, and laid their valley desolate; nor have the genoese power to restore them. "fate, prosper, has landed you on this very spot where your kinsmen found refuge for awhile, and broke the ground, and planted orchards, hoping for a fair continuance of peace and peaceful tillage. "'per varios casus, per tot discrimina rerum tendimus in latium--' "how will you read the omen?" "you say," said i, "that had we found our kinsmen here we had found them in league against freedom, and friends of the tyranny we are here to fight?" "assuredly." "then, sir, let me read the omen as a lesson, and avoid my kinsmen's mistake." my father smiled and clapped me on the shoulder. "you say little, as a rule, prosper. it is a good fault in kings." we walked back to the churchyard, where mr. fett sat up, rubbing his eyes in the dawn, and hailed us. "good morning, signors! i have been dreaming that i came to a kingdom which, indeed, seemed to be an island, but on inspection proved to be a mushroom. what interpretation have you when a man dreams of mushrooms?" "why, this," said i, "that we passed some score of them in the meadow below. i saw them plain by the moonlight, and kicked at them to make sure." "i did better," said mr. fett; i gathered a dozen or two in my cap, foreseeing breakfast. faith, and while you have been gadding i might have had added a rasher of bacon. did you meet any hogs on your way? but no; they turned back and took the path that appears to run up to the woods yonder." "hogs?" queried my father. "they woke me, nosing and grunting among the nettles by the wall-- lean, brown beasts, with homeric chines, and two or three of them huge as the boar of calydon. i was minded to let off my gun at 'em, but refrained upon two considerations--the first, that if they were tame, to shoot them might compromise our welcome here, and perhaps painfully, since the dimensions of the pigs appeared to argue considerable physical strength in their masters; the second, that if wild they might be savage enough to defend themselves when attacked." "doubtless," said my father, "they belong to some herdsman in the forest above us, and have strayed down in search of acorns. they cannot belong to this village." "and why, pray?" "because it contains not a single inhabitant. moreover, gentlemen, while you were sleeping i have taken a pretty extensive stroll. the vineyards lie unkempt, the vines themselves unthinned, up to the edge of the forest. the olive-trees have not been tended, but have shed their fruit for years with no man to gather. many even have cracked and fallen under the weight of their crops. but no trace of beast, wild or tame, did i discover; no dung, no signs of trampling. the valley is utterly desolate." "it grows mushrooms," said mr. fett, cheerfully, piling a heap of dry twigs; "and we have ship's butter and a frying-pan." "are you sure," asked mr. badcock, examining one, "that these are true mushrooms?" "they were grown in corsica, and have not subscribed to the thirty-nine articles; still, _mutatis mutandis_, in my belief they are good mushrooms. if you doubt, we can easily make sure by stewing them awhile in a saucepan and stirring them with a silver spoon, or boiling them gently with mr. badcock's watch, as was advised by mr. locke, author of the famous 'essay on the human understanding.'" "indeed?" said my father. "the passage must have escaped me." "it does not occur in the 'essay.' he gave the advice at montpellier to an english family of the name of robinson; and had they listened to him it would have robbed micklethwaite's 'botany of pewsey and devizes' of some fascinating pages." mr. fett's story of the fungi of montpellier. "about the year , when mr. locke resided at montpellier for the benefit of his health, and while his famous 'essay' lay as yet in the womb of futurity, there happened to be staying in the same _pension_ an english family--" "excuse me," put in my father, "i do not quite gather where these people lodged." "the sentence was faultily constructed, i admit. they were lodging in the same _pension_ as mr. locke. the family consisted of a mrs. robinson, a widow; her son eustace, aged seventeen; her daughter laetitia, a child of fourteen, suffering from a slight pulmonary complaint; her son's tutor, whose name i forget for the moment, but he was a graduate of peterhouse, cambridge, and an ardent botanist; and a good-natured english female named maria wilkins, an old servant whom mrs. robinson had brought from home--pewsey, in wiltshire--to attend upon this laetitia. the robinsons, you gather, were well-to-do; they were even well connected; albeit their social position did not quite warrant their story being included in the late mr. d'arcy smith's 'tragedies and vicissitudes of our county families.' "it appears that the lad eustace, perceiving that his sister's delicate health procured her some indulgences, complained of headaches, which he attributed to a too intense application upon the 'memorabilia' of xenophon, and cajoled his mother into packing him off with the tutor on a holiday expedition to the neighbouring mountains of garrigues. from this they returned two days later about the time of _dejeuner_, with a quantity of mushrooms, which the tutor, who had discovered them, handed around for inspection, asserting them to be edible. "the opinion of mr. locke being invited, that philosopher took up the position he afterwards elaborated so ingeniously, declaring that knowledge concerning these mushrooms could only be the result of experience, and suggesting that the tutor should first make proof of their innocuousness on his own person. upon this the tutor, a priggish youth, retorted hotly that he should hope his cambridge studies, for which his parents had pinched themselves by many small economies, had at least taught him to discriminate between the _agarici_. mr. locke in vain endeavoured to divert the conversation upon the scope and objects of a university education, and fell back on suggesting that the alleged mushrooms should be stewed, and the stew stirred with a silver spoon, when, if the spoon showed no discolouration, he would take back his opinion that they contained phosphorus in appreciable quantities. he was called an empiricist for his pains; and mrs. robinson (who hated a dispute and invariably melted at any allusion to the tutor's _res angusta domi_) weakly gave way. the mushrooms were cooked and pronounced excellent by the entire family, of whom mrs. robinson expired at . that evening, the tutor at o'clock, the faithful domestic wilkins and master eustace shortly after midnight, and an alsatian cook, attached to the establishment, some time in the small hours. the poor child, who had partaken but sparingly, lingered until the next noon before succumbing." "a strange fatality!" commented mr. badcock. mr. fett paused, and eyed him awhile in frank admiration before continuing. "the wonder to me is you didn't call it a coincidence," he murmured. "well, and so it was," said mr. badcock, "only the word didn't occur to me." "the bodies," resumed mr. fett, "in accordance with the by-laws of montpellier, were conveyed to the town mortuary, and there bestowed for the time in open coffins, connected by means of wire attachments with a bell in the roof--a municipal device against premature interment. the wires also carried a number of small bells very sensitively hung, so that the smallest movement of reviving animation would at once alarm the night-watchman in an adjoining chamber. "this watchman, an honest fellow with literary tastes above his calling, was engaged towards midnight in reading m. de la fontaine's 'elegie aux nymphes de vaux,' when a sudden violent jangling fetched him to his feet, with every hair of his head erect and separate. before he could collect his senses the jangling broke into a series of terrific detonations, in the midst of which the bell in the roof tolled one awful stroke and ceased. "i leave to your imagination the sight that met his eyes when, lantern in hand, he reached the mortuary door. the collected remains, promiscuously interred next day by the municipality of montpellier, were, at the request of a brother-in-law of mrs. robinson, and through the good offices of mr. locke, subsequently exhumed and despatched to pewsey, where they rest under a suitable inscription, locally attributed to the pen of mr. locke. his admirers will recognize in the concluding lines that conscientious exactitude which ever distinguished the philosopher. they run-- "'and to the memory of one fritz (? sempach) a humble native of alsace whose remains, by destiny commingled with the foregoing, are for convenience here deposited. ii. kings iv. .' "but the extraordinary part of my story, gentlemen, remains to be told. some six weeks ago, happening, in search of a theatrical engagement, to find myself in the neighbourhood of stonehenge, i fell in with a pedestrian whose affability of accost invited me to a closer acquaintance. he introduced himself as the reverend josias micklethwaite, a student of nature, and more particularly of the mosses and lichens of wilts. our liking (i have reason to believe) was mutual, and we spent a delightful ten days in tracking up together the course of the wiltshire avon, and afterwards in perambulating the famous forest of savernake. here, i regret to say, a trifling request--for the loan of five shillings, a temporary accommodation--led to a misunderstanding, and put a period to our companionship, and i remain his debtor but for some hours of profitable intercourse. "coming at the close of a day's ramble to pewsey, a small town near the source of the avon, we visited its parish churchyard and happened upon the memorial to the unfortunate robinsons. an old man was stooping over the turf beside it, engaged in gathering mushrooms, numbers of which grew in the grass around this stone, _but nowhere else in the whole enclosure_. the old man, who proved to be the sexton, assured us not only of this, but also that previous to the interment of the robinsons no mushrooms had grown within a mile of the spot. he added that, albeit regarded with abhorrence by the more superstitious inhabitants of pewsey, the fungi were edible, and gave no trouble to ordinary digestions (his own, for example); nor upon close examination could mr. micklethwaite detect that they differed at all from the common _agaricus campestris_. so, sirs, concludes my tale." mr. fett ended amid impressive silence. "i don't feel altogether so keen-set as i did five minutes back," muttered billy priske. "for my part," said mr. fett, anointing the gridiron with a pat of ship's butter, "i offer no remark upon it beyond the somewhat banal one by which we have all been anticipated by hamlet. 'there are more things in heaven and earth, horatio--'." "faith, and so there are," broke in nat fiennes, catching me on a sudden by the arm. "listen!" high on the forest ridge, far and faint, yet clear over the pine-tops, a voice was singing. the voice was a girl's--a girl's, or else some spirit's; for it fell to us out of the very dawn, pausing and anon dropping again in little cadences, as though upon the waft of wing; and wafted with it, wave upon wave, came also the morning scent of the _macchia_. we could distinguish no words, intently though we listened, or no more than one, which sounded like _mortu, mortu, mortu_, many times repeated in slow refrain before the voice lifted again to the air. but the air itself was voluble between its cadences, and the voice, though a woman's, seemed to challenge us on a high martial note, half menacing, half triumphant. nat fiennes had sprung to his feet, musket in hand, when another and less romantic sound broke the silence of the near woods; and down through a glade on the slope above us, where darkness and day yet mingled in a bluish twilight under the close boughs, came scampering back the hogs described to us by mr. fett. apparently they had recovered from their fright, for they came on at a shuffling gallop through the churchyard gate, nor hesitated until well within the enclosure. there, with much grunting, they drew to a standstill and eyed us, backing a little, and sidling off by twos and threes among the nettles under the wall. "they are tame hogs run wild," said my father, after studying them for a minute. "they have lost their masters, and evidently hope we have succeeded to the care of their troughs." he moistened a manchet of bread from his wine-flask and flung it towards them. the hogs winced away with a squeal of alarm, then took courage and rushed upon the morsel together. the most of them were lean brutes, though here and there a fat sow ran with the herd, her dugs almost brushing the ground. in colour all were reddish-brown, and the chine of each arched itself like a bent bow. five or six carried formidable tusks. these tusks, i think, must have struck terror in the breast of mr. badcock, who, as my father enticed the hogs nearer with fresh morsels of bread until they nuzzled close to us, suddenly made a motion to beat them off with the butt of his musket, whereupon the whole herd wheeled and scampered off through the gateway. "why, man," cried my father, angrily, "did i not tell you they were tame! and now you have lost us good provender!" he raised his gun. but here nat touched his arm. "let me follow them, sir, and see which way they take. being so tame, they have likely enough some master or herdsman up yonder--" "or herdswoman," i laughed. "take me with you, nat." "nay, that i won't," he answered, with a quick blush. "you have the temper of adonis-- "'hunting he lov'd, but love he laughed to scorn,' "and i fear his fate of you, one little adonis among so many boars!" "then take _me_" urged mr. badcock. "indeed, sir," he apologized, turning to my father, "the movement was involuntary. i am no coward, sir, though a sudden apprehension may for the moment flush my nerves. i desire to prove to you that on second thoughts i am ready to face all the boars in christendom." "i did not accuse you," said my father. "but go with mr. fiennes if you wish." nat nodded, tucked his musket under his arm, and strode out of the churchyard with mr. badcock at his heels. by the gateway he halted a moment and listened; but the voice sang no longer from the ridge. we watched the pair as they went up the glade, and turned to our breakfast. the meal over, my father proposed to me to return to the creek and fetch up a three days' supply of provisions from the ship, leaving mr. fett and billy priske to guard the camp. (in our confidence of finding the valley inhabited, we had brought but two pounds of ship's biscuit, one-third as much butter, and a small keg only of salt pork.) we were absent, maybe, for two hours and a half; and on our way back fell in with billy, who, having suffered no ill effects from his breakfast of mushrooms (though he had eaten them under protest), was roaming the meadow in search of more. we asked him if the two explorers had returned. he answered "no," and that mr. fett had strolled up into the wood in search of chestnuts, leaving him sentry over the camp. "and is it thus you keep sentry?" my father demanded. "why, master, since this valley has no more tenantry than sodom or gomorrah, cities of the plain--" billy began confidently; but his voice trailed off under my father's frown. "you have done ill, the pair of you," said my father, and strode ahead of us across the meadow. at the gate of the enclosure he came to an abrupt halt. the hogs had returned and were routing among our camp-furniture. for the rest, the churchyard was empty. but where were nat fiennes and mr. badcock, who had sallied out to follow them? and where was mr. fett? we rushed upon the brutes, and drove them squealing out of the gateway leading to the woods. they took the rise of the glade at a scamper, and were lost to us in the undergrowth. we followed, shouting our comrades' names. no answer came back to us, though our voices must have carried far beyond the next ridge. for an hour we beat the wood, keeping together by my father's order, and shouting, now singly, now in chorus. nat, likely enough, had pressed forward beyond earshot, and led mr. badcock on with him. but what had become of mr. fett, who, as billy asseverated, had promised to take but a short stroll? my father's frown grew darker and yet darker as the minutes wore on and still no voice answered our hailing. the sun was declining fast when he gave the order to return to camp, which we found as we had left it. we seated ourselves amid the disordered baggage, pulled out a ration apiece of salt pork and ship's bread, and ate our supper in moody silence. during the meal billy kept his eye furtively on my father. "master," said he, at the close, plucking up courage as my father filled and lit a pipe of tobacco, "i be terribly to blame." my father puffed, without answering. "the lord knows whether they be safe or lost," went on billy, desperately; "but we be safe, and those as can ought to sleep to-night." still my father gave no answer. "i can't sleep, sir, with this on my conscience--no, not if i tried. give me leave, sir, to stand sentry while you and master prosper take what rest you may." "i don't know that i can trust you," said my father. "'twas a careless act, i'll allow. but i've a-been your servant, sir john, for twenty-two year come nest martinmas; and you know--or else you ought to know--that for your good opinion, being set to it, i would stand awake till i watched out every eye in my head." my father crammed down the ashes in his pipe, and glanced back at the sun, now dropping into the fold of the glen between us and the sea. "i will give you another chance," he said. thrice that night, my dreams being troubled, i awoke and stretched myself to see billy pacing grimly in the moonlight between us and the gateway, tholing his penance. i know not what aroused me the fourth time; some sound, perhaps. the dawn was breaking, and, half-lifted on my elbow, i saw billy, his musket still at his shoulder, halt by the gateway as if he, too, had been arrested by the sound. after a moment he turned, quite casually, and stepped outside the gate to look. i saw him step outside. i was but half-awake, and drowsily my eyes closed and opened again with a start, expecting to see him back at his sentry-go. he had not returned. i closed my eyes again, in no way alarmed as yet. i would give him another minute, another sixty seconds. but before i had counted thirty my ears caught a sound, and i leapt up, wide awake, and touched my father's shoulder. he sat up, cast a glance about him, and sprang to his feet. together we ran to the gateway. the voice i had heard was the grunting of the hogs. they were gathered about the gateway again, and, as before, they scampered from us up the glade. but of billy priske there was no sign at all. we stared at each other and rubbed our eyes; we two, left alone out of our company of six. although the sun would not pierce to the valley for another hour, it slanted already between the pine-stems on the ridge, and above us the sky was light with another day. and again, punctual with the dawn, over the ridge a far voice broke into singing. as before, it came to us in cadences descending to a long-drawn refrain--_mortu, mortu, mortu!_ "billy! billy priske!" we called, and listened. "_mortu, mortu, mortu!_" sang the voice, and died away behind the ridge. for some time we stood and heard the hogs crashing their way through the undergrowth at the head of the glade, with a snapping and crackling of twigs, which by degrees grew fainter. this, too, died away; and, returning to our camp, we sat among the baggage and stared one another in the face. chapter xiv. how by means of her swine i came to circe. "so saying i took my way up from the ship and the sea-shore. but on my way, as i drew near through the glades to the home of the enchantress circe, there met me hermes with his golden rod, in semblance of a lad wearing youth's bloom on his lip and all youth's charm at its heyday. he clasped my hand and spake and greeted me. 'whither away now, wretched wight, amid these mountain-summits alone and astray? and yonder in the styes of circe, transformed to swine, thy comrades lie penned and make their lairs!'"--_odyssey, bk. x_. "prosper," said my father, seriously, "we must return to the ship." "i suppose so," i admitted; but with a rising temper, so that my tone contradicted him. "it is most necessary. we are no longer an army, or even a legation." "nothing could be more evident. you may add, sir, that we are badly scared, the both of us. yet i don't stomach sailing away, at any rate, until we have discovered what has happened to the others." i cast a vicious glance up at the forest. "good lord, child!" my father exclaimed. "who was suggesting it?" "you spoke of returning to the ship." "to be sure i did. she can work round to ajaccio and repair. she will arrive evidently from the verge of total wreck, an ordinary trader in ballast, with nothing suspicious about her. no questions will be asked that pomery cannot invent an answer for off-hand. she will be allowed to repair, refit, and sail for reinforcements." "reinforcements? but where will you find reinforcements?" "i must rely on gervase to provide them. meanwhile we have work on hand. to begin with, we must clear up this mystery, which may oblige us to camp here for some time." "o-oh!" said i. "you do not suggest, i hope, that we can abandon our comrades, whatever has befallen them?" "my dear father!" i protested. "tut, lad! i never supposed it of you. well, it seems to me we are more likely to clear up the mystery by sitting still than by beating the woods. do you agree?" "to be sure," said i, "we may spare ourselves the trouble of searching for it." "i propose then, as our first move, that we step down to the ship together and pack captain pomery off to ajaccio with his orders--" "excuse me, sir," i interrupted. "_you_ shall step down to the ship, while i wait here and guard the camp." "my dear prosper," said he, "i like the spirit of that offer: but, upon my word, i hope you won't persist in it. these misadventures, if i may confess it, get me on the raw, and i cannot leave you here alone without feeling damnably anxious." "trust me, sir," i answered, "i shall be at least as uncomfortable until you return. but i have an inkling that--whatever the secret may be, and whether we surprise it or it surprises us--it will wait until we are separated. moreover, i have a theory to test. so far, every man has disappeared outside the churchyard here and somewhere on the side of the forest. the camp itself has been safe enough, and so have the meadow and the path down to the creek. you will remember that billy was roaming the meadow for mushrooms at the very time we lost mr. fett: yet billy came to no harm. to be sure, the enemy, having thinned us down to two, may venture more boldly; but if i keep the camp here while you take the path down to the creek, and nothing happens to either, we shall be narrowing the zone of danger, so to speak." my father nodded. "you will promise me not to set foot outside the camp?" "i will promise more," said i. "at the smallest warning i am going to let off my piece. you must not be annoyed if i fetch you back on a false alarm, or even an absurd one. i shall sit here with my musket across my knees, and half a dozen others, all loaded, close around me: and at the first sign of something wrong--at the crackling of a twig, maybe--i shall fire. you, on your way to the creek, will keep your eyes just as wide open and fire at the first hint of danger." "i don't like it," my father persisted. "but you see the wisdom of it," said i. "we must stay here: that's agreed. so long as we stay here we shall be desperately uncomfortable, fearing we don't know what: that also is agreed. then, say i, for god's sake let us clear this business up and get it over." my father nodded, stood up and shouldered his piece. i knew that his eyes were on me, and avoided meeting them, afraid for a moment that he was going to say something in praise of my courage, whereas in truth i was horribly scared. that last word or two had really expressed my terror. i desired nothing but to get the whole thing over. my hand shook so as i turned to load the first musket that i had twice to shorten my grasp of the ramrod before i could insert it in the barrel. from the gateway leading to the lane my father watched till the loading was done. "good-bye and good luck, lad!" said he, and turned to go. a pace or two beyond the gateway he halted as if to add a word, but thought better of it and resumed his stride. his footsteps sounded hollow between the walls of the narrow lane. then he reached the turf of the meadow, and the sound ceased suddenly. i wanted--wanted desperately--to break down and run after him. by a bodily effort--something like a long pull on a rope--i held myself steady and braced my back against the bole of the ilex tree, which i had chosen because it gave a view through the gateway towards the forest. upon this opening and the glade beyond it i kept my eyes, for the first minute or two scarcely venturing to wink, only relaxing the strain now and again for a cautious glance to right and left around the deserted enclosure. i could hear my heart working like a pump. the enclosure--indeed the whole valley--lay deadly silent in the growing heat of the morning. on the hidden summit behind the wood a raven croaked; and as the sun mounted, a pair of buzzards, winging their way to the mountains, crossed its glare and let fall a momentary trace of shadow that touched my nerves as with a whip. but few birds haunt the corsican bush, and to-day even these woods and this watered valley were dumb of song. no breeze sent a shiver through the grey ilexes or the still paler olives in the orchard to my right. on the slope the chestnut trees massed their foliage in heavy plumes of green, plume upon plume, wave upon wave, a still cascade of verdure held between jagged ridges of granite. here and there the granite pushed a bare pinnacle above the trees, and over these pinnacles the air swam and quivered. the minutes dragged by. a caterpillar let itself down by a thread from the end of the bough under which i sat, in a direct line between me and the gateway. very slowly, while i watched him, he descended for a couple of feet, swayed a little and hung still, as if irresolute. a butterfly, after hovering for a while over the wall's dry coping, left it and fluttered aimlessly across the garth, vanishing at length into the open doorway of the church. the church stood about thirty paces from my tree, and by turning my head to the angle of my right shoulder i looked straight into its porch. it struck me that from the shadow within it, or from one of the narrow windows, a marksman could make an easy target of me. the building had been empty over-night: no one (it was reasonable to suppose) had entered the enclosure during billy's sentry-go; no one for a certainty had entered it since. nevertheless, the fancy that eyes might be watching me from within the church began now to worry, and within five minutes had almost worried me into leaving my post to explore. i repressed the impulse. i could not carry my stand of muskets with me, and to leave it unguarded would be the starkest folly. also i had sworn to myself to keep watch on the gateway towards the forest, and this resolution must obviously be broken if i explored the church. i kept my seat, telling myself that, however the others had vanished, they had vanished in silence, and therefore all danger from gunshot might be ruled out of the reckoning. i had scarcely calmed myself by these reflections when a noise at some distance up the glade fetched my musket halfway to my shoulder. i lowered it with a short laugh of relief as our friends the hogs came trotting downhill to the gateway. for the moment i was glad; on second thoughts, vexed. they explained the noise and eased my immediate fear. they brought back--absurd as it may sound--a sense of companionship: for although half-wild, they showed a disposition to be sociable, and we had found that a wave of the arm sufficed to drive them off when their advances became embarrassing. on the other hand, they would certainly distract some attention which i could very ill afford to spare. but again i calmed myself, reflecting that if any danger lurked close at hand, these friendly nuisances might give me some clue to it by their movements. they came trotting down to the entrance, halted and regarded me, pushing up their snouts and grunting as though uncertain of their welcome. apparently reassured, they charged through, as hogs will, in a disorderly mob, rubbing their lean flanks against the gateposts, each seeming to protest with squeals against the crush to which he contributed. one or two of the boldest came running towards me in the hope of being fed; but, seeing that i made no motion, swerved as though their courage failed them, and stood regarding me sideways with their grotesque little eyes. finding me still unresponsive, they began to nose in the dried grasses with an affected unconcern which set me smiling; it seemed so humanlike a pretence under rebuff. the rest, as usual, dispersed under the trees and along the nettle-beds by the wall. it occurred to me that, if i let these gentlemen work round to my rear, they might distract my attention--perhaps at an awkward moment--by nosing up to the forage-bags or upsetting the camp-furniture, so with a wave of my musket i headed them back. they took the hint obediently enough, and, wheeling about, fell to rooting between me and the entrance. so i sat maybe for another five minutes, still keeping my main attention on the gateway, but with an occasional glance to right and left, to detect and warn back any fresh attempt to work round my flanks. now, in the act of waving my musket, i had happened to catch sight of one remarkably fine hog among the nettles, who, taking alarm with the rest, had winced away and disappeared in the rear of the church, where a narrow alley ran between it and the churchyard wall. if he followed this alley to its end, he would come into sight again around the apse and almost directly on my right flank. i kept my eye lifting towards this corner of the building, waiting for him to reappear, which by-and-by he did, and with a truly porcine air of minding his own business and that only. his unconcern was so admirably affected that, to test it, instead of waving him back i lifted my musket very quietly, almost without shifting my position, and brought the butt against my shoulder. he saw the movement; for at once, even with his head down in the grasses, he hesitated and came to a full stop. suddenly, as my fingers felt for the trigger-guard, my heart began to beat like a hammer. _there_ lay my danger; and in a flash i knew it, but not the extent of it. this was no hog, but a man; by the start and the quick arrested pose in which the brute faced me, still with his head low and his eyes regarding me from the grasses, i felt sure of him. but what of the others? were they also men? if so, i was certainly lost, but i dared not turn my eyes for a glance at them. with a sudden and most natural grunt the brute backed a little, shook his head in disgust, and sidled towards the angle of the building. "now or never," thought i, and pulled the trigger. as the musket kicked against me i felt--i could not see--the rest of the hogs swerve in a common panic and break for the gateway. their squealing took up the roar of the report and protracted it. they were real hogs, then. i caught up a second musket, and, to make sure, let fly into the mass of them as they choked the gateway. then, without waiting to see the effect of this shot, i snatched musket number three, and ran through the drifting smoke to where my first victim lay face-downwards in the grasses, his swine's mask bowed upon the forelegs crossed--as a man crosses his arms--inwards from the elbow. as i ran he lifted himself in agony on his knees--a man's knees. i saw a man's hand thrust through the paunch, ripping it asunder; and, struggling so, he rolled slowly over upon his back and lay still. i stooped and tore the mask away. a black-avised face stared up at me, livid beneath its sunburn, with filmed eyes. the eyes stared at me unwinking as i slipped his other hand easily out of its case, which, even at close view, marvellously resembled the cleft narrow hoof of a hog. i could not disengage him further, his feet being strapped into the disguise with tight leathern thongs: but having satisfied myself that he was past help, i turned on a quick thought to the gateway again, and ran. a second hog--a real hog--lay stretched there on its side, dead as a nail. its companions, scampering in panic, had by this time almost reached the head of the glade. forgetting my promise to my father, i started in pursuit. the thought in my mind was that, if i kept them in sight, they would lead me to my comrades; a chance unlikely to return. the glade ran up between two contracting spurs of the hill. as i climbed, the belt of woodland narrowed on either side of the track, until the side-valley ended in a cross ridge where the chestnuts suddenly gave place to pines and the turf to a rocky soil carpeted with pine needles. here, in the spaces between the tree-trunks, i caught my last glimpse of the hogs as two or three of the slowest ran over the ridge and disappeared. i followed, sure of getting sight of them from the summit. but here i found myself tricked. beyond the ridge lay a short dip--short, that is, as a bird flies. not more than fifty yards ahead the slope rose again, strewn with granite boulders and piled masses of granite, such as in cornwall we call "tors"; and clear away to the mountain-tops stretched a view with never a tree, but a few outstanding bushes only. yet from ridge to ridge green vegetation filled every hollow, and in the hollow between me and the nearest the hogs were lost. i heard, however, their grunting and the snapping of boughs in the undergrowth: and in that clear delusive air it seemed but three minutes' work to reach the next ridge. i followed then, confidently enough--and made my first acquaintance with the corsican _macchia_ by plunging into a cleft twenty feet deep between two rocks of granite. i did not actually fall more than a third of the distance, for i saved myself by clutching at a clematis which laced its coils, thick as a man's wrist, across the cleft. but i know that the hole cannot have been less than twenty feet deep, for i had to descend to the bottom of it to recover my musket. that fall committed me, too. within five minutes of my first introduction to the _macchia_ i had learnt how easily a man may be lost in it; and in less than half of five minutes i had lost not only my way but my temper. to pursue after the hogs was nearly hopeless: all sound of them was swallowed up in the tangle of scrub. yet i held on, crawling through thickets of lentisk, tangling my legs in creepers, pushing my head into clumps of cactus, here tearing my hands and boots on sharp granite, there ripping my clothes on prickly thorns. once i found what appeared to be a goat-track. it led to another cleft of rock, where, beating down the briers, i looked down a chasm which ended, thirty feet below, in a whole brake of cacti. the scent of the crushed plants was divine: and i crushed a plenty of them. after a struggle which must have lasted from twenty minutes to half an hour, i gained the ridge which had seemed but three minutes away, and there sat down to a silent lesson in geography. i had given up all hope of following the hogs or discovering my comrades. i knew now what it means to search for a needle in a bottle of hay, but with many prickles i had gathered some wisdom, and learnt that, whether i decided to go forward or to retreat, i must survey the _macchia_ before attempting it again. to go forward without a clue would be folly, as well as unfair to my father, whom my two shots must have alarmed. i decided therefore to retreat, but first to mount a craggy pile of granite some fifty yards on my left, which would give me not only a better survey of the bush, but perhaps even a view over the tree-tops and down upon the bay where the _gauntlet_ lay at anchor. if so, by the movements on board i might learn whether or not my father had reached her with his commands before taking my alarm. the crags were not easy to climb: but, having hitched the musket in my bandolier, i could use both hands, and so pulled myself up by the creepers which festooned the rock here and there in swags as thick as the _gauntlet's_ hawser. disappointment met me on the summit. the trees allowed me but sight of the blue horizon; they still hid the shores of the bay and our anchorage. my eminence, however, showed me a track, fairly well defined, crossing the _macchia_ and leading back to the wood. i was conning this when a shout in my rear fetched me right-about face. towards me, down and across the farther ridge i saw a man running--nat fiennes! he had caught sight of me on my rock against the skyline, and as he ran he waved his arms frantically, motioning to me to run also for the woods. i could see no pursuer; but still, as he came on, his arms waved, and were waving yet when a bush on the chine above him threw out a little puff of grey smoke. toppling headlong into the bushes he was lost to me even before the report rang on my ears across the hollow. i dropped on my knees for a grip on the creepers, swung myself down the face of the crag, and within ten seconds was lost in the _macchia_ again, fighting my way through it to the spot where nat lay. wherever the scrub parted and allowed me a glimpse i kept my eye on the bush above the chine; and so, with torn clothes and face and hands bleeding, crossed the dip, mounted the slope and emerged upon a ferny hollow ringed about on three sides with the _macchia_. there face-downward in the fern lay nat, shot through the lungs. i lifted him against one knee. his eyelids flickered and his lips moved to speak, but a rush of blood choked him. still resting him against my knee, i felt behind me for my musket. the flint was gone from the lock, dislodged no doubt by a blow against the crags. with one hand i groped on the ground for a stone to replace it. my fingers found only a tangle of dry fern, and glancing up at the ridge, i stared straight along the barrel of a musket. at the same moment a second barrel glimmered out between the bushes on my left. "_signore, favorisca di rendersi_," said a voice, very quiet and polite. i stared around me, hopeless, at bay: and while i stared and clutched my useless gun, from behind a rock some twenty paces up the slope a girl stepped forward, halted, rested the butt of her musket on the stone, and, crossing her hands above the nozzle of it, calmly regarded us. even in my rage her extraordinary wild beauty held me at gaze for a moment. she wore over a loose white shirt a short waist-tunic of faded green velvet, with a petticoat or kilt of the same reaching a little below her knees, from which to the ankles her legs were cased in tight-fitting leathern gaiters. her stout boots shone with toe-plates of silver or polished steel. a sad-coloured handkerchief protected her head, its edge drawn straight across her brow in a fashion that would have disfigured ninety-nine women in a hundred. but no head-dress availed to disfigure that brow or the young imperious eyes beneath it. "are you a friend of this man?" she asked in italian. "he is my best friend," i answered her, in the same language. "why have you done this to him?" she seemed to consider for a moment, thoughtfully, without pity. "i can talk to you in french if you find it easier," she said, after a pause. "you may use italian," i answered angrily. "i can understand it more easily than you will use it to explain why you have done this wickedness." "he was very foolish," she said. "he tried to run away. and you were all very foolish to come as you did. we saw your ship while you were yet four leagues at sea. how have you come here?" "i came here," answered i, "being led by your hogs, and after shooting an assassin in disguise of a hog." "you have killed giuseppe?" "i did my best," said i, turning and addressing myself to three corsicans who had stepped from the bushes around me. "but whatever your purpose may be, you have shot my friend here, and he is dying. if you have hearts, deal tenderly with him, and afterwards we can talk." "he says well," said the girl, slowly, and nodded to the three men. "lift him and bring him to the camp." she turned to me. "you will not resist?" she asked. "i will go with my friend," said i. "that is good. you may walk behind me," she said, turning on her heel. "i am glad to have met one who talks in italian, for the rest of your friends can only chatter in english, a tongue which i do not understand. step close behind me, please; for the way is narrow. for what are you waiting?" "to see that my friend is tenderly handled," i answered. "he is past helping," said she, carelessly. "he behaved foolishly. you did not stop for giuseppe, did you?" "i did not." "i am not blaming you," said she, and led the way. chapter xv. i become hostage to the princess camilla. "silvis te, tyrrhene, feras agitare putasti? advenit qui vestra dies muliebribus armis verba redarguerit." virgil, aeneid, xi. ahead of us, beyond the rises and hollows of the _macchia_, rose a bare mountain summit, not very tall, the ascent to it broken by granite ledges, so that from a distance it almost appeared to be terraced. on a heathery slope at the foot of the first terrace the corsicans set down poor nat and spoke a word to their mistress, who presently halted and exchanged a few sentences with them in _patois_; whereupon they stepped back a few paces into the _macchia_, and, having quickly cut a couple of ilex-staves, fell to plaiting them with lentisk, to form a litter. while this was doing i stepped back to my friend's side. his eyes were closed; but he breathed yet, and his pulse, though faint, was perceptible. a little blood--a very little--trickled from the corner of his mouth. i glanced at the girl, who had drawn near and stood close at my elbow. "have you a surgeon in your camp?" i asked. "i believe that a surgeon might save him yet." she shook her head. i could detect no pity in her eyes; only a touch of curiosity, half haughty and in part sullen. "i doubt," she answered, "if you will find a surgeon in all corsica. i do not believe in surgeons." "then," said i, "you have not lived always in corsica." her face flushed darkly, even while the disdain in her eyes grew colder, more guarded. "what do you mean by that?" she asked. "why," said i, "you are not one, i believe, to speak so positively in mere ignorance. but see!" i went on, pointing down upon the bay over which this higher slope gave us a clear view, "there goes the ship that brought us here." she gazed at it for a while, with bent brow, evidently puzzled. "no," said i, watching her, "i shall not tell you yet why she goes, nor where her port lies. but i have something to propose to you." "say it." "it leaves one man behind, and one only, in our camp below. he is my father, and he has some knowledge of surgery; i believe he could save my friend here." she stood considering. "so much was known to me," she answered at length; "that, after you, there would be but one left. three of my men have gone down to take him. he will be here before long." "but, pardon me--for as yet i know not whether your aim is to kill us or take us alive--" she interrupted me with a slight shrug of her shoulders. "i have no wish to kill you. but i must know what brings you here, and the rest can talk nothing but english. as for this one"--with a gesture of the hand towards nat--"he was foolish. he tried to run away and warn you." "then, signorina, let me promise, who know my father, that you will not take him alive." "i have sent three men." "you had done better to send thirty; but even so you will not succeed." "i have heard tell," she said, again with a little movement of her shoulders, "that all englishmen are mad." i laughed; and this laugh of mine had a singular effect on her. she drew back and looked at me for an instant with startled eyes, as though she had never heard laughter in her life before, or else had heard too much. "tell me what you propose," she said. "i propose to send down a message to my father, and one of your men shall carry it with a white flag (for that he shall have the loan of my handkerchief). i will write in italian, that you may read and know what i say." "it is unnecessary." "i thank you." i found in my pockets the stump of a pencil and a scrap of paper--an old oxford bill--and wrote-- "dear father, "we are prisoners, and nat is wounded, but whether past help or not i cannot say. i believe you might do something for him. if it suit your plans, the bearer will give you safe conduct: if not, i remain your obedient son," "prosper." i translated this for her, and folded the paper. "marc'antonio!" she called to one of the three men, who by this time had finished plaiting the litter and were strewing it with fern. marc'antonio--a lean, slight fellow with an old scar on his cheek-- stepped forward at once. she gave him my note and handkerchief with instructions to hurry. "excuse me, principessa"--he hesitated, with a glance at me and another at his comrades--"but these two, with the litter, will have their hands full; and this prisoner is a strong one and artful. has he not already slain 'l verru?" "you will mind your own business, marc'antonio, which is to run, as i tell you." the man turned without another word, but with a last distrustful look, and plunged downhill into the scrub. the girl made a careless sign to the others to lay nat on his litter, and, turning, led the way up the rocky front of the summit, presenting her back to me, choosing the path which offered fewest impediments to the litter-bearers in our rear. the sun was now high overhead, and beat torridly upon the granite crags, which, as i clutched them, blistered my hands. the girl and the two men (in spite of their burden) balanced themselves and sprang from foothold to foothold with an ease which shamed me. for a while i supposed that we were making for the actual summit; but on the second terrace my captress bore away to the left and led us by a track that slanted across the northern shoulder of the ridge. a sentry started to his feet and stepped from behind a clump of arid sage-coloured bushes, stood for a moment with the sun glinting on his gun-barrel, and at a sign from the girl dropped back upon his post. just then, or a moment later, my ears caught the jigging notes of a flute; whereby i knew mr. badcock to be close at hand, for it was discoursing the tune of "the vicar of bray"! sure enough, as we rounded the slope we came upon him, mr. fett, and billy priske, the trio seated within a semi-circle of admiring corsicans, and above a scene so marvellous that i caught my breath. the slope, breaking away to north and east, descended sheer upon a vast amphitheatre filled with green acres of pine forest and pent within walls of porphyry that rose in tower upon tower, pinnacle upon pinnacle, beyond and above the tree-tops; and these pillars, as they soared out of the gulf, seemed to shake off with difficulty the forest that climbed after them, holding by every nook and ledge in their riven sides--here a dark-foliaged clump caught in a chasm, there a solitary trunk bleached and dead but still hanging by a last grip. on the edge of this green cauldron the corsicans and my comrades sat like so many witches, their figures magnified uncannily against the void; and far beyond, above the rose-coloured crags, deep-set in miles of transparent blue, shone the snow-covered central peaks of the island. as i rounded the corner, mr. fett hailed me with a shout and a vocal imitation of a post-horn. "another," he cried, and slapped his thigh triumphantly. "another blossom added to the posy! badcock, my flosculet, you owe me five shillings. permit me to explain, sir"--he turned to me--"that mr. badcock has been staking upon an anthology, i upon the full basket and the whole hog. it is cut and come again with these corsicans; and, talking of hogs--" his chatter tailed off in a pitiful exclamation as the litter-carriers came around the angle of the ridge with nat's body between them. "poor lad! ah, poor lad!" i heard billy say. mr. badcock nervously disjointed his flute. "i warned him, sir. believe me, my last words were that, being in rome, so to speak, he should do as the romans did--" "there is one more," announced the girl, to her corsicans, "and i have sent for him. he will come under conduct; and, meanwhile, i have to say that any man who offers to harm this prisoner, here, will be shot." "but why should we harm him, principessa?" they asked; and, indeed, i felt inclined to echo their question, seeing that she pointed at me. "because he has killed giuseppe," she answered simply. "giuseppe? he has slain giuseppe?" the simultaneous cry went up in a wail, and by impulse the hand of each one moved to his knife. "your pardon, principessa--" began one black-avised bandit, dropping the haft of his knife and feeling for the gun at his back. she waived him aside and turned to me. "i should warn you, sir, that we are of one clan here, though i may not tell you our name; and against the slayer of one it is vendetta with us all. but i spare you until your father arrives." "i thank you," answered i, feeling blue, but fetching up my best bow. (here was a pleasant prospect!) "i only beg to observe that i killed this man--if i have killed him--in self-defence," i added. "do you wish me to repeat that as your plea?" she asked, half in scorn. "i do not," said i, with a sudden rush of anger. "moreover, i dare say that these savages of yours would see no distinction." "you are right," she replied carelessly, "they would see no distinction." "but excuse me, principessa," persisted the scowling man, "a feud is a feud, and if he has slain our giuse--" "attend to me, sir," i broke in. "your giuseppe came at me like a hog, and i gave him his deserts. for the rest, if you move your hand another inch towards that gun i will knock your brains out." i clubbed my musket ready to strike. "gently, sir!" interposed the girl. "this is folly, as you must see." i shrugged my shoulders. "you will allow me, princess. if it come to vendetta, you have slain my friend." she gave her back to me and faced the ring. "i tell you," she said, "that giuseppe's death rests on the prisoner's word alone. marc'antonio and stephanu have gone down and will bring us the truth of it. meanwhile i say that this one is our prisoner, like as the others. give him room and let him wait by his friend. does any one say 'nay' to that?" she demanded. the scowling man, with a glance at his comrades' faces, gave way. i could not have told why, but from the start of the dispute i felt that this girl held her bandits, or whatever they were, in imperfect obedience. they obeyed her, yet with reserve. when pressed to the point between submission and mutiny, they yielded; but they yielded with a consent which i could not reconcile with submission. even whilst answering deferentially they appeared to be looking at one another and taking a cue. for the time, however, she had prevailed with them. they stood aside while billy and i lifted the litter and bore it to the shade of an overhanging rock. one even fetched me a panful of water which he had collected from a trickling spring on the face of the cliffs hard by, and brought me linen, too, when he saw me preparing to tear up my own shirt to bind nat's wound. we could not trace the course of the bullet, and judged it best to spare meddling with a hurt we could not help. so, having bathed away the clotted blood and bandaged him, we strewed a fresh bed of fern, and watched by him, moistening his lips from time to time with water, for which he moaned. the sun began to sink on the far side of the mountain, and the shadow of the summit, falling into the deep gulf at our feet, to creep across the green tree-tops massed there. while it crept, and i watched it, billy related in whispers how he had been sprung upon and gagged, so swiftly that he had no chance to cry alarm or to feel for the trigger of his musket. he rubbed his hands delightedly when in return i told the story of my lucky shot. in his ignorance of italian he had caught no inkling of the peril that lucky shot had brought upon me, nor did i choose to enlighten him. the shadow of the mountain was stretching more than halfway across the valley, and in the slanting light the rosy tinge of the crags appeared to be melting and suffusing the snow-peaks beyond, when my father walked into the camp unannounced. he carried a gun and a folding camp-stool, and was followed by marc'antonio, who fluttered my white handkerchief from the ramrod of his musket. "good afternoon, gentlemen!" said my father, lifting his hat and looking about him. i could see at a glance that his stature and bearing impressed the corsicans. they drew back for a moment, then pressed around him like children. "mbe! e bellu, il inglese," i heard one say to his fellow. after quelling the brief tumult against me, and while i busied myself with nat, the girl had disappeared--i could not tell whither. but now one of the band ran up the slope calling loudly to summon her. "o principessa, ajo, ajo! veni qui, ajo!" and, gazing after him, i saw her at the entrance of a cave some fifty feet above us, erect, with either hand parting and holding back the creepers that curtained her bower. she let the curtains fall-to behind her, and, stepping down the hillside, welcomed my father with the gravest of curtsies. "salutation, o stranger!" "and to you, o lady, salutation!" my father made answer, with a bow. "though english," he went on, slipping easily into the dialect she used with her followers, "i am corsican enough to forbear from asking their names of gentlefolk in the _macchia_; but mine is john constantine, and i am very much at your service." "my men call me the princess camilla." "a good name," said my father, and seemed to muse upon it for a moment while he eyed her paternally. "a very good name, o princess, and beloved of old by diana-- "'aeternum telorum et virginitatis amorem intemerata--' "but i come at your bidding and must first of all apologize for some little delay; the cause being that your messenger found me busy patching up a bullet-hole in one of your men." "giuseppe is not dead?" "he is not dead, and on the whole i incline to think he is not going to die, though you will allow me to say that the rogue deserved it. the other three gentlemen-at-arms despatched by you are at this moment bringing him up the hill, very carefully, following my instructions. he will need care. in fact, it will be touch-and-go with him for many days to come." while he talked, my father, catching sight of me, had stepped to nat's couch. nodding to me without more ado to lift the patient and cut away his shirt, he knelt, unrolled his case of instruments, and with a "courage, lad!" bent an ear to the faint breathing. in less than a minute, as it seemed, his hand feeling around the naked back came to a pause a little behind and under the right arm-pit. "courage, lad!" he repeated. "a little pain, and we'll have it, safe as a wasp in an apple." the corsicans under his orders had withdrawn to a little distance and stood about us in a ring. while he probed and nat's poor body writhed feebly in my arms, i lifted my eyes once with a shudder, and met the princess camilla's. she was watching, and without a tremor, her face grave as a child's. with a short grunt of triumph, my father caught away his hand, dipped it swiftly into the pan of water beside him, and held the bullet aloft between thumb and forefinger. the corsicans broke into quick guttural cries, as men hailing a miracle. as nat's head fell back limp against my shoulder i saw the princess turn and walk away alone. her followers dispersed by degrees, but not, i should say, until every man had explained to every other his own theory of the wound and the operation, and how my father had come to find the bullet so unerringly, each theorist tapping his own chest and back, or his interlocutor's, sometimes a couple tapping each other with vigour, neither listening, both jabbering at full pitch of the voice with prodigious elisions of consonants and equally prodigious drawlings of the vowels. for us, the dressing of the wound kept us busy, and we paid little attention even when a fresh jabbering announced that the litter-bearers had arrived with giuseppe. by-and-by, however, my father rose from his knees and, leaving me to fasten the last bandages, strolled across the slope to see how his other patient had borne the journey. just at that moment i heard again a voice calling to the princess camilla: "ajo, ajo! o principessa, veni qui!" and simultaneously the voice of billy priske uplifted in an incongruous british oath. my father halted with a gesture of annoyance, checked himself, and, awaiting the princess, pointed towards an object on the turf--an object at which billy priske, too, was pointing. it appeared that while his comrades had been attending on giuseppe, the third corsican (whom they called ste, or stephanu) had filled up his time by rifling our camp; and of all our possessions he had chosen to select our half-dozen spare muskets and a burst coffer, from which he now extracted and (for his comrade's admiration) held aloft our chiefest treasure--the iron crown of corsica. "princess," said my father, coldly, "your men have broken faith. i came to you under no compulsion, obeying your flag of truce. it was no part of the bargain that our camp should be pillaged." for a while she did not seem to hear; but stood at gaze, her eyes round with wonder. "stephanu, bring it here," she commanded. the man brought it. "o principessa," said he, with a wondering grin, "who are these that travel with royal crowns? if we were true folk of the _macchia_, now, we could hold them at a fine ransom." she took the crown, examined it for a moment, and turning to my father, spoke to him swiftly in french. "how came you by this, o englishman?" "that," answered my father, stiffly, "i decline to tell you. it has come to your hands, princess, through violation of your flag of truce, and in honour you should restore it to me without question." she waved a hand impatiently. "this is the crown of king theodore, o englishman. see the rim of mingled oak and laurel, made in imitation of that hasty chaplet wherewith the corsicans first crowned him in the convent of alesani. answer me, and in french, for all your lives depend on it; yet briefly, for the sound of that tongue angers my men. for your life, then, how did you come by this?" "you must find some better argument, princess," said my father, stiffly. "for your son's life then." i saw my father lift his eyes and scan her beautiful face. "my son is not a coward, princess; the less so that--" here my father hesitated. "quickly, quickly!" she urged him. he threw up his head. "yes, quickly, princess; and in no fear, nor upon any condition. you are islanders; therefore you are patriots. you are patriots; therefore you hate the genoese and love the queen emilia, whose servant i am. as i was saying, then, my son has the less excuse to be a coward in that he hopes, one day, with the queen emilia's blessing, to wear this crown bequeathed to him by the late king theodore." "_he?_" the girl swung upon me, scornfully incredulous. "even he, princess. in proof i can show you king theodore's deed of gift, signed with his own hand and attested." for the first time, then, i saw her smile; but the smile held no correspondence with the tone of slow, quiet contempt in which she next spoke. "you are trustful, o sciu johann constantine. i have heard that all englishmen tell the truth, and expect it, and are otherwise mad." "i trust to nothing, princess, until i have the queen emilia's word. that i would trust to my life's end." she nodded darkly. "you shall go to her--if you can find her." "tell me where to seek her." "she lies at nonza in capo corse; or peradventure the genoese, who hold her prisoner, have by this time carried her across to the continent." "though she were in genoa itself, i would deliver her or die." "you will probably die, o englishman, before you receive her answer; and that will be a pity--yes, a great pity. but you are free to go, you and your company--all but your son here, this king of corsica that is to be, whom i keep as hostage, with his crown. eh? is this not a good bargain i offer you?" "be it good or bad, princess," my father answered, "to make a bargain takes two." "that is true," said i, stepping forward with a laugh, and thrusting myself between the corsicans, who had begun to press around with decided menace in their looks. "and therefore the princess will accept me as the other party to the bargain, and as her hostage." again at the sound of my laugh she shrunk a little; but presently frowned. "have you considered, cavalier," she asked coldly, "that giuseppe is not certain of recovery?" "still less certain is my friend," answered i, and with a shrug of the shoulders walked away to nat's sick-couch. there, twenty minutes later, my father took leave of me, after giving some last instructions for the care of the invalid. in one hand he carried his musket, in the other his camp-stool. "say the word even now, lad," he offered, "and we will abide till he recovers." but i shook my head. billy priske carried an enormous wine-skin slung across his shoulders; mr. fett a sack of provender. mr. badcock had begged or borrowed or purchased an enormous gridiron. "but what is that for? i asked him, as we shook hands. "for cooking the wild goose," he answered solemnly, "which in these parts, as i am given to understand, is an animal they call the _mufflone_. he partakes in some degree of the nature of a sheep. he will find me his match, sir." one by one, a little before the sun sank, they bade me farewell and passed--free men--down the path that dipped into the pine forest. on the edge of the dip each man turned and waved a hand to me. the princess, with marc'antonio beside her, stood and watched them as they passed out of sight. chapter xvi. the forest hut. "then hooly, hooly rase she up, and hooly she came nigh him, and when she drew the curtain by-- 'young man, i think you're dyin'.'" _barbara allan's cruelty_. evening fell, of a sudden filling the great hollow with purple shadows. as the stars came out the corsicans on the slope to my left lit a fire of brushwood and busied themselves around it, cooking their supper. they were no ordinary bandits, then; or at least had no fear to betray their whereabouts, since on the landward side on so clear a night the glow would be visible for many miles. i watched them at their preparations. their dark figures moved between me and the flames as they set up a tall tripod of pine poles and hung their cauldron from the centre of it, upon a brandice. the princess had withdrawn to her cave and did not reappear until stephanu, who seemed to be head-cook, announced that supper was ready, whereupon she came and took her seat with the rest in a ring around the fire. marc'antonio brought me my share of seethed kid's flesh with a capful of chestnuts roasted in the embers; a flask of wine too, and a small pail of goat's milk with a pannikin, for nat. the fare might not be palatable, but plainly they did not intend us to starve. marc'antonio made no answer when i thanked him, but returned to his seat in the ring, where from the beginning of the meal--as at a signal--his companions had engaged in a furious and general dispute. so at least it sounded, and so shrill at times were their contending voices, and so fierce their gesticulations, that for some minutes i fully expected to see them turn to other business the knives with which they attacked their meal. the princess sat listening, speaking very seldom. once only in a general hush the firelight showed me that her lips were moving, and i caught the low tone of her voice, but not the words. not once did she look in my direction, and yet i guessed that she was speaking of me: for the words "ostagiu," "inglese," and the name "giuseppe" or "griuse"--of the man i had shot--had recurred over and over in their jabber, and recurred when she ceased and it broke forth again. it had lasted maybe for half an hour when at a signal from marc'antonio (whom i took to be the princess's lieutenant or spokesman in these matters, and to whom she turned oftener than to any of the others, except perhaps stephanu) two or three picked up their muskets, looked to their priming, and walked off into the darkness. by-and-by came in the sentinels they had relieved, and these in turn were helped by stephanu to supper from the cauldron. i watched, half-expecting the dispute to start afresh, but the others appeared to have taken their fill of it with their food; and soon, each man, drawing his blanket over his head, lay back and stretched themselves to sleep. the newcomers, having satisfied their hunger, did likewise. stephanu gave the great pot a stir, unhitched it from the brandice, and bore it away, leaving the princess and marc'antonio the only two wakeful ones beside the fire. they sat so long without speaking, the princess with knees drawn up, hands clasping them, and eyes bent on the embers into which (for the corsican nights are chilly) marc'antonio now and again cast a fresh brand--that in time my own eyes began to grow heavy. they were smarting, too, from the smoke of the burnt wood. nat had fallen into a troubled sleep, in which now and again he moaned: and always at the sound i roused myself to ease his posture or give him to drink from the pannikin; but, for the rest, i dozed, and must have dozed for hours. i started up wide awake at the sound of a footstep beside me, and sat erect, blinking against the rays of a lantern held close to my eyes. the princess held it, and at nat's head and feet stood marc'antonio and stephanu, in the act of lifting his litter. she motioned that i should stand up and follow. marc'antonio and stephanu fell into file behind us. each carried a gun in a sling. "i will hold the light where the path is difficult," she said quietly; "but keep a watch upon your feet. in an hour's time we shall have plenty of light." i looked and saw the sickle of the waning moon suspended over the gulf. it shot but the feeblest glimmer along the edges of the granite pinnacles, none upon the black masses of the pine-tops. but around it the darkness held a faint violet glow, and i knew that day must be climbing close on its heels. there was no promise of day, however, along the track into which we plunged--the track by which my comrades had descended to cross the valley. it dived down the mountain-side through a tunnel of pines, and in places the winter streams, now dry, had channelled it and broken it up with land-slides. "you do not ask where i am leading you," she said, holding her lantern for me at one of these awkward places. "i am your hostage, princess," i answered, without looking at her, my eyes being busy just then in discovering good foothold. "you must do with me what you will." "_if i could! ah, if i could!_" she said it hard and low, with clenched teeth, almost hissing the words. i stared at her, amazed. no sign of anger had she shown until this moment. what cause indeed had she to be angered? in what way had my words offended? yet angry she was, trembling with such a gust of wrath that the lantern shook in her hand. before i could master my surprise, she had mastered herself: and, turning, resumed her way. for the next twenty minutes we descended in silence, while the dawn, breaking above the roofed pines, filtered down to us and filled the spaces between their trunks with a brownish haze. by-and-by, when the slope grew easier and flattened itself out to form the bottom of the basin, these pines gave place to a chestnut wood, and the carpet of slippery needles to a tangled undergrowth taller than a very tall man: and here, in a clearing beside the track, we came on a small hut with a ruinous palisade beside it, fencing off a pen or courtyard of good size--some forty feet square, maybe. the princess halted, and i halted a few paces from her, studying the hut. it was built of pine-logs sawn lengthwise in half and set together with their untrimmed bark turned outwards: but the most of their bark had peeled away with age. it had two square holes for windows, and a doorway, but no door. its shingle roof had buckled this way and that with the rains, and had taken on a tinge of grey which the dawn touched to softest silver. lines of more brilliant silver criss-crossed it, and these were the tracks of snails. "o king of corsica"--she turned to me--"behold your palace!" her eyes were watching me, but in what expectation i could not tell. i stepped carelessly to the doorway and took a glance around the interior. "it might be worse; and i thank you, princess." "ajo, marc'antonio! since the stranger approves of it so far, go carry his friend within." "your pardon, princess," i interposed; "the place is something too dirty to house a sick man, and until it be cleaned my friend will do better in the fresh air." she shrugged her shoulders. "your subjects, o king, have left it in this mess, and they will help you very little to improve it." i walked over to the palisade and looked across it upon an unsightly area foul with dried dung and the trampling of pigs. for weeks, if not months, it must have lain uninhabited, but it smelt potently even yet. "my subjects, princess?" "with giuse lying sick, the hogs roam without a keeper: and my people have chosen you in his room." she paused, and i felt, rather than saw, that both the men were eyeing me intently. i guessed then that she was putting on me a meditated insult; to the corsican mind, doubtless a deep one. "so i am to keep your hogs, princess?" said i, with a deliberate air. "well, i am your hostage." "i am breaking no faith, englishman." "as to that, please observe that i am not accusing you. i but note that, having the power, you use it. but two things puzzle me: of which the first is, where shall i find my charges?" "marc'antonio shall fetch them down to you from the other side of the mountain." "and next, how shall i learn to tend them?" i asked, still keeping my matter-of-fact tone. "they will give you no trouble. you have but to pen them at night and number them, and again at daybreak turn them loose. they know this forest and prefer it to the other side: you will not find that they wander. at night you have only to blow a horn which marc'antonio will bring you, and the sound of it will fetch them home." "a light job," said stephanu, with a grin, "when a man can bring his stomach to it." "not so light as you suppose, my friend," i answered. "the sty, here, will need some cleansing; since if these are to be my subjects, i must do my best for them. it may not amount to much, but at least my hogs shall keep themselves cleaner than some corsicans, even than some corsican cooks." "stephanu," said marc'antonio, gravely, "the englishman meant that for you: and i tell you what i have told you before, that yours are no fitly kept hands for a cook. i have travelled abroad and seen the ways of other nations." "the sty will need mending too, princess," said i: "but before nightfall i will try to have it ready." "you will find tools in the hut," she answered, with a glance at marc'antonio, who nodded. "for food, you shall be kept supplied. stephanu has brought, in his suck yonder, flesh, cheese, and wine sufficient for three days, with milk for your friend: and day by day fresh milk shall be sent down to you." her words were commonplace, yet her cheeks wore an angry flush beneath their sun-burn; and i knew why. her insult had miscarried. in accepting this humiliation i had somehow mastered her: even the tone she used, level and matter-of-fact, she used perforce, in place of the high scorn with which she had started to sentence me. my spirits rose. if i could not understand this girl, neither could she understand me. she only felt defeat, and it puzzled and angered her. "you have no complaint to make?" she asked, hesitating in spite of herself as she turned to go. i laughed, having discovered that my laugh perplexed her. "none whatever, princess. am i not your hostage?" when they were gone i laughed again, with a glance at nat who lay with closed eyes and white still face where marc'antonio and stephanu had made a couch of fern and some heather for him under the chestnut boughs. the sight of the heather gave me an idea, and i walked back to where, at the end of the chestnut wood, a noble clump of it grew, under a scarp of rock where the pines broke off. with my knife i cut an armful of it and returned to the hut, pausing on my way to gather some strings of a creeper which looked to be a clematis and sufficiently tough for my purpose. my next step was to choose and cut a tolerably straight staff of ilex, about five feet in length and close upon two inches thick. while i trimmed it, a blackbird began to sing in the undergrowth behind the hut, and, listening, my ears seemed to catch in the pauses of his song a sound of running water, less loud but nearer and more distinct than the murmur of the many rock-streams that tinkled into the valley. i dropped my work for a while and, passing to the back of the hut, found and followed through the bushes a foot-track--overgrown and tangled with briers, but still a track--which led me to the water. it ran, with a murmur almost subterranean, beneath bushes so closely over-arched that my feet were on the brink before i guessed, and i came close upon taking a bath at unawares. now this stream, so handy within reach, was just what i wanted, and among the bushes by the verge grew a plant--much like our english osier, but dwarfer--extremely pliant and tougher than the tendrils of the clematis; so, that, having stripped it of half a dozen twigs, i went back to work more blithely than ever. but for fear of disturbing nat i could have whistled. it may even be that, intent on my task, i did unwittingly whistle a few bars of a tune: or perhaps the blackbird woke him. at any rate, after half an hour's labour i looked up from my handiwork and met his eyes, open, intent on me and with a question in them. "what am i doing, eh? i am making a broom, lad," i held it up for him to admire. "where is she?" he asked feebly. "she?" i set down my broom, fetched him a pannikin-ful of milk, and knelt beside him while he drank it. "if you mean the princess camilla, she has gone back to her mountain, leaving us in peace." "camilla?" he murmured the word. "and a very suitable name, it seems to me. there was, if you remember, a young lady in the aeneid of pretty much the same disposition." "camilla," he repeated, and again but a little above his breath. "your father . . . he is helping her?" "helping her?" i echoed. "my dear lad, if ever a young woman could take care of herself it is the princess. . . . and as for my father helping her, she has packed him off northwards across the mountains with a flea in his ear. and, talking of fleas--" i went on with a glance at the hut. he brought me to a full stop with a sudden grip on my arm, astonishingly strong for a wounded man. "nay, lad--nay!" i coaxed him, but slipped a hand under him as he insisted and sat upright. "she needs help, i tell you," he gasped. "needs help . . . it was for help i ran when--when--" "but what dreaming is this? my dear fellow, she makes prisoners of us, shoots you down when you try to escape, treats me worse than a dog, banishes us to this hut which--not to put too fine a point on it--is a pigs'-sty, and particularly filthy at that. i don't blame her, though some little explanation might not come amiss: but if she has any need of help, you must admit that she dissembles it pretty thoroughly." nat would not listen. "you did not see? you did not see?--and yet you know her language and have talked with her! whereas i--o blind!" he broke out passionately, "blind that you could not see!" a fit of coughing seized and shook him, and as i eased him back upon his fern pillow, blood came away upon the handkerchief i held to his lips. "damn her!" i swore viciously. "let her need help if she will, and let her ask me for it! she has tried her best to kill you; and what's more, she'll succeed if you don't lie still as i order. help? oh yes, i'll help her--when i have helped _you!_" he moved his head feebly, as if to shake it: but lay quiet, panting, with closed eyes: and so, the effusion of blood having ceased, i left him and fell to work like a negro slave. by the angle of the hut there stood a pigs' trough of granite, roughly hewn and hollowed, and among the tools within i found a leaky wooden bucket which, by daubing it with mud from the brink of the stream, i contrived to make passably watertight. a score of times i must have travelled to and fro between the hut and the stream before i had the cistern filled. then i fell-to upon the foul walls within, slushing and brooming them. bats dropped from the roof and flew blundering against me: i drove them forth from the window. the mud floor became a quag: i seized a spade and shovelled it clean, mud and slime and worse filth together. and still as i toiled a song kept liddening (as we say in cornwall) through my head: a song with two refrains, whereof the first was the old nursery jingle--"mud won't daub sieve, sieve won't hold water, water won't wet stone, stone won't edge axe, axe won't cut rod, rod won't make a gad, a gad to hang manachar who has eaten my raspberries every one." (so ran the rigmarole with which mrs. nance had beguiled my infancy.) the second refrain echoed poor nat's cry, "she needs help, needs help, and you could not see! blind, blind, that you could not see!" how should she need help? little cared i though she needed it, and sorely! but how had the notion taken hold of nat? weakness? delirium? no: he had been running to get help for her when they shot him down. i had his word for that. . . . but she had pursued with the others. for aught i knew, she herself had fired the shot. if she needed help, why was she treating us despitefully--putting this insult upon me, for example? why had she used those words of hate? they had been passionate words, too; spoken from the heart in an instant of surprise. then, again, to suppose her a friend of the genoese was impossible. but why, if not a friend of the genoese, was she a foe of their foes? why had she taken to the _macchia_ with these men? why were they keeping watch on the coast while careless that their watchfire showed inland for leagues? why, if she were a patriot, had the sight of king theodore's crown awakened such scorn and yet rage against me, its bearer? why again, at the mere word that my father sought the queen emilia, had she let him pass on, while redoubling her despite against me? on top of these puzzles nat must needs propound another, that this girl stood in need of help! help? from whom? as my mind ran over these questions, still at every pause the old rigmarole kept dinning--"mud won't daub sieve, sieve won't hold water, water won't wet stone . . ." on and on without ceasing, and still i toiled and sweated. by noon the hut was clean, at any rate tolerably clean; but its soaked floor would certainly take many hours in drying, and nat must spend another night under the open sky. i left the hut, snatched a meal of bread and cheese, and, after a pull at the wine flask, turned my attention to the sty. to cleanse it before nightfall was out of the question. i examined it and saw three good days' labour ahead of me. but the palisading could be repaired and made secure after a fashion, and i started upon it at once, sharpening the rotten posts with my axe, driving, fixing, nailing, binding them firmly with osier-twists, of which i had fetched a fresh supply from the stream-side. i had rolled my jacket into a pillow for nat, that he might lie easily and watch me. the sun was sinking beyond the mountain, staining with deep rose the pinnacles of granite that soared eastward above the pines, when a horn sounded on the slope and marc'antonio came down the track driving the hogs before him. he instructed me good-naturedly enough in the art of penning the brutes, breaking off from time to time to compliment me on my labours, the sum of which appeared to affect him with a degree of wonder not far short of awe. "but why are you doing it? perche? perche?" he broke off once or twice to ask, eyeing me askance with a look rather fearful than unfriendly. "the princess laid this task upon me," i answered cheerfully, indeed with elation, feeling that so long as i could keep my tyrants puzzled i still kept, somehow, the upper hand. "i have travelled, in my time," said marc'antonio with a touch of vainglorious pride. "i have made the acquaintance of many continentals, even with some that were extremely rich. but i never crossed over to england." "you would have found it full of eccentrics," said i. "i dare say," said he. "for myself, i said to myself when i took ship, 'marc'antonio,' said i, 'you must make it a rule to be surprised at nothing.' but do englishmen clean hogs'-sties for pleasure?" "and the princess? she has also travelled?" i asked, meeting his question with another. for the moment my question appeared to disturb him. recovering himself, he answered gravely-- "she has travelled, but not very far. you must not do her an injustice. . . . we form our opinions on what we see." "it is admittedly the best way," i assented, with equal gravity. at the shut of night he left me and went his way up the mountain path, and an hour later, having attended to nat's wants, tired as in all my life i had never been, i stretched myself on the turf and slept under the stars. the grunting of the hogs awakened me, a little before dawn. i went to the pen, and as soon as i opened the hatch they rushed out in a crowd, all but upsetting me as they jostled against my legs. then, after listening for a while after they had vanished into the undergrowth and darkness, i crept back to my couch and slept. that day, though the sun was rising before i awoke again and broke fast, i caught up with it before noon: that is to say, with the work i had promised myself to accomplish. before sunset i had scraped over and cleaned the entire area of the sty. also i had fetched fern in handfuls and strewn the floor of the hut, which was now dry and clean to the smell. in the evening i blew my horn for the hogs, and they returned to their pen obediently as the princess had promised. i had scarcely finished numbering them when marc'antonio came down the track, this time haling a recalcitrant she-goat by a halter. he tethered the goat and instructed me how to milk her. the next evening he brought, at my request, a saw. i had cleaned out the sty thoroughly, and turned-to at once to enlarge the window-openings to admit more light and air into the hut. still, as i worked, my spirits rose. nat was bettering fast. in a few more days, i promised myself, he would be out of danger. to be sure he shook his head when i spoke of this hope, and in the intervals of sleep--of sleep in which i rejoiced as the sweet restorer--lay watching me, with a trouble in his eyes. he no longer disobeyed my orders, but lay still and watched. my last rag of shirt was gone now, torn up for bandages. marc'antonio had promised to bring fresh linen to-morrow. by night i slept with my jacket about me. by day i worked naked to the waist, yet always with a growing cheerfulness. it was on the fourth afternoon, and while yet the sun stood a good way above the pines, that the princess camilla deigned to revisit us. i had carried nat forth into the glade before the hut, where the sun might fall on him temperately, after a torrid day--torrid, that is to say, on the heights, but in our hollow, pight about with the trees, the air had clung heavily. marc'antonio, an hour earlier than usual, came down the track with a bundle of linen under his left arm. i did not see that any one followed him until nat pulled himself up, clutching at my elbow. "princess! princess!" he cried, and his voice rang shrill towards her under the boughs. "help her . . . i cannot--" his voice choked on that last word as she came forward and stood regarding him carelessly, coldly, while i wiped the blood and then the bloody froth from his lips. "your friend looks to be in an ill case," she said. "you have killed him," said i, and looked up at her stonily, as nat's head fell back, with a weight i could not mistake, on my arms. chapter xvii. the first challenge. "the remedye agayns ire is a vertu that men clepen mansuetude, that is debonairetee; and eek another vertu, that men callen patience or suffrance. . . . this vertu disconfiteth thyn enemy. and therefore seith the wyse man, `if thou wolt venquisse thyn enemy, lerne to suffre.'"-- chaucer, _parson's tale_. "you have killed him." i lowered nat's head, stood up and accused her fiercely. she confronted me, contemptuous yet pale. even in my wrath i could see that her pallor had nothing to do with fear. "say that i have, what then?" she very deliberately unhitched the gun from her bandolier, and, after examining the lock, laid it on the turf midway between us. "as my hostage you may claim vendetta; take your shot then, and afterwards marc'antonio shall take his." "no, no, englishman!" marc'antonio ran between us while yet i stared at her without comprehending, and there was anguish in his cry. "the princess lies to you. it was i that fired the shot--i that killed your friend!" the girl shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "ah, well then, marc'antonio, since you will have it so, give me my gun again and hand yours to the cavalier. do as i tell you, please," she commanded, as the man turned to her with a dropping jaw. "princess, i implore you--" "you are a coward, marc'antonio." "have it so," he answered sullenly. "it is god's truth, at all events, that i am afraid." "for me? but i have this." she tapped the barrel of her gun as she took it from him. "and afterwards--if that is in your mind-- afterwards i shall still have stephanu." she said it lightly, but it brought all the blood back to his brow and cheek with a rush. not for many days did i learn the full meaning of the look he turned on her, but for dumb reproach i never saw the like of it on man's face. her foot tapped the ground. "give him the gun," she commanded; and marc'antonio thrust it into my hands. "now turn your back and walk to that first tree yonder, very slowly, pace by pace, as you hear me count." her face was set like a flint, her tone relentless. marc'antonio half raised his two fists, clenching them for a moment, but dropped them by his side, turned his back, and began to walk obediently towards the tree. "one--two--three--four--five," she counted, and paused. "englishman, this fellow has killed your friend, and you claim yourself worthy to be king of corsica. prove it." "excuse me, princess," said i, "but before that i have some other things to prove, of which some are easy and others may be hard and tedious." "seven--eight--nine." with no answer, but a curl of the lip, she resumed her counting. "marc'antonio!" i called--he had almost reached the tree. "come here!" he faced about, his eyes starting, his cheeks blanched. as he drew nearer i saw that his forehead shone with sweat. "i have a word for you," i said slowly. "in the first place an englishman does not shoot his game sitting; it is against the rules. secondly, he is by no means necessarily a fool, but, if it came to shooting against two, he might have sense enough to get his first shot upon the one who held the musket--a point which your mistress overlooked perhaps." i bowed to her gravely. "and thirdly," i went on, hardening my voice, "i have to tell you, ser marc'antonio, that this friend of mine, whom you have killed, was not trying to escape you, but running to seek help for the princess." marc'antonio checked an exclamation. he glanced at the girl, and she at him suspiciously, with a deepening frown. "help?" she echoed, turning the frown upon me, "what help, sir, should i need?" it was my turn now to shrug the shoulders. "nay," i answered, "i tell you but what he told me. he divined, or at least he was persuaded, that you stood in need of help." she threw a puzzled, questioning look at the poor corpse, but lifted her eyes to find mine fixed upon them, and shrank a little as i stepped close. her two hands went behind her, swiftly. i may have made a motion to grip her by the wrists; i cannot tell. my next words surprised myself, and the tone of my voice speaking and the passion in it. "you have killed my friend," said i, "who desired only your good. you have chosen to humiliate me, who willed you no harm. and now you say 'it shall be vendetta.' very well, it shall be vendetta, but as _i_ choose it. keep your foolish weapons; i can do without them. heap what insults you will upon me; i am a man and will bear them. but you are a woman, and therefore to be mastered. for my friend's sake i choose to hate you and to be patient. for my friend's sake, who discovered your need, i too will discover it and help it; and again, not as you will, but as i determine. for my friend's sake, mistress, and if i choose, i will even love you and you shall come to my hand. bethink you now what pains you can put on me; but at the last you shall come and place your neck under my foot, humbly, not choosing to be loved or hated, only beseeching your master!" i broke off, half in wonder at my own words and the flame in my blood, half in dismay to see her, who at first had fronted me bravely, wince and put up both hands to her face, yet not so as to cover a tide of shame flushing her from throat to brow. "give me leave to shoot him, princess," said marc'antonio. but she shook her head. "he has been talking with some one. . . . with stephanu?" his gaze questioned me gloomily. "no, i will do the dog justice; stephanu would not talk." "lead her away," said i, "and leave me now to mourn my friend." he touched her by the arm, at the same time promising me with a look that he would return for an explanation. the princess shivered, but, as he stood aside to let her pass, recollected herself and went before him up the path beneath the pines. i stepped to where nat lay and bent over him. i had never till now been alone with death, and it should have found me terribly alone. . . . i closed his eyes. . . . and this had been my friend, my schoolfellow, cleverer than i and infinitely more thoughtful, lacking no grace but good fortune, and lacking that only by strength of a spirit too gallant for its fate. in all our friendship it was i that had taken, he that had given; in the strange path we had entered and travelled thus far together, it was he that had supplied the courage, the loyalty, the blithe confidence that life held a prize to be won with noble weapons; he who had set his face towards the heights and pinned his faith to the stars; he, the victim of a senseless bullet; he, stretched here as he had fallen, all thoughts, all activities quenched, gone out into that night of which the darkness gathering in this forsaken glade was but a phantom, to be chased away by to-morrow's sun. to-morrow . . . to-morrow i should go on living and begin forgetting him. to-morrow? god forgive me for an ingrate, i had begun already. . . . even as i bent over him, my uppermost thought had not been of my friend. i had made, in the moment almost of his death and across his body, my first acquaintance with passion. my blood tingled yet with the strange fire; my mind ran in a tumult of high resolves of which i understood neither the end nor the present meaning, but only that the world had on a sudden become my battlefield, that the fight was mine, and at all cost the victory must be mine. it was, if i may say it without blasphemy, as if my friend's blood had baptized me into his faith; and i saw life and death with new eyes. yet, for the moment, in finding passion i had also found self; and shame of this self dragged down my elation. i had sprung to my feet in wild rage against nat's murder; i had spoken words--fierce, unpremeditated words--which, beginning in a boyish defiance, had ended on a note which, though my own lips uttered it, i heard as from a trumpet sounding close and yet calling afar. in a minute or so it had happened, and behold! i that, sitting beside nat, should have been terribly alone, was not alone, for my new-found self sat between us, intruding on my sorrow. i declare now with shame, as it abased me then, that for hours, while the darkness fell and the stars began their march over the tree-tops, the ghostly intruder kept watch with me as a bodily presence mocking us both, benumbing my efforts to sorrow. . . . nor did it fade until calm came to me, recalled by the murmur of unseen waters. listening to them i let my thoughts travel up to the ridges and forth into that unconfined world of which nat's spirit had been made free. . . . i went to the hut for a pail, groped my way to the stream, and fetched water to prepare his body for burial. when i returned the hateful presence had vanished. my eyes went up to a star--love's planet--poised over the dark boughs. thither and beyond it nat had travelled. through those windows he would henceforth look back and down on me; never again through the eyes i had loved as a friend and lived to close. i could weep now, and i wept; not passionately, not selfishly, but in grief that seemed to rise about me like a tide and bear me and all fate of man together upon its deep, strong flood. . . . at daybreak marc'antonio and stephanu came down the pass and found me digging the grave. i thought at first that they intended me some harm, for their faces were ill-humoured enough in all conscience; but they carried each a spade, and after growling a salutation, set down their guns and struck in to help me with my work. we had been digging, maybe, for twenty minutes, and in silence, when my ear caught the sound of furious grunting from the sty, where i had penned the hogs overnight, a little before sundown. nat had watched me as i numbered them, and it seemed now so long ago that i glanced up with a start almost guilty, as though in my grief i had neglected the poor brutes for days. in fact i had kept them in prison for a short hour beyond their usual time, and some one even now was liberating them. it was the princess, of whose presence i had not been aware. she stood by the gate of the pen, her head and shoulders in sunlight, while the hogs raced in shadow past her feet. marc'antonio glanced at her across his shoulder and growled angrily. "your pardon, princess," said i, slowly, as she closed the gate after the last of the hogs and came forward. "i have been remiss, but i need no help either for this or for any of my work." she halted a few paces from the grave. "you would rather be alone?" she asked simply. "i wish you to understand," said i, "that for the present i have no choice at all but your will." she frowned. "i thought to lighten your work, cavalier." i was about to thank her ironically when the sound of a horn broke the silence about us, its notes falling through the clear morning air from the heights across the valley. the corsicans dropped their spades. "ajo, listen! listen!" cried marc'antonio, excitedly. "that will be the prince--listen again! yes, and they are answering from the mountain. it can be no other than the prince, returning this way!" while we stood with our faces upturned to the granite crags, i caught the princess regarding me doubtfully. her gaze passed on as if to interrogate marc'antonio and stephanu, who, however, paid no heed, being preoccupied. again the horn sounded; not clear as before, although close at hand, for the thick woods muffled it. for another three minutes we waited--the princess silent, standing a little apart, with thoughtful brow, the two men conversing in rapid guttural undertones; then far up the track beneath the boughs a musket-barrel glinted, and another and another, glint following glint, as a file of men came swinging down between the pines, disappeared for a moment, and rounding a thicket of the undergrowth emerged upon the level clearing. in dress and bearing they were not to be distinguished from marc'antonio, stephanu, or any of the bandits on the mountain. each man carried a musket and each wore the jacket and breeches of sad-coloured velvet, the small cap and leathern leggings, which i afterwards learnt to be the uniform of patriotic corsica. but as they deployed upon the glade--some forty men in all--and halted at sight of us, my eyes fell upon a priest, who in order of marching had been midmost, or nearly midmost, of the file, and upon a young man beside him, toward whom the princess sprang with a light step and a cry of salutation. "the blessing of god be upon you, o brother!" "and upon you, o sister!" he took her kiss and returned it, yet (as i thought) with less fervour. across her shoulder his gaze fell on me, with a kind of peevish wonder, and he drew back a little as if in the act to question her. but she was beforehand with him for the moment. "and how hast thou fared, o camillo?" she asked, leaning back, with a hand upon his either shoulder, to look into his eyes. he disengaged himself sullenly, avoiding her gaze. there could be no doubt that the two faces thus confronting one another belonged to brother and sister, yet of the two his was the more effeminate, and its very beauty (he was an excessively handsome lad, albeit diminutively built) seemed to oppose itself to hers and caricature it, being so like yet so infinitely less noble. "we have fared ill," he answered, turning his head aside, and added with sudden petulance, "god's curse upon pasquale paoli, and all his house!" "he would not receive you?" "on the contrary, he made us welcome and listened to all we had to say. when i had done, father domenico took up the tale." "but surely, brother, when you had given him the proofs--when he heard all--" "the mischief, sister," he interrupted, stabbing at the ground with his heel and stealing a sidelong glance at the priest, "the mischief was, he had already heard too much." she drew back, white in the face. she, too, flung a look at the priest, but a more honest one, although in flinging it she shrank away from him. the priest, a sensual, loose-lipped man, whose mere aspect invited one to kick him, smiled sideways and downwards with a deprecating air, and spread out his hands as who should say that here was no place for a domestic discussion. i could make no guess at what the youth had meant; but the girl's face told me that the stroke was cruel, and (as often happens with the weak) his own cruelty worked him into a passion. "but who is this man with you?" he demanded, the blood rushing to his face. "and how came you alone with him, and stephanu, and marc'antonio? you don't tell me that the others have deserted!" "no one has deserted, brother. you will find them all upon the mountain." "and the recruits? is this a recruit?" "there are no recruits." "no recruits? by god, sister, this is too bad! has this cursed rumour spread, then, all over the countryside that honest men avoid us like a plague--us, the colonne!" he checked his tongue as she drew herself up and turned from him, before the staring soldiery, with drawn mouth and stony eyes; but stepped a pace after her on a fresh tack of rage. "but you have not answered me. who is this man, i repeat? and eh?-- but what in god's name have we here?" he halted, staring at the half-digged grave and nat's body laid beside it. marc'antonio stepped forward. "these are two prisoners, o prince, of whom, as you see, we are burying one." "prisoners? but whence?" "from england, as they tell us, o prince." chapter xviii. the tender mercies of prince camillo. "tyranny is the wish to have in one way what can only be had in another."--_blaise pascal_. the young man eyed me insolently for a moment and turned again to his sister. "camilla! will you have the goodness to explain?" he demanded. but here, while she hesitated, searching her brother's face proudly yet pitifully, as though unable quite to believe in the continued brutality of his tone, i struck in. "pardon me, signore," said i, "but an explanation from me may be shorter." "eh? so you are english, and speak corsican?" "or such tuscan," answered i, modestly, "as may pass or a poor attempt at it. yes, i am english, and have come hither--as the princess, your sister, will tell you--on a political errand which you may or may not consider important." the princess, who had turned and stood facing her brother again, threw me a quick look. "i know nothing of that," she said hurriedly, "save that he came with five others in a ship from england and encamped at paomia below; that, being taken prisoners, they professed to be seeking the queen emilia, to deliver her; and that thereupon of the six i let four go, keeping this one as hostage, with his friend, who has since died." "and the crown," put in stephanu. "the princess has forgotten to mention the crown." "what crown?" "the crown, sir," said i boldly, seeing the princess hesitate, "of the late king theodore of corsica, given by him into my keeping." i saw the priest start as if flicked with a whip, and shoot me a glance of curiosity from under his loose upper lids. his pupil stepped up and thrust his face close to mine. "eh? so you were seeking _me?_" he demanded. "you are mistaken, sir," said i, "whatever your reason for such a guess. my companions--one of them my father, an englishman and by name sir john constantine-- are seeking the queen emilia, whom they understand to be held prisoner by the genoese. meanwhile your sister detains me as hostage, and the crown in pawn." i had kept an eye on the priest as i pronounced my father's name: and again (or i was mistaken) the pendulous lids flickered slightly. "you do not answer my main question," the young man persisted. "what are you doing here, in corsica, with the crown of king theodore?" "i am the less likely to answer that question, sir, since you can have no right to ask it." "no right to ask it?" he echoed, stepping back with a slow laugh. "no right to ask it--i! king theodore's son?" i shrugged my shoulders. i had a mind to laugh back at his impudence, and indeed nothing but the mercy of heaven restrained me and so saved my life. as it was, i heard an ominous growl and glanced around to find the whole company of bandits regarding me with lively disfavour, whereas up to this point i had seemed to detect in their eyes some hints of leniency, even of good will. by their looks they had disapproved of their master's abuseful words to his sister, albeit with some reserve which i set down to their training. but even more evidently they believed to a man in this claim of his. my gesture, slight as it was, gave his anger its opportunity. he drew back a pace, his handsome mouth curving into a snarl. "you doubt my word, englishman?" "i have no evidence, sir, for doubting king theodore's," i answered as carelessly as i could, hoping the while that none of them heard the beating of my heart, loud in my own ears as the throb-throb of a pump. "if you be indeed king theodore's son, then your father--" "say on, sir." "why, then, your father, sir, practised some economy in telling me the truth. but my father and i will be content with the queen emilia's simple word." as i began this answer i saw the princess turn away, dropping her hands. at its conclusion she turned again, but yet irresolutely. "we will find something less than the queen emilia's word to content you, my friend," her brother promised, eyeing me and breathing hard. "where is the crown, stephanu?" "in safe keeping, o prince. i beg leave to say, too, that it was i who found it in the englishmen's camp and brought it to the princess." "you shall have your reward, my good stephanu. you shall put the bearer, too, into safe keeping. stand back, take your gun, and shoot me this dog, here beside his grave." the princess stepped forward. "stephanu," she said quietly, "you will put down that gun." her brother rounded on her with a curse. for the moment she did not heed, but kept her eyes on stephanu, who had stepped back with musket half lifted and finger already moving toward the trigger-guard. "stephanu," she repeated, "on my faith as a corsican, if you raise that gun an inch--even a little inch--higher, i will never speak to you again." then lifting a hand she swung round upon her brother, whose rage (i thank heaven) for the moment choked him. "is it meet, think you, o brother, for a king of corsica to kill his hostage?" "is it meet, o sister," he snarled, "for you, of all women, to champion a man--and a foreigner--before my soldiers? shoot him, stephanu!" her head went up proudly. "stephanu will not shoot. and you, my brother, that are so careful--i sometimes think, so over-careful--of my honour, for once bethink you that your own deserves attention. this englishman placed himself in my hands freely as a hostage. from the first, since you force me to say it, i had no liking for him. afterwards, when i knew his errand, i hated him for your sake: i hated him so that in my rage i strained all duty towards a hostage that i might insult him. marc'antonio will bear me witness." "the princess is speaking the truth before god," said marc'antonio, gravely. "she made the man a keeper of swine yonder." he waved a hand toward the sty. "and he is, as i understand, a cavalier in his own country." "i did more than that," the princess went on. "having strained the compact, i tempted him to break it--to shoot me or to shoot marc'antonio, so that one or other of us might be free to kill him." she paused, again with her eyes on marc'antonio, who nodded. "and that also is the truth," he said. "she put a gun into his hands, that he might kill me for having killed his friend. i did not understand at the time." "a pretty coward!" the young man flung this taunt out at me viciously; but i had enough to do to hold myself steady, there by the grave's edge, and did not heed him. "i do not think he is a coward," said she. (o, but those words were sweet! and for the first time i blessed her.) "but coward or no coward, he is our hostage, and you must not kill him." he turned to the priest, who all this while had stood with head on one side, eyes aslant, and the air and attitude of a stranger who having stumbled on a family squabble politely awaits its termination. "father domenico, is my sister right? and may i not kill this man?" "she is right," answered the reverend father, with something like a sigh. "you cannot kill him consistently with honour, though i admit the provocation to be great. the princess appears to have committed herself to something like a pledge." he paused here, and with his tongue moistened his loose lips. "moreover," he continued, "to kill him, on our present information, would be inadvisable. i know--at least i have heard--something of this sir john constantine whom the young man asserts to be his father; and, by what has reached me, he is capable of much." "do you mean," asked the prince, bridling angrily, "that i am to fear him?" "not at all," the priest answered quickly, still with his eyes aslant. "but, from what i have heard, he was fortunate, long ago, to earn the esteem of the good lady your mother, and"--he paused and felt for his snuff-box--"it would appear that the trick runs in the family." "by god, then, if i may not kill him, i may at least improve on my sister's treatment," swore the young man. "made him her swine-keeper, did she? i will promote him a step. here, you! take and truss him by the heels!--and fetch me a chain, one of you, from the forage-shed. . . ." in the short time it took him to devise my punishment the prince displayed a devilishly ingenious turn of mind. within ten minutes under his careful directions they had me down flat on my back in the filth of the sty, with my neck securely chained to a post of the palisade, my legs outstretched, and either ankle strapped to a peg. my hands they left free, to supply me (as the prince explained) with food and drink: that is to say, to reach for the loaf and the pannikin of water which marc'antonio, under orders, fetched from the hut and laid beside me. marc'antonio's punishment (for bearing witness to the truth) was to be my gaoler and sty-keeper in my room. he was promised, moreover, the job of hanging me as soon as my comrades returned. in this pleasant posture they left me, whether under surveillance or not i could not tell, being unable to turn my head, and scarce able even to move it an inch either way. so i lay and stared up at the sky, until the blazing sun outstared me. i will dwell on none of my torments but this, which toward midday became intolerable. certainly i had either died or gone mad under it, but that my hands were free to shield me; and these i turned in the blistering glare as a cook turns a steak on the gridiron. now and again i dabbled them in the pannikin beside me, very carefully, ekeing out the short supply of water. i had neither resisted nor protested. i hugged this thought and meant, if die i must, to die hugging it. i had challenged the girl, promising her to be patient. to be sure protest or resistance would have been idle. but i had kept my word. i don't doubt that from time to time a moan escaped me. . . . i could not believe that marc'antonio was near me, watching. i heard no sound at all, no distant voice or bugle-call from the camp on the mountain. the woods were silent . . . silent as nat, yonder, in his grave. surely none but a fiend could sit and watch me without a word. . . . toward evening i broke off a crust of bread and ate it. the water i husbanded. i might need it worse by-and-by, if marc'antonio delayed to come. but what if no one should come? i had been dozing--or maybe was wandering in slight delirium--when this question wrote itself across my dreams in letters of fire, so bright that it cleared and lit up my brain in a flash, chasing away all other terrors. . . . mercifully, it was soon answered. far up the glade a horn sounded-- my swine-horn, blown no doubt by marc'antonio. the hogs were coming. . . . well, i must use my hands to keep them at their distance. i listened with all my ears. yes, i caught the sound of their grunting; it came nearer and nearer, and--was that a footstep, close at hand, behind the palisade? something dropped at my side--dropped in the mire with a soft thud. i stretched out my hand, felt for it, clutched it. it was a file. my heart gave a leap. i had found a friend, then!--but in whom? was it marc'antonio? no: for i heard his voice now, fifty yards away, marshalling and cursing the hogs. his footstep was near the gate. as he opened it and the hogs rushed in, i slipped the file beneath me, under my shoulder blades. the first of the hogs, as he ran by me, put a hoof into my pannikin and upset it; and while i struck out at him, to fend him aside, another brute gobbled up my last morsel of crust. the clatter of the pannikin brought marc'antonio to my side. for a while he stood there looking down on me in the dusk; then walked off through the sty to the hut and returned with two hurdles which he rested over me, one against another, tentwise, driving their stakes an inch or two into the soil. slight as the fence was, it would protect me from the hogs; and i thanked him. he growled ungraciously, and, picking up the pannikin, slouched off upon a second errand. again when he brought it replenished, and a fresh loaf of bread with it, i thanked him, and again his only answer was a growl. i heard him latch the gate and walk away toward the hut. night was falling on the valley. through my roof of hurdles a star or two shone down palely. now was my time. i slipped a hand beneath me and recovered my file--my blessed file. the chain about my neck was not very stout. i had felt its links with my fingers a good score of times in efforts, some deliberate, others frantic, to loosen it even by a little. loosen it i could not; the prince had done his work too cleverly: but by my calculation an hour would suffice me to file it through. but an hour passed, and two hours, and still i lay staring up at the stars, listening to the hogs as they rubbed flanks and chose and fought for their lairs: still i lay staring, with teeth clenched and the file idle in my hand. i had challenged, and i had sworn. "bethink you now what pains you can put upon me. . . ." these tortures were not of her devising; but i would hold her to them. i was her hostage, and, though it killed me, i would hold her to the last inch of her bond. as a catholic, she must believe in hell. i would carry my wrong even to hell then, and meet her there with it and master her. i was mad. after hours of such a crucifixion a man must needs be mad. . . . "prosper, lad, your ideas are naught and your ambitions earth: but you have a streak of damned obstinacy which makes me not altogether hopeless of you!" these had been nat's words, a month ago; and nat lay in his grave yonder. . . . the cramp in my legs, the fiery pain ringing my neck, met and ran over me in waves of total anguish. at the point where my will failed me to hold out, the power failed me (i thank heaven) to lift a hand. yet the will struggled feebly; struggled on to the verge over which all sensation dropped plumb, as into a pit. i unclosed my eyes upon the grey dawn; but upon what dawn i knew not, whether of earth or purgatory or hell itself. they saw it swimming in a vague light: but my ears, from a sound as of rushing waters, awoke to a silence on which a small footfall broke, a few yards away. marc'antonio must have unpenned the hogs; for the sty was empty. and the hogs in their rush must have thrown down the hurdles protecting me; for these lay collapsed, the one at my side, the other across me. the light footfall drew close and halted. i looked up into the face of the princess. she came, picking her way across the mire; and with caution, as if she feared to be overheard. clearly she had expected to find the sty empty, for even to my dazed senses her dismay was evident as she caught sight of me beneath the hurdle. "you have not gone! oh, why have you not gone?" she was on her knees beside me in the filth. i heard her calling to marc'antonio, and presently marc'antonio came, obedient as ever, yet protesting. "he has not gone!" she moved her hands with a wringing gesture. i tried to speak, but for answer could only spread my hand, which still grasped the file: and for days after it kept a blue weal bitten across the palm. i heard marc'antonio's voice protesting as she took the file and sawed with it frantically across my neck-chain. "but he must escape and hide, at least." "he cannot, princess. the torture has worn him out." "it were better he died, then. for i must go." "it were better he died, princess: but his youth is tough. and that you must go is above all things necessary. the prince would kill me. . . ." "a little while, marc'antonio! the file is working." "to what end, princess?--since time is wanting. the bugle will call--it may call now at any moment. and if the prince should miss you--indeed it were better that he died--" their voices swam on my ear through giddy whirls of mist, i heard him persuade her to go--at the last insist upon her going. still the file worked. suddenly it ceased working. it seemed to me that they both had withdrawn, and my neck still remained in bondage, though my legs were free. i knew that my legs were free though i had not the power to test this by drawing them up. i tried once, and closed my eyes, swooning with pain. upon the swoon broke a shattering blow, across my legs and below the knees; a blow that lifted my body to clutch with both hands upon night and fall back again upon black unconsciousness. chapter xix. how marc'antonio nursed me and gave me counsel. "yet sometimes famous princes like thyself, drawn by report, adventurous by desire, tell thee, with speechless tongues and semblance pale, that without covering, save yon field of stars, they here stand martyrs, slain in cupid's wars; and with dead cheeks advise thee to desist for going on death's net, whom none resist." _pericles, prince of tyre_. his honour forbidding him to kill me, the prince camillo had given orders to break my legs: and since to abandon me in this plight went against the conscience of his followers (and even, it is possible, against his own), he had left marc'antonio behind to nurse me--thus gratifying a second spite. the prince was an ingenious young man. so much i gathered in faint intervals between anguish while marc'antonio bound me with rude splints of his own manufacture. yet he said little and did his surgery, though not ungently, with a taciturn frown which i set down to moroseness, having learnt somehow that the bandits had broken up their camp on the mountain and marched off, leaving us two alone. "did the princess know of this?" i managed to ask, and i believe this was my first intelligible question. marc'antonio paused before answering. "she knew that you were to be hurt, but not the manner of it. it was she that brought you the file, by stealth. why did you not use it, and escape?" "she brought me the file?" i knew it already, but found a fierce satisfaction in the words. "and she--and you--tried to use it upon my chain here and deliver me: i forced you to that, my friends! as for using it myself, you heard what i promised her, yesterday, before her brother came." "i heard you talk very foolishly; and now you have done worse than foolishly. i do not understand you at all--no, by the mother of god, i do not! you had the whole night for filing at your chain: and it would have been better for you, and in the end for her." "and for you also, marc'antonio." he was silent. "and for you also, marc'antonio?" i repeated it as a question. "your escape would have been put down to me, englishman. i had provided for that," he answered simply. "forgive me," i muttered, thrown back upon sudden contrition. "i was thinking only that you must feel it a punishment to be left alone with me. i had forgot--" "it is hard," he interrupted, "to bear everything in mind when one is young." his tone was quiet, decisive, as of one stating a fact of common knowledge; but the reproof cut me like a knife. "the princess has gone too?" i asked. "she has gone. they are all gone. that is why it would have been better for her too that you had escaped." i pondered this for a minute. "you mean," said i, "that--always supposing the prince had not killed you in his rage--you would now be at her side?" he nodded. "still, she has stephanu. stephanu will do his best," i suggested. "against what, eh?" he put his poser to me, turning with angry eyes, but ended on a short laugh of contempt. "do not try make-believe with me, o englishman." "there is one thing i know," said i, doggedly, "that the princess is in trouble or danger. and a second thing i know, that you and stephanu are her champions. but a third thing, which i do not know, is why you and stephanu hate one another." "and yet that should have been the easiest guess of the three," said he, rising abruptly and taking first a dozen paces toward the hut, then a dozen back to the shadow of the chestnut tree against the bole of which my head rested as he had laid me, having borne me thither from the sty. "_campioni?_ that is a good word, and i thank you for it, englishman. yet you wonder why i hate stephanu? listen. were you ever in florence, in the boboli gardens?" "never. but why?" "mbe! i have travelled, for my part." marc'antonio now and always mentioned his travels with an innocent boastfulness. "well, in the gardens there you will find a fountain, and on either side of it a statue--the statues of two old kings. they sit there, those two, carved in stone, face to face across the fountain; and with faces so full of hate that i declare it gives you a shiver down the spine--all the worse, if you will understand, because their eyes have no sight in them. now the story goes that these two kings in life were friends of a princess of tuscany far younger than themselves, and championed her, and established her house while she was weak and her enemies were strong; and that afterwards in gratitude she caused these statues to be set up beside the fountain. another story (to me it sounds like a child's tale) says that at first there was no fountain, and that the princess knew nothing of the hatred between these old men; but the sculptor knew. having left the order with him, she married a husband of her own age and lived for years at a foreign court. at length she returned to florence and led her husband one day out through the garden to show him the statues, when for the first time she saw what the sculptor had done and knew for the first time that these dead men had hated one another for her sake; whereupon she let fall one tear which became the source of the fountain. to me all this part of the story is foolishness: but that i and stephanu hate one another not otherwise than those two old kings, and for no very different cause, is god's truth, cavalier." "you are devoted to her, you two?" i asked, tempting him to continue. he gazed down on me for a moment with immeasurable contempt. "i give you a figure, and you would put it into words! words!" he spat. "and yet it is the truth, englishman, that once she called me her second father. 'her second father'--i have repeated that to stephanu once or twice when i have lost my temper (a rare thing with me). you should see him turn blue!" i could get no more out of marc'antonio that day, nor indeed did the pain i suffered allow me to continue the catechism. a little before night fell he lifted me again and carried me to a bed of clean-smelling heather and fern he had prepared within the hut; and, all the night through, the slightest moan from me found him alert to give me drink or shift me to an easier posture. our total solitude seemed from the first to breed a certain good-fellowship between us: neither next day nor for many days did he remit or falter in his care for me. but his manner, though not ungentle, was taciturn. he seemed to carry about a weight on his mind; his brow wore a constant frown, vexed and unhappy. once or twice i caught him talking to himself. "to be sure it was enough to madden all the saints: and the prince is not one of them. . . ." "what was enough to madden all the saints, o marc'antonio?" i asked from my bed. already he had turned in some confusion, surprised by the sound of his own voice. he was down on hands and knees, and had been blowing upon the embers of a wood fire, kindled under a pan of goat's milk. the goat herself browsed in the sunlight beyond the doorway, in the circuit allowed by a twenty-foot tether. "what was enough to madden all the saints, o marc'antonio?" "why," said he, savagely, "your standing up to him and denying his birth and his sister's before all the crowd. i did not think that anything could have saved you." "if i remember, i added that the queen emilia's bare word would be enough for me." "so. but you denied it on his father's, and that is what his enemies, the paolists all, would give their ears to hear--yes, and pasquale paoli himself, though he passes for a just man." "marc'antonio," said i, seriously, "are the prince and princess in truth the children of king theodore?" "as god hears me, cavalier, they are his twin children, born in the convent of santa maria di fosciandora, in the valley of the serchio, some leagues to the north of florence; and on the feast-day of saint mark these sixteen years ago." "then king theodore either knew nothing of it, or he was a liar." "he was a liar, cavalier." "stay a moment. i have a mind to tell you the whole story as it came to me, and as i should have told it to the prince camillo, had he treated me with decent courtesy." marc'antonio ceased blowing the fire and sitting back on his heels disposed himself to listen. very briefly i told him of my journey to london, my visit to the fleet, and how i received the crown with theodore's blessing. "that he denied having children i will not say: but (i remember well) my father took it for granted that he had no children, and he said nothing to the contrary. indeed on any other assumption his gift of the crown to me would have been meaningless." marc'antonio nodded, following my argument. "but there is another difficulty," i went on. "my father, who does not lie, told me once that king theodore returned to the island in the year 'thirty-nine, where he stayed but for a week; and that not until a year later did his queen escape across to tuscany." but here marc'antonio shook his head vigorously. "whoever told your father that, told him an untruth. the queen fled from porto vecchio in that same winter of 'thirty-nine, a few days before christmas. i myself steered the boat that carried her." "to be sure," said i, "my father may have had his information from king theodore." "the good sisters of the convent," continued marc'antonio, "received the queen and did all that was necessary for her. but among them must have been one who loved the genoese or their gold: for when the children were but ten days old they vanished, having been stolen and handed secretly to the genoese--yes, cavalier, out of the queen's own sleeping-chamber. little doubt had we they were dead--for why should their enemies spare them? and never should we have recovered trace of them but for the father domenico, who knew what had become of them (having learnt it, no doubt, among the sisters' confessions, to receive which he visited the convent) and that they were alive and unharmed; but he kept the secret, for his oath's sake, or else waiting for the time to ripen." "then king theodore may also have believed them dead," i suggested. "let us do him that justice. or he may never have known that they existed." marc'antonio brushed this aside with a wave of his hand. "the cavalier," he answered with dignity, "may have heard me allude to my travels?" "once or twice." "the first time that i crossed the alps"--great hannibal might have envied the roll in marc'antonio's voice--"i bore the king tidings of his good fortune. it was stephanu who followed, a week later, with the tale that the children were stolen." "then theodore _did_ believe them dead." "at the time, cavalier; at the time, no doubt. but more than twelve years later, being in brussels--" here marc'antonio pulled himself up, with a sudden dark flush and a look of confusion. "go on, my friend. you were saying that twelve years later, happening to be in brussels--" "by the merest chance, cavalier. before retiring to england king theodore spent the most of his exile in flanders and the low countries: and in brussels, as it happened, i had word of him and learned--but without making myself known to him--that he was seeking his two children." "seeking them in brussels?" "at a venture, no doubt, cavalier. put the case that you were seeking two children, of whom you knew only that they were alive and somewhere in europe--like two fleas, as you might say, in a bundle of straw--" i looked at marc'antonio and saw that he was lying, but politely forbore to tell him so. "then theodore knew that his children were alive?" said i musing. "yet he gave my father to understand that he had no children." "mbe, but he was a great liar, that theodore? always when it profited, and sometimes for the pleasure of it." "nevertheless, to disinherit his own son!" marc'antonio's shoulders went up to his ears. "he knew well enough what comedy he was playing. disinherit his own son? we corsicans, he might be sure, would never permit that: and meanwhile your father's money bought him out of prison. ajo, it is simple as milking the she-goat yonder!" "if you knew my father better, marc'antonio, you would find it not altogether so simple as you suppose. king theodore might have told my father that these children lived, and my father would yet have bought his freedom for their sake; yes, and helped him to the last shilling and the last drop of blood to restore them to the queen their mother." "verily, cavalier, i knew your father to be a madman," said marc'antonio, gravely, after considering my words for awhile. "but such madness as you speak of, who could take into account?" "eh, marc'antonio? what acquaintance have you with my father, that you should call him mad?" "i remember him well, cavalier, and his long sojourning with my late master the count ugo at his palace of casalabriva above the taravo, and the love there was between him and my young mistress that is now the queen emilia. lovers they were for all eyes to see but the old count's. mbe! we all gossiped of it, we servants and clansmen of the colonne--even i, that kept the goats over bicchivano, on the road leading up to the palace, and watched the two as they walked together, and was of an age to think of these things. a handsomer couple none could wish to see, and we watched them with good will; for the englishman touched her hand with a kind of worship as a devout man touches his beads, and they told me that in his own country he owned great estates--greater even than the count's. indeed, cavalier, had your father thought less of love and more of ambition there is no saying but he might have reached out for the crown, and his love would have come to him afterwards. but, as the saying goes, while peter stalked the mufro paul stole the mountain: and again says the proverb, 'bury not your treasure in another's orchard.' along came this theodore, and with a few lies took the crown and the jewel with it. so your father went away, and has come again after many years; and at the first i did not recognize him, for time has dealt heavily with us all. but afterwards, and before he spoke his name, i knew him--partly by his great stature, partly by his carriage, and partly, cavalier, by the likeness your youth bears to his as i remember it. so you have the tale." "and in the telling, marc'antonio," said i, "it appears that you, who champion his children, bear theodore's memory no good will." "theodore!" marc'antonio spat again. "if he were alive here and before me, i would shoot him where he stood." "for what cause?" i asked, surprised by the shake in his voice. but marc'antonio turned to the fire again, and would not answer. as i remember, some three or four days passed before i contrived to draw him into further talk; and, curiously enough, after trying him a dozen times _per ambages_ (as old mr. grylls would have said) and in vain, on the point of despair i succeeded with a few straight words. "marc'antonio," said i, "i have a notion about king theodore." "i am listening, cavalier." "a suspicion only, and horribly to his discredit." "it is the likelier to be near the truth." "could he--think you--have _sold_ his children to the genoese?" marc'antonio cast a quick glance at me. "i have thought of that," he said quietly. "he was capable of it." "it would explain why they were allowed to live. a father, however deep his treachery, would make that a part of the bargain." marc'antonio nodded. "i would give something," i went on, "to know how father domenico came by the secret. by confession of one of the sisters, you suggest. well, it may be so. but there might be another way--only take warning that i do not like this father domenico--" "i am listening." "is it not possible that he himself contrived the kidnapping--always with king theodore's consent?" "not possible," decided marc'antonio, after a moment's thought. "no more than you do i like the man: but consider. it was he who sent us to find and bring them back to corsica. at this moment, when (as i will confess to you) all odds are against it, he holds to their cause; he, a comfortable priest and a loose liver, has taken to the bush and fares hardly for his zeal." "my good friend," said i, "you reason as though a traitor must needs work always in a straight line and never quarrel with his paymaster; whereas by the very nature of treachery these are two of the unlikeliest things in the world. now, putting this aside, tell me if you think your prince camillo the better for father domenico's company? . . . you do not, i see." "i will not say that," answered marc'antonio, slowly. "the prince has good qualities. he will make a corsican in time. but, i own to you, he has been ill brought up, and before ever he met with father domenico. as yet he thinks only of his own will, like a spoilt child; and of his pleasures, which are not those of a king such as he desires to be." said i at a guess, "but the pleasures--eh, marc'antonio?--such as a forward boy learns on the pavements; of brussels, for example?" i thought for the moment he would have knifed me, so fiercely he started back and then craned forward at me, showing his white teeth. i saw that my luck with him hung on this moment. "tell me," i said, facing him and dragging hard on the hurry in my voice, "and remember that i owe no love to this cub. you may be loyal to him as you will, but i am the princess's man, i! you heard me promise her. tell me, why has she no recruits?" he drew back yet farther, still with his teeth bared. "am _i_ not her man?" he almost hissed. "so you tell me," i answered, with a scornful laugh, brazening it out. "you are her man, and stephanu is her man, and the prince too, and the father domenico, no doubt. yes, you are all her men, you four: but why can she collect no others?" i paused a moment and, holding up a hand, checked them off contemptuously upon my fingers. "four of you! and among you at least one traitor! stop!" said i, as he made a motion to protest. "you four--you and stephanu and the prince and fra domenico--know something which it concerns her fame to keep hidden; you four, and no other that i wot of. you are all her men, her champions: and yet this secret leaks out and poisons all minds against the cause. because of it, paoli will have no dealing with you. because of it, though you raise your standard on the mountains, no corsicans flock to it. pah!" i went on, my scorn confounding him, "i called you her champion, the other day! be so good as consider that i spoke derisively. four pretty champions she has, indeed; of whom one is a traitor, and the other three have not the spirit to track him down and kill him!" marc'antonio stood close by me now. to my amazement he was shaking like a man with the ague. "cavalier, you do not understand!" he protested hoarsely: but his eyes were wistful, as though he hoped for something which yet he dared not hear. "eh? i do not understand? well, now, listen to me. i am her man, too, but in a different fashion. you heard what i swore to her, that day, beside my friend's body; that whether in hate or love, and be her need what it might, i would help her. hear me repeat it, lying here with my both legs broken, helpless as a log. let strength return to me and i will help her yet, and in spite of all her champions." "in hate or in love, cavalier?" marc'antonio's voice shook with his whole body. "that shall be my secret," answered i. (yet well i knew what the answer was, and had known it since the moment she had bent over me in the sty, filing at my chain.) "it had better be hate--eh, marc'antonio?--seeing that for some reason she hates all men, except you, perhaps, and stephanu, and her brother." "we do not count, i and stephanu. her brother she adores. but the rest of men she hates, cavalier, and with good cause." "then it had better be hate?" "yes, yes"--and there was appeal in his voice--"it had a thousand times better be hate, could such a miracle happen." he peered into my eyes for a moment, and shook his head. "but it is not hate, cavalier; you do not deceive me. and since it is not--" "well?" "it were better for you--far better--that giuse had died of the wound you gave him." "why, what on earth has giuse to do with this matter?" i demanded. indeed i had all but forgotten giuse's existence. "only this; that had giuse died, they would have killed you out of hand in _vendetta_." "you are an amiable race, you corsicans!" "and you came, cavalier, meaning to reign over us! now, i have taken a liking to you and will give you a warning. be like your father, and give up all for love." "suppose," said i, after a pause, "that for love i choose rather to dare all?" "signore"--he stepped back and, raising himself erect, flung out both hands passionately--"take her, if you must take her, away from corsica! she is innocent, but here they will never understand. what she did she did for her brother, far from home: yet he--he has no thanks, no bowels of pity, and here at home it is killing her! there was a young man, a noble, head of the family of rocca serra by sartene--" marc'antonio broke off, trembling. "you must finish," said i, in a voice cold and slow as the chilled blood about my heart. "there was no harm in her. by her brother's will they were betrothed. she hated the youth, and he--he was eager--until the day before the marriage--" "what happened, marc'antonio?" "he slew himself, cavalier. some story reached him, and he slew himself with his own gun. o cavalier, if you can help us, take her away from corsica!" he cast up both hands and ran from me. chapter xx. i learn of liberty, and am restored to it. "a! fredome is a noble thing: fredome mayse man to haif liking." barbour, _the bruce_. "non enim propter gloriam divitas aut honores pugnanus, sed propter libertatem solummodo, quam nemo bonus nisi cum vita amittit.--" _lit. comit. et baron_. scotoe ad pap. a.d. (quoted by boswell). "when corn ripeth in every steade mury it is in feld and hyde; sinne hit is and shame to chyde. knyghtis wolleth on huntyng ride, the deor galopith by wodis side, he that can his tyme abyde, at his wille him schal betyde." _alisaunder_. more than this marc'antonio would not tell me, though i laid many traps for more during the long weeks my bones were healing. but although he denied me his confidence in this matter, he told me much of this corsica i had so childishly invaded, and a great deal to make me blush for my random ignorance; of the people, their untiring feud with genoa, their insufferable wrongs, their succession of heroic leaders. he did not speak of their passion for liberty, as a man will not of what is holiest in his love. he had no need. it spoke for itself in the ring of his voice, in the glooms and lights of his eyes, as we lay on either side of our wood fire; and i listened, till the embers died down, to the deeds of jean paul de leca, of giudice della rocca, of bel messer, of sampiero di ornano, of the great gaffori and other chiefs, all famous in their day, each in his turn assassinated by genoese gold. i heard of venaco, where the ghost of bel messer yet wanders, with the ghosts of his wife and seven children drowned by the genoese in the little lake of the seven bowls. i heard of the twenty-one shepherds of bastelica who marched down from their mountains, and routed eight hundred greeks and genoese of the garrison of ajaccio; how at length they were intercepted and slain between the river and the marshes--all but one youth, who, stretched among his comrades and feigning death, was taken and led to execution through the streets of the town, carrying six heads, and each a kinsman's. i heard how gaffori besieged his own house; how the genoese, having stolen his infant son, exposed the child in the breach to stop the firing; and how gaffori called to them "i was a corsican before i was a father," and the cannonade went on, yet the child miraculously escaped unhurt. i heard of sampiero's last fight with his murderers, in the torrent bed under the castle of giglio; of maria gentili of oletta, who died to save her brother from death. . . . and until now these had not even been names to me! i had adventured to win this kingdom as a man goes out with a gun to shoot partridges. i could not hide my shame of it. "you have taught me much in these evenings, o marc'antonio," said i. "and you, cavalier, have taught me much." "in what way, my friend?" marc'antonio looked across the fire with a smile, and held up a carved piece of wood he had been sharpening to a point. in shape it resembled an elephant's tusk, and it formed part of an apparatus to keep a pig from straying, two of these tusks being so fastened above the beast's neck that they caught and hampered him in the undergrowth. "eccu!" said marc'antonio. "you have taught me to be a swinekeeper, for instance. there is no shame in any calling but what a man brings to it. you have taught me to endure lesser things for the sake of greater, and that is a hard lesson at my age." from marc'antonio i learned not only that this corsica was a land with its own ambitions, which no stranger might share--a nation small but earnest, in which my presence was merely impertinent and laughable withal--but that the prince camillo's chances of becoming its king were only a trifle less derisory than my own. marc'antonio would not admit this in so many words; but he gave me to understand that pasquale paoli had by this time cleared the interior of the genoese, and was thrusting them little by little from their last grip on the extremities of the island--calvi and some smaller strongholds in the north, bonifacio in the south, and a few isolated forts along the littoral; that the people looked up to him and to him only; that the constitution he had invented was working and working well; that his writ ran throughout corsica, and his laws were enforced, even those which he had aimed at vendetta and cross-vendetta; and that the militia was faithful to him, almost to a man. "nor will i deny, cavalier," he added, "that he seems to me an honest patriot and a wise one. they say he seeks the crown, however." "well, and why not?" i demanded. "if he can unite corsica and win her freedom, does he not deserve to be her king?" marc'antonio shook his head. "would your prince camillo make a better one?" i urged. "it is a question of right, cavalier. i love this paoli for trouncing the genoese; but for denying the prince his rights i must hate him, and especially for the grounds of his denial." "tell me those grounds precisely, marc'antonio." but he would not; and somehow i knew that they concerned the princess. "paoli is generous in that he leaves us in peace," he answered, evading the question; "and i must hate him all the more for this, because he spares us out of contempt." "yet," said i, musing, "that priest must have a card up his sleeve. rat that he looked, i cannot fancy him sticking to a ship until she foundered." certainly we were left in peace. for any sign that reached to us there, in our cup of he hills, the whole island might have been desolate. the forest and the beasts in it, tame and wild, belonged--so marc'antonio informed me--to the colonne; the slopes between us and the sea to the lost great colony of paomia. no one disturbed us. week followed week, yet since the prince had passed with his men no traveller came down the path which ran between our hut and nat's grave, over which the undergrowth already was pushing its autumn shoots. indeed, the path led no whither but to the sea and the forsaken village. twice a week marc'antonio would leave me for five or six hours and return with bread, and at whiles with a bag of dried figs or a basket of cheeses and olives for supplement. i learned that he purchased them in a _paese_ to the southward, beyond the forest and beyond the ridge of the hills; but he made a mystery of this, and i had to be content with his word that in corsica folk in the bush need never starve. also, sometimes i would hear his gun, and he would bring me home five or six brace of blackbirds strung on a wand of osier; and these birds grew plumper and made the better eating as autumn painted the arbutus with scarlet berries. to me, so long held a prisoner within the hut, this change of season came with a shock upon the never-to-be-sufficiently-blessed day when marc'antonio, having examined and felt my bones and pronounced them healed, lifted and bore me, as you might carry a child, up the path to the old camp on the ridge. he was proud (good man) as he had a right to be. surgeons in corsica there might be none, as he assured me, or none capable of probing an ordinary bullet wound. but in youth he had learnt the art of bone-setting, and practised it upon the sheep which slipped and broke themselves in the gorge of the taravo; and his care of me was a masterpiece, to be boasted over to his dying day. "the smallest limp, at the outside!" he promised me; he would not answer entirely for the left leg, that thrice-teasing, thrice-accursed fracture. another ten days, and we might be sure; he could not allow me to set foot to ground under ten days. but while he carried me he whistled a lively air, and broke off to promise me good shooting before a month was out--shooting of blackbirds, of deer perhaps, perhaps even of a _mufro_. here the whistling grew _largo espressivo_. and i? i drew the upland air into my lungs, and the scent of the recovered _macchia_ through my nostrils, and inhaled it as a man inhales tobacco-smoke, and could have whooped for joy. not by one-fifth was the scent so intense as i have since smelt it in spring, when all corsica breaks into flower; yet intense enough and exhilarating after the dank odours of the valley. but the colours! on a sudden the _macchia_ had burst into fruit--carmine berries of the sarsaparilla, upon which a few late flowerets yet drooped, duller berries of the lentisk, olive-like berries of the phillyria, velvet purple berries of the myrtle, and (putting all to shade) yellow and scarlet fruit of the arbutus, clustering like fairy oranges, here and there so thickly that the whole thicket was afire and aflame, enough to have deceived moses! god, how good to see it and be alive! marc'antonio bore me up through the swimming air and laid me in the shadow of the cave--_her_ cave. it was empty as she had left it, and my back pressed the very bed of fern on which she had lain. the fern was dry now, after long winnowing by the wind that found its way into every crevice of this mountain summit. how could i choose but think of her? thinking of her, how could i choose but weary myself in vain speculation, by a hundred guesses attempting to force my way past the edge of the mystery, the sinister shadow which wrapped her round, and penetrate to the heart of it? i recalled her beauty, childlike yet sullen; her eyes, so forthright at times and transparently innocent, yet at times so swiftly clouded with suspicion, not merely shy, but shy with terror, like the eyes of a wild creature entrapped; her bearing, by turns disdainful and defiant with a guarded shame. this turf, these boulders, had made her bower, these matted creepers her curtain. here she had lived secure among savage men, each one of them ready to die--so marc'antonio assured me, and all that i had seen confirmed it--rather than injure a hair of her head or suffer it to be injured. she was a king's daughter. yet this lad of the rocca serras, noble, of the best blood of the island, had turned his own gun upon himself rather than wed with her. i thought much upon this lad rocca serra. why had he died? was it for loathing her? but men do not easily loathe such beauty. was it for love of her? but men do not slay themselves for fortunate love. had _her_ loathing been in some way the secret of his despair? i recalled my words to her, and how she had answered them, turning in the steep track among the pines "i am your hostage. do with me as you will." "_if i could! ah, if i could!_" i liked to think that the lad had loved her and been disdained; yet i pitied him for being disdained, and half hated him for having dared to love her. yes, for certain he had loved her. but, if so, her secret had need be as strange almost as that of sara, the daughter of raguel, whom seven husbands married, to perish on the marriage eve--"_for a wicked spirit loveth her, which hurteth nobody but those which come unto her_." in dreams i found myself travelling beyond the grave in search of this dead lad, to question him; and not seldom would awake with these lines running in my head, remembered as old perplexing favourites with my father, though god knows how i took a fancy that they held the clue-- "i long to talk with some old lover's ghost who dy'd before the god of love was born. i cannot think that he, who then loved most, sunk so low as to love one which did scorn. but since this god produc'd a destiny, and that vice-nature custom lets it be, i must love her that loves not me. "o, were we waken'd by this tyranny t'ungod this child again, it could not be i should love her who loves not me. "rebel and atheist too, why murmur i as though i felt the worst that love could do? love may make me leave loving, or might try a deeper plague--to make her love me too; which, since she loves before, i'm loth to see: falsehood is worse than hate: and that must be if she whom i love should love me." many wild conjectures i made and patiently built upon, which, if i were to write them down here, would merely bemuse the reader or drive him to think me crazy. there on my enchanted mountain summit, ringed about day after day by the silent land, removed from all human company but marc'antonio's, with no clock but the sun and no calendar but the creeping change of the season upon the _macchia_, what wonder if i forgot human probabilities at times in piecing and unpiecing solutions of a riddle which itself cried out against nature? marc'antonio was all the while as matter-of-fact as a good nurse ought to be. he had fashioned me a capital pair of crutches out of boxwood, and no sooner could i creep about on them than he began to discourse, over the camp-fire, on the hunting excursions we were soon to make together. "_pianu, pianu_; we will grow strong, and get our hand in by little and little. at first there will be the blackbirds and the foxes--" "you shoot foxes in corsica?" i asked. marc'antonio stared at me. "and why not, cavalier? you would not have us run after them and despatch them with the stiletto!" i endeavoured to explain to him the craft and mystery of fox-hunting as practised in england. he shook his head over it, greatly bewildered. "it seems a long ceremony for one little fox," was his criticism. "but if we did it with less ritual the foxes would disappear out of the country," i answered him. "and why not?" this naturally led me into a discourse on preserving game and on our english game laws, which, i regret to say, gravelled him utterly. "a peace of god for foxes and partridges! why, what do you allow, then, for a _man?_" i explained that we did not shoot men in england. his jaw dropped. "mbe! in the name of the virgin, whatever do you do with them?" "we hang them sometimes, and sometimes we fight duels with them." i expounded in brief the distinction between these processes and their formalities, whereat he remained for a long while in a brown study. "well," he admitted, "by all accounts you english have achieved liberty; but, _per baccu_, you do strange things with it!" "blackbirds, to begin with," he resumed, "and foxes, and a hare, maybe. then in the next valley there are boars--small, and wild, and fierce, but our great half-tame ones have driven them off this mountain. after them we will extend ourselves and stalk for deer." he described the deer to me and its habits. it was, as i made out, an animal not unlike our red deer, but smaller, and of a duller coat; shy, too, and scarce. he gave me reasons for this. in summer the corsican shepherds, each armed with a gun, pasture their sheep on the mountains, in winter along the plains and valleys; in either season driving off the poor stag, which in summer is left to range the parched lowlands and in winter the upper snows. of late years, however, owing to the unsettled state of politics, the shepherds pastured not half the numbers of sheep that marc'antonio remembered in his youth, and by consequence the deer had multiplied and grown bolder. he could promise me a stag. nay, he even hoped that owing to these same causes the _mufri_ were pushing down by degrees to the seaboard from the inland mountains, which they mostly haunted. ah, that was sport for kings! if fortune, one of these fine days, would send us a full-grown _mufrone_ now! but we began upon the blackbirds. i remember yet my first, and how, while i stood trembling a little with that excitement which only a sick man can know who takes up his gun again, marc'antonio held up the bird and ripped open its crop, filled to bursting with myrtle berries; and the exquisite violet scent they exhaled. already i had flung my crutches away, and three weeks later we were after the deer in good earnest. i had lost all account of time; but winter was upon us, with a wealth of laurestinus flower upon the _macchia_ and a sense of stillness in the air such as we feel at home on windless sunny mornings in december after a night of frost. we had started before dawn, and crossed the valley by the track leading past our deserted hut and up between the granite pinnacles on which, when the sunset touched them, i had so often gazed. we had followed it up beyond the pines and over a pass leading out among a range of undulating foot-hills, which seemed to waver and lose heart a dozen times before making up their minds to unite and climb, and be a snowcapped mountain. but they mounted to the snows at length, and the snows had driven down the stag which, under marc'antonio's guidance, i stalked for two hours, and shot before noon-day. we left him in the track, to be recovered as we returned, and very cautiously made our way to the crest of the next ridge. i chose a granite boulder for my shelter, gained it, crawled under its lee, and, peering over, had whipped my gun to my shoulder and very nearly pulled the trigger--was, in fact, looking along the sight--when i found that i was aiming at a man; and not only that, but at billy priske! i believe, on my faith that thenceforward he owed his life to the shape of his legs--so unlike a deer's. he was picking his way across the dry bed of a torrent in the dip not fifty yards below us, leaping from slab to slab of outcropping granite as a man crosses a brook by stepping-stones; and upon a slab midway he halted, drew off his hat, extracted a handkerchief, and stood polishing his bald head while he took stock of the climb before him. "billy! billy priske!" he tilted his head still higher, towards the ridge and the rock on which i stood against his skyline, frantically waving. "hoo-roar!" "and to think, lad," he panted, ten minutes later, as he stretched himself on the heath beside me--"to think of your mistaking me for a deer!" "did i say so, billy? then i lied. it was for a _mufro_ i took you. marc'antonio here had as good as promised me one." his beaming smile changed on the instant to a look of extreme gravity. "see you, lad," he said, "have you ever come across one of these here wild sheep?" "not yet." "i thought not. well, i have; and i advise you not to talk irreligious about 'em." "i will talk about nothing," said i, "until you tell me how my father is, and of all your adventures." "he's well, lad--hearty, and well, and thriving. and he sends you his love, and a paper for your friend here. 'tis from the princess; and the upshot is, you're released from your word and free to come back with me." marc'antonio, proud of an opportunity to display his scholarship, broke the seal and read the letter with a magisterial frown, which changed, however, to a pleasant, friendly smile as he handed it across to me. "your captivity is at an end, cavalier. you said well, after all, that your patience would win the day." "_my_ patience, marc'antonio? what, then, of yours?" the tears sprang suddenly to his eyes, good fellow that he was, and now my good friend. i stretched out a hand, and he grasped and held it for a moment between his twain. we used no more words. "so my father is with the princess?" i asked, turning on billy, who stared--and excusably--at this evidence of our emotion. "no, he bain't," said billy; "leastways, he was with her when i left him, at a place called olmeta, or something of the sort. but by this time he've a-gone north again." "and why goes he north?" "because that's where the genoese have shut up the lady." "meaning the queen emilia?" billy nodded. "and you have travelled the length of corsica alone to tell me this and take me back with you?" "no, i didn't. leastways--" billy opened his bag of provender, selected a crust, and began to munch it very deliberately. "there's a saying," he went on between mouthfuls, "about somebody or other axin' more questions in one breath than a wise man can answer in a week; and likewise, there's another saying that even a bagpipe won't speak till his belly be full. well, now, as for coming alone, in the first place and in round numbers i didn't; and as for coming to tell you this, partly it was and partly it wasn't; and as for your going back with me, that's for you to choose." "well, then," said i, humouring him, "we will take you point by point, in order. to begin with, you did not come alone--_ergo_, you had company. what company?" "very poor company, lad, and by name stephanu. that hatchet-faced prince camillo chose him out for a guide to me--" billy paused, with his mouth open for a bite. "why, whatever is the matter?" he asked; for i had turned to translate this to marc'antonio, and marc'antonio had started up with a growl and an oath. "did stephanu come willingly?" i asked. "as i was tellin', the prince chose him for guide to me, and he couldn't have chosen a worse one. if you'll believe me, there wasn't an ounce of comfort in the man from the start; and this morning, having put me in the road so that i couldn't miss it, he turned back and left me--in a sweatin' hurry, too." i glanced at marc'antonio, who had risen and was striding to and fro upon the ridge with his fists clenched. there was mischief here for a certainty, and stephanu's behaviour confirmed it. for a moment, however, i forbore to translate further, and resumed my catechising of billy. "in the second place you came with my release, and to bring me news, and--with what purpose beside?" "why, with a message for the ship, to be sure." "the ship?" i stared at him. "what ship?" "why, the _gauntlet_ ketch! you don't tell me," said billy, with a glance westward, where, however, the hills intervened and hid the coast from us--"you don't tell me you haven't sighted her! but she's here, lad--she _must_ be here! your father sent home word by her that she was to be back wi' reinforcements by the first day of november; and did you ever in your life know your uncle disappoint him?" "marc'antonio," said i, "what is this i hear from billy about a ship?" marc'antonio gave a start, and looked from me to billy in evident confusion. "truly, cavalier, there was a ship. i spied her there three days ago, at sunset, making for the island." "was she the same ship that first brought us to the island?" "she was very like," he answered unwillingly. "yes, indeed, cavalier, i have no doubt she was the same ship." "and you never told me! nay, i see now why for these three days we have been hunting to the east of our camp, and always where the coast was hidden. yes, yes, i see now a score of tricks you have played me while i trusted to your better knowledge--marc'antonio," i said sternly, "did you indeed believe so ill of me as that at sight of the ship i should forget my parole?" "it was not that, cavalier; believe me, it was not that. i feared--" "speak on, man." "i feared you might forget our talks together, and, when your release came, forget also that other adventure on which i had hoped to bind you. the princess--" "then your fear, my friend, did me only a little less injustice. you have heard how my father perseveres for a woman's sake; and i am my father's son, i hope. as for the princess--" "she is in worse case than ever, cavalier, since they have contrived to get rid of stephanu." "on the contrary, my friend, her case is hopeful at length; since this release sets us free to help her." we trudged back to the camp, pausing on the way while marc'antonio skewered the deer's legs and slung him on a pole between us. as we started afresh billy observed for the first time that i walked with a limp. "a broken leg," said i, carelessly; for it would not have done to tell him all the truth. "well, well," said he, content with the explanation, "accidents will happen to them that travel; and a broken leg, they say, is stronger when well set." "if that's so," said i, "i've a double excuse to be thankful"--which he did not understand, as i did not mean him to. darkness fell on us a little before we reached the camp. from the first i had recognized there could be no chance to-day of visiting the shore and seeking the _gauntlet_ at her anchorage. we were weary, too, and hungry, and nothing remained to do but light the camp fire, cook our supper, and listen to billy's tale of his adventures, a good part of which will be found in the following chapter. i ought to say, rather, that billy and i conversed, while marc'antonio--for we spoke in english--sat by the fire busy with his own thoughts; and, by his face, they were gloomy ones. "what puzzles me, billy," said i, as we parted for the night, "is who can be aboard of the ketch. reinforcements? why, what reinforcements could my uncle send?" "the devil a one of me knows, as the irishman said," answered billy, cheerfully. "but sent 'em he has, and, if i know anything of mr. gervase, they're good ones." i was up before dawn, and the sun rose over the shoulder of our mountain to find me a mile and more on my way down the track which led to the sea. i passed the clearing and the copse where nat had taken his wound, and the rock, high on my right, where i had stood and spied him running, the _macchia-filled hollows and dingles, the wood, the village (still desolate), the graveyard where we had first encamped; and so came to the meadow below it, where mr. fett had gathered his mushrooms. it was greener than i remembered it, owing to the autumn rains. i pulled up with a start. at the foot of the meadow, where the stream ran in a curve between it and the woods, stood a man. he held a fishing-rod in his hand, and was stepping back to make a cast; but, at a cry from me, paused and turned slowly about. "uncle gervase!" "my _dear_ prosper!" he dropped his rod and advanced, holding out his hands to me. "why lad, lad, you have grown to a man in these months!" "and it really is you, uncle!" i cried again, as yet scarcely believing it, though i clasped him by both hands. "and what are _you_ doing here?" "why," said he, quizzically, "'tis a monstrous confession for this time of the year, but i was fishing for trout; and, what is more, i have taken two, with walton's number two june-fly, lad--mr. grylls's variety--the wings, if you remember, made of the black drake's feathers, with a touch of grey horsehair on the shank. i wished to know, first, if a corsican trout would answer to a cornish fly, and, next, if they keep the same seasons as in england. they do, prosper--there or thereabouts. to tell you the truth--though, as they say an angler may catch a fish, but it takes a fisherman to tell the truth about him--i found them woundily out of condition, and restored them, as mr. grylls would put it, to their native element." "you don't tell me that the vicar is here, too?" i asked, prepared at this time to be surprised at nothing. "he is not, lad, though i pleaded with him very earnestly to come, being, as you may guess, put to my wits' end by your father's message." "but how, then, have you managed?" "pretty well, prosper--pretty well. but come and see for yourself. the _gauntlet_ lies at her old anchorage--or so captain pomery tells me--and 'tis but a step down the creek to where my boat is waiting." we walked down beside the stream, my uncle, as we went, asking a score of questions about our adventures and about my father and his plans--questions which i was in no state of mind to answer coherently. but this mattered the less since he had no leisure to listen to my answers. i felt, as i said just now, ready to be surprised at nothing. but in this i was mistaken, as i found when we rounded the corner by the creek's head, and my eyes fell on a boat waiting, a stone's throw from the landing-place, and on the crew that manned her. "good lord!" i cried, and stood at a halt. they were seven--six rowers and a coxswain--and all robed in russet gowns that reached to their ankles. the trappist monks! chapter xxi. of my father's anabasis; and the different tempers of an english gentleman and a wild sheep of corsica. "bright thoughts, clear deeds, constancy, fidelity, bounty, and generous honesty are the gems of noble minds; wherein (to derogate from none) the true heroick english gentleman hath no peer."--sir thomas browne. "la domesticite n'a eu aucune influence sur le developpement intellectuel des _mouflons_ que nous avons possedes. . . . les hommes ne les effrayaient plus; il semblait meme que ces animaux eussent acquis plus de confiance dans leur force en apprenant a nous connaitre. sans doute on ne peut point conclure de quelques individus a l'espece entiere; mais on peut assurer sans rien hasarder, que le _mouflon_ tient une des dernieres places parmis les mammiferes quant a l'intelligence.--" saint-hiliar et cuvier, _histoire naturelle des mammiferes_. "you will find them very good fighters," said my uncle. "the most of them, as i understand from dom basilio, were soldiers at one time or another before they embraced their present calling." "but the devil of it is," said i, "how you contrived to enlist 'em?" my uncle stood still and rubbed the back of his head. "i don't know, prosper, that i used any arguments. i just put the case to them; through dom basilio, you understand." "in other words, you made them an eloquent speech." "i did nothing of the sort," he corrected me hastily. "in the first place because i have never made a speech and couldn't manage one if i tried; and next, because it is against their rules. i just put the case to dom basilio. all the credit belongs to him." dom basilio--for the coxswain of the boat proved to be he and no other--gave me a different account as we pulled toward the _gauntlet_. yet it agreed with my uncle's in the main. "in faith," said he, "if there be any credit in what we have done or are about to do, set it down to your uncle. against goodness so simple no man can strive, though he bind himself by vows. gratitude may have helped a little; but you can say, and you will not be far out, that for very shame we are here." captain pomery who hailed me over the ship's side, proudly invited me to row around and inspect the repairs in her--particularly her new stern-post--before climbing on board. for my part, while congratulating him upon them and upon his despatch, i admired more the faces of mike halliday and roger wearne, grinning welcome to me over the bulwarks. they, too, called my attention to the repairs; to the new rudder, fitted with chains in case of accident to the helm, to the grain of the new mizzen-mast (a beautiful spar, and without a knot), to the teak hatch-coverings which had replaced those shattered by the explosion. they desired me to marvel at everything; but that they themselves after past perils should be here again and ready, for no more than seamen's pay, to run their heads into perils yet unhandselled, was to these honest fellows no matter worth considering. "but whither be we bound, master prosper?" demanded captain jo. "for 'tis ill biding for orders after cracking on to be punctual; and tho' i say naught against the anchorage _as_ an anchorage, the wind, what with these hills and gullies, is like mulligan's blanket, always coming and going; and by fits an' starts as the ague took the goose; and likewise backwards and forwards, like boscastle fair: so that our cables be twisted worse than a pig's tail." "as for that," said i, "your next rendezvous, i hear, is the island of giraglia; but, for the whole plan of campaign, you must come and hear it from billy priske, who will tell you what my father has done and what he intends." accordingly, after breakfasting aboard, we were landed again and went up the mountain together--my uncle gervase, captain pomery, dom basilio and i: and on the slope below the princess's cave we sat and listened to billy's story, the trappist translating it to marc'antonio, who sat with his gun across his knees and his eyes fastened on my uncle's gentle venerable face. billy priske's story of my father's campaign. "as master prosper has told you, gentlemen all, we left him sitting alongside poor mr. fiennes, and took the path that leads down and across the valley yonder and out again on the north side. there were four of us--my master, myself, and the creatures fett and badcock-- each man with his gun and good supply of ammunition. besides this sir john carried his camp-stool and spy-glass, and in his pocket a map along with his bible and tobacco pouch; i the wine and his spare gun: fett the bag of provisions; and badcock his flute and a gridiron." "why a gridiron?" asked my uncle. "the reason he gave, sir, was that it's just these little things that get left behind, on a picnic; which sir john, when i reported it, pronounced to be a very good reason. 'and, as it happens,' said he, ''tis the very reason why mr. badcock himself goes with us: for my son, when he becomes king, will need a fool, and i have brought a couple in case of accidents.' "we started then, as master prosper will remember, a little before dark; and having lanterns to light the track, and now and then the north star between the tree-tops to give us our bearings, we crossed the valley and came out through a kind of pass upon a second slope, a little nor'-west of the spot where i happened yesterday on master prosper. by this, sir john's watch marked ten o'clock and finding us dead-beat by the roughness of the track, he commanded us to lie down and sleep. "the next morning, after studying his map, he started afresh, still holding northward in the main but bearing back a little to the left-- that is, toward the sea, which before noon we brought in sight at a place he called la piana, where, he said, was a fishing village; and so no doubt there was, for we spied a two-three boats moored a little way out from the shore--looking down upon them through a cleft in the rocks. the village itself we did not see, but skirted it upon high ground and came down to the foreshore a short two miles beyond it; where we found a beach and a spit of rock, and on the spit a tumble-down tower standing, as lonely as a combed louse. above the beach ran a tolerable coast road, which divided itself into two, after crossing a bridge behind the tower; the one following the shore, the other striking inland up the devil of a gorge. this inland road we took, for two reasons; the first, that by the map it appeared to cut off a corner of our journey; the second, because the map showed a village, not three miles up the gorge, where we might get advice. "after an hour's climbing then (for the road twisted uphill along the edge of the torrent) we came to the village, which was called otta. now, the first thing to happen to us in otta was that we found it empty--not so much as a dog in the street--but all the inhabitants on the hill above, in a crowd before a mighty great stone: and badcock would have it that they were gathered together in fear of us. but the true reason turned out to be something quite different. for this stone overhangs the village, which is built on a stiff slope; and though it has hung there for hundreds of years without moving, the villagers can never be easy that it will not tumble on top of them; and once a year regularly, and at odd times when the panic takes them, they march up and tie it with ropes. this very thing they were doing as we arrived, and all because some old woman had dreamed of an earthquake. we took notice that in the crowd and in the gang binding the stone there was no man the right side of fifty (barring a cripple or two); the reason being that all their young men had enlisted in the militia. "these people made us welcome (and i will say, gentlemen, once for all and in spite of what has happened to master prosper here, that there is no such folk as the corsicans for kindness to strangers), but they told us we were on the wrong road. by following the pass we should find ourselves in forest-tracks which indeed would lead us down to the great plain of the niolo and across it to corte, whence a good road ran north to cape corso; but our shorter way was the coast-road, which (they added) we must leave before reaching calvi-- for fear of the genoese--and take a southerly one which wound through the mountains to calenzana. they explained this many times to sir john, and sir john explained it to us; and learning that we were english, and therefore friends of liberty, they forced us to drink wine with them--lashins of wine--until just as my head was beginning to feel muzzy, some one called out that we were heroes and must drink the wine of heroes, the pride of otta, the invincible st. cyprien. "by this time we were all as sociable together as mice in malt, except that these corsicans never laughed at all, but stared at us awsome-like even when the creature fett put one foot on a chair and another on the table and made 'em a long tom-fool speech in english, calling 'em friends romans and countrymen and asking them to lend him their ears, as though his own weren't long enough. then they brought in the invincible st. cyprien, and sir john poured out a glass, and sniffed and tasted it and threw up his head, gazing round on the company and looking every man full in the eyes. i can't tell you why, gentlemen, but his bearing seemed so noble to me at that moment i felt i could follow him to the death (though of course there wasn't the leastest need for it, just then). i reached out for the bottle, filled myself a glass, drank it off, and stared around just as defiant. it gave me a very pleasant feeling in the pit of the stomach, and the taste of it didn't seem calculated to hurt a fly. so i took two more glasses quickly, one after the other; and every one looked at me with their faces very bright all of a sudden--and the room itself grown brighter--and to my astonishment i heard them calling upon me in english for a speech. whereby, being no public speaker, i excused myself and walked out into the village street, which was bright as day with the moon well over the cliffs on the other side of the gorge, and (to my surprise) crowded with people so that i couldn't have believed the whole city of london held half the number, let alone a god-forsaken hole like otta. i stood for a while on the doorstep counting 'em, and the next thing i remember was crossing the street to a low wall overhanging the gorge and leaning upon it and watching the cliffs working up and down like mine-stamps. this struck me as curious, and after thinking it over i made up my mind to climb across and discover the reason." "i fear, billy," said my uncle, "that you must have been intoxicated." "but the worst, sir, was the moon; which was not like any ordinary moon, but kept swelling and bursting in showers of the most beautiful fireworks, so that i said to myself, 'o for the wings of a dove,' i said, 'so that i fetch some one to put a stop to this!' and i'd hardly said the words before it was broad day, and me lying in the street with a small crowd about me, very solemn and curious, and my head in the lap of a middle-aged woman that smelt of garlic, but without any pretensions to looks. and she was lifting up her head and singing a song, and the sound of it as melancholy as a gib-cat in a garden of cucumbers. whereby the whole crowd stood by and stared, without offering to help. whereby i said to myself, 'this is a pretty business, and no mistake.' whereby i saw sir john come forth from the house where the drinking had been, and his face was white but his step steady; and says he, 'what have you been doing to this woman?' 'nothing at all,' said i; 'or, leastways, nothing to warrant this behaviour on her part.' 'well,' said he, 'you may be surprised to hear it, but she maintains that you are betrothed to her.' 'a man,' said i, 'may woo where he will, but must wed where his wife is. if this woman be my fate, i'll say no more except that 'tis hard; but as for courting her, i never did so.' 'you are in a worse case than you guess,' said he; 'for, to begin with, the lady is a widow; and, secondly, she is marrying you, not for your looks, but for revenge.' 'why, what have i done?' said i. 'nothing at all,' said he; 'but from what i can hear of it, five years ago a man of evisa, up the valley, stole a goat belonging to this woman's husband; whereupon the husband took a gun and went to evisa and shot the thief's cousin, mistaking him for the thief; whereupon the thief came down to otta and shot the honest man one day while he was gathering olives in his orchard. he himself left neither chick nor child; but his kinsmen of the family of paolantonuccio (i can pronounce the name, gentlemen, if you will kindly look the other way) took up the quarrel, and with so much liveliness that to-day but three of them survive, and these are serving just now with the militia. for the while, therefore, the widow paolantonuccio has no one to carry on the custom of the country; nor will have, until a husband offers.' 'for pity's sake, sir john,' said i, `get me out of this! tell them that if any man has been courting this woman 'tis not i, william priske, but another in my image.' 'why, to be sure!' cried sir john. 'it must have been the invincible st. cyprien!' "so stepping back and seating himself again upon the doorstep, he began to argue with the villagers, the woman standing sullen all the while and holding me by the arm. i could not understand a word, of course, but later on he told me the heads of his discourse. "'i began,' he said, 'by expounding to 'em all the doctrine of cross-revenge, or _vendetta trasversa_, as they call it; and this i did for two reasons--the first because in an argument there's naught so persuasive as telling a man something he knows already--the second because it proved to them, and to me, that i wasn't drunk. for the doctrine has more twists in it than a conger. "'next i taught them that the doctrine was damnable; and that it robbed corsica of men who should be fighting the genoese, on which errand we were bound. "'and lastly i proved to them out of the mouths of several wise men (some of greece, and others of my own inventing) that a man with three glasses of their wine in his belly was a man possessed, and therefore that either nothing had happened, or, if anything had happened, the fellow to blame must be that devil of a warrior the invincible st. cyprien. "'yet (as so often happens) the argument that really persuaded them, as i believe, was one i never used at all; which was, that the woman had money and a parcel of land, and albeit no man could pick up courage to marry her, they did not relish a stranger stepping in and cutting them out.' "be that as it may, gentlemen, in twenty minutes the crowd had come round to sir john's way of thinking; and they not only sold us mules at thirty livres apiece--which sir john knew to be the fair current price--but helped us to truss up mr. fett and mr. badcock, each on his beast, and walked with us back to the cross-roads, singing hymns about corsican liberty. only we left the woman sadly cast down. "from the cross-roads, where they left us and turned back, our road led through a great forest of pines. among these pines hung thousands of what seemed to be balls of white cotton, but were the nests of a curious caterpillar; which i only mention because mr. fett, coming to, picked up one of these caterpillars and slipped it down the nape of mr. badcock's neck, whereby the poor man was made uncomfortable all that day and the next; for the hairs of the insect turned out to be full of poison. in the end we were forced to strip him and use the gridiron upon him for a currycomb; so it came in handy, after all. "on the second day, having crossed a river and come to a village which, if i remember, was called manso, we bore away southward among the most horrible mountains. among these we wandered four days, relying always on sir john's map: but i reckon the man who made it must have drawn the track out of his own head and trusted that no person would ever be fool enough to go there. hows'ever, the weather keeping mild, we won through the passes with no more damage than the loss of mr. fett's mule (which tumbled over a precipice on the third day), and a sore on mr. fett's heel, brought about by his having to walk the rest of the way into calenzana. "now at calenzana, a neat town, we found ourselves nearly in sight of calvi and plumb in sight of the genoese outposts that were planted a bare gunshot from the house where we lodged, on the road leading northward to calvi gate. to the south, as we heard--though we never saw them--lay a regiment of paoli's militia; and, between the two forces calenzana stood as a sort of no-man's-land, albeit the genoese claimed what they called a 'supervision' over it. in fact they never entered it, mistrusting its defences, and also the temper of its inhabitants, who were likely enough to rise at their backs if the patriots gave an assault. "they contented themselves, then, with advancing their outposts to a bend on the calvi road not fifty yards from our lodging, which happened to be the last house in the suburbs; and from his window, during the two days we waited for mr. fett's sore to heal, sir john would watch the guard being relieved, and sometimes pick up his gun and take long aim at the sentry, but lay it down with a sort of sigh: for though the sight of a genoese was poison to him, he reckoned outpost-shooting as next door to shooting a fox. "our hosts, i should tell you, were an old soldier and his wife. the man, by his own account, followed the trade of a bird-stuffer; which was just an excuse for laziness, for no soul ever entered his shop but to hear him talk of his campaigning under gaffori and under the great pascal paoli's father, hyacinth paoli. this he would do at great length, and, for the rest, lived on his wife, who was a well-educated woman and kept a school for small children when they chose to come, which again was seldom. "this antonio, as we called him, owned a young ram, which was his pet and the pride of calenzana: for, to begin with, it was a wild ram; and in addition to this it was tame; and, to cap all, it wasn't a bit like a ram. and yet it was a wild ram--a wild corsican ram. "being an active sort of man in his way, though well over fifty, and given to wandering on the mountains above calenzana, he had come one day upon a wild sheep with a lamb running at her heels. he let fly a shot (for your corsican, master prosper, always carries a gun) and ran forward. the mother made off, but the lamb sat and squatted like a hare; and so antonio took him up and carried him home. "by the time we came to calenzana the brute had grown to full size, with horns almost two feet long. as we should reckon, they were twisted the wrong way for a ram's, and for fleece he had a coat like a gossmoor pony's, brown and hairy. but a ram he was; and, the first night, when mr. badcock obliged us with a tune on the flute, he came forward and stared at him for a time and then butted him in the stomach. "we had to carry the poor man to bed. we slept, all four of us, in a loft, which could only be reached by a ladder; and a ram, as you know, can't climb a ladder. it's out of nature. yet the brute tried its best, having taken such a fancy to badcock, and wouldn't be denied till his master beat him out of doors with a fire-shovel and penned him up for the night. "the next morning, being loosed, he came in to breakfast with the family, and butted a crock of milk all over the kitchen hearth, but otherwise bore himself like a repentant sinner; the only difference being that from breakfast onward he turned away from his master and took to following mr. fett, who didn't like the attention at all. badcock kept to his bed; and mr. fett too, who could only manage to limp a little, climbed up to the loft soon after midday and lay down for a rest. "sir john and i, left alone downstairs, took what we called a siesta, each in his chair, and sir john's chair by the shaded window. for my part, i was glad enough for forty winks, and could have enlisted among the seven sleepers after those cruel four days in the mountains. so, with sir john's permission, i dozed off; and sat up, by-and-by--awake all of a sudden at the sound of my master's stirring--to see him at the window with his gun half-lifted to his shoulder, and away up the road a squad of genoese soldiers marching down to relieve guard. "with that there came a yell from the loft overhead. i sprang up, rubbing my eyes, and, between rubbing 'em, saw sir john lower his gun and stand back a pace. the next instant--_thud, thud!_--over the eaves upon the roadway dropped fett and badcock and picked themselves up as if to burst in through the window. no good! a second later that ram was on top of them. "how he had contrived to climb up the ladder and butt the pair over the roof, there's no telling. but there he was; and gathering up his legs from the fall as quick as lightning he headed them off from the house and up the road. there was no violence. so far as one could tell from the clouds of dust, he never hurt 'em once, but through the dust we could see the genoese staring as he nursed the pair up the road straight into their arms. the queer part of it," wound up billy, reflectively, "was that, after the first moment, sir john had never the chance of a shot. you may doubt me, gentlemen, but sir john is a shot in a thousand, and, what with the dust and the confusion, there was never a chance without risk to human life. the genoese giving back, in less than half a minute the road was clear." "but what happened?" asked my uncle. "well, sir, this here corsica being an island, it follows that they must have stopped somewhere. but where there's no telling." "you never saw them again." "never," said billy, solemnly; and, having asked and received permission to light his pipe, resumed the tale. "there being now no reason to loiter in calenzana, we left the town next morning and rode along the hill tracks to muro, when again we struck the high road running northward to the coast. sir john had sold mr. badcock's mule to our hosts in calenzana, and here in muro he parted with our pair also, reck'nin' it safer to travel the next stage on foot; since by all accounts we were about to skirt the genoese outposts to the east of calvi. the corsicans, to be sure, held and patrolled the high road (by reason that every week-day a train of waggons travelled along it with material for the new town a-building on the seashore, at isola rossa), yet not so as to guarantee it safe for a couple of chance riders. also sir john had no mind to be stopped a dozen times and questioned by the corsican patrols. we kept, therefore, along the hills to the east of the road; and on our way, having halted and slept a night in an olive orchard about five miles from the coast, we woke up a little after daylight to the sound of heavy guns firing. "the meaning of this was made plain to us as we fetched our way round to the eastward and came out upon the face of a steep hill that broke away in steep cliffs to the very foreshore. there, below us, lay a neat deep-water roadstead covered to westward by a small island with a tower on it and a battery. the shore ran out towards the island, and the two had been joined by a mole, or the makings of one, about thirty yards long; and well back in the bight of the shore, where it curved towards us, was a half-built town, all of new stone, with scaffoldings standing everywhere, yet not a soul at work on 'em. out in the roadstead five small gunboats were tacking and blazing away, two at the mole and three at the town itself; and the town and the island blazing and banging back at the gunboats. we could not see the town battery, but the island one mounted three guns, and sir john's spy-glass showed the people there running from one to another like emmets. "sir john studied the boats and the town through his glass for five minutes, and after them the inshore water and the beach on our side of the town, that was of white sand with black rocks here and there, and ran down pretty steep as it neared the foot of our hill. 'if those fellows had any sense--' he began to say, and with that, as if struck by a sudden thought, he looked close around him, and towards the edge of the cliff where it broke away below us. the next moment he was down on his stomach and crawling to the brink for a look below. i did the same, of course; and overtook him just as he drew back his head, and gave a sort of whistle, looking me in the face--as well he might; for right underneath us lay a sixth gunboat, and the crew of her ashore already with a six-pounder and hoisting it by a tackle to a slab of rock about fifty feet above the water's edge. a neater spot they couldn't have chosen, for it stood at an angle the town battery couldn't answer to (which was plain, from its sending no shot in this direction), and yet it raked the whole town front as easy as ninepins. "to make things a bit fairer, this landing-party offered us as simple pretty a target as any man could wish for; nothing to do but fire down on 'em at forty yards, bob back and reload, with ne'er a chance of their climbing up to do us a mischief or even to count how many we were. i touched sir john's elbow and tapped my gun-stock, and for the moment he seemed to think well of it. 'cut the tackle first,' said he, lifting his gun. ''twill be as good as hamstringing 'em': and for him the shot would have been child's play. but after a second or two he lowered his piece and drew back. 'damme,' said he, 'i'm losing my wits. let 'em do their work first, and we'll get cannon and all. if only'--and here he looked nervous-like over his shoulder up the hill--'if only those fellows from the town don't hurry up and spoil sport!' "i couldn't see his face, but i could feel that he was chuckling as the fellows below us swung up the gun and fixed it in position and handed up the round shot. but when they followed up with two kegs of powder and dumped 'em on to the platform, my dear master's hand went up and he rubbed the back of his head in pure delight. after that-- as i thought, for nothing but frolic--he even let 'em load and train the gun for us, and only lifted his musket when the gunner--a dark-faced fellow with a red cap on his head--was act'lly walking up with the match alight in his linstock. "'i don't want to hurt that man afore 'tis necessary,' says sir john; and with that he takes aim and lets fly, and shears the linstock clean in two, right in the fellow's hand. i saw the end of it--match and all--fly halfway across the platform, and popped back my head as the dozen genoese there turned their faces up at us. the pity was, we hadn't time for a look at 'em! "sir john had warned me to hold my fire. but neither he nor i were prepared for what happened next. for first one of them let out a yell, and right on top of it half a dozen were screaming '_imboscata! imboscata!_"--and with that we heard a rush of feet and, looking over, saw the last two or three scrambling for dear life off the edge of the platform and down the rocks to their boat. "'quick, billy--quick! damme, but we'll risk it!' cried sir john, snatching up his spare gun. 'if we make a mess of it,' says he, 'plug a bullet into one of the powder kegs! understand?' says he. "'sakes alive, master!' says i. 'you bain't a-going to clamber down that gizzy-dizzy place sure 'nuff!' "'why, o' course i be,' says he, and already he had his legs over and was lowering himself. 'turn on your back, stick out your heels, and hold your gun wide of you, _so_,' says he; 'and you'll come to no harm.' "well, as it happened, i didn't. not for a hundred pound would i go down that cliff again in cold blood, and my stomach turns wambly in bed o' nights when i dream of it. but down it i went on the flat of my back with my heels out, as sir john recommended, and with my eyes shut, about which he'd said nothing. i felt my jacket go rip from tail to collar--you can see the rent in it for yourselves--and my shirt likewise; and what happened to the seat of my breeches 'twould be a scandal to mention. but in two shakes or less we were at the bottom of the cliff together, safe and sound, and not a moment too soon, neither: for as i picked myself up i saw sir john lurch across and catch up the burning fuse that lay close alongside one of the powder kegs. whereby, although the danger was no sooner seen than over, i pretty near turned sick on the spot. "but sir john gave me no time. 'hooray!' he sings out. 'help me to slew this blessed gun round, and we'll sink boat and all for 'em unless she slips her moorings quick!' "well, sir, that was the masterpiece. we heaved and strained, and inside of two minutes we had it trained upon the gunboat. the men that had quitted the platform were down by the shore before this; and a dozen had pushed their boat off and sat in her, some pulling, others backing, and all jabbering and disputing whether to return and take off the five or six that stood in a huddle by the water's edge and were crying out not to be left behind. and mean time on the gunboat some were shouting to 'em not to be a pack of cowards--for the crew on board could see us on the platform (which the others couldn't) and that we were only two--and others were running to cut her cable, seeing the gun trained on 'em and not staying to think that the wind was light and the current setting straight onshore. and in the midst of this sir john finds a fresh fuse, and lights it from the old one, and bang! says we. "it took her plump in the stern-works, knocking her wheel and taffrail to flinders and ripping out a fair six feet of her larboard bulwarks. this much i saw while the smoke cleared; but sir john was already calling for the reload. the genoese by good luck had left a rammer; and the pair of us had charged her and were pushing home shot number two as merry as crickets, when we heard a horn blown on the hill above us, and at the same instant spied a body of corsicans on the beach below, marching towards us from the town. "well, sir john decided that we might just as well have a second shot at the boat while our hand was in; and so we did, but trained it too high in our excitement and did no damage beyond knocking a hole in her mainsail. and our ears hadn't lost the noise of it before a man put his head over the cliff above and spoke to us very politely in corsican. "he seemed to be asking the way down; for sir john pointed to the way we had come. whereby he laughed and shook his head. and a dozen others that had gathered beside him looked down too and laughed and waved their hands to us. by-and-by they went off, still waving, to look for a better way down: but they took a good twenty minutes to reach us, and before this the gunboat had drifted close upon the rocks and no hope for it but to surrender to the party marching along the beach and now close at hand. "well, sirs, the upshot was that this party, which had marched out for a forlorn hope, took the gunboat and her crew as easily as a man gathers mushrooms. and the rest of the boats, dispirited belike, sheered off after another hour's banging and left the roadstead in peace. but, while this was happening, the party on the cliffs had worked their way down to our rock by a sheep-track on the western side, and the first man to salute us was the man who had first spoken to us from the top of the cliff: and this, let me tell you, was no less a person than the general himself." "the general?" exclaimed my uncle. "the general paoli, sir: a fresh-complexioned man and fairer-skinned than any corsican we had met on our travels; tall, too, and upstanding; dressed in green-and-gold, with black spatter-dashes, and looking at one with an eye like a hawk's. compliments fly when gentlefolks meet. though as yet i didn't know him from adam, 'twas easy to mark him for a person of quality by the way he lifted his hat and bowed. sir john bowed back, though more stiffly; and the more compliments the general paid him, the stiffer he grew and the shorter his answers, till by-and-by he said in english, 'i think you know a little of my language, sir: enough, at any rate, to take my meaning?' "the general bowed again at this, still keeping his smile. 'you do not wish my men to overhear? yes, yes, i speak the english-- a very little--and can understand it, if you will be so good as to speak slowly.' "'very well, then, sir,' said sir john; 'if i and my man here have been of some small service to you to-day i reckon myself happy to have obliged so noble a patriot as signor pascal paoli.' and here they both bowed again. 'but i must warn you, sir, that my service here is due only to the queen emilia, whom you also should serve, and whom i am sworn to seek and save. the genoese have shut her, i believe, in nonza, in cape corso.' "the general frowned a bit at this, but in a moment smiled at him in an open way that was honest too, as any one could see. 'i have later news of the queen emilia,' said he; 'which is that the genoese have removed her to the island of giraglia, off cape corso. i fear, sir, you will not reach her this side of doomsday.' "'i will reach her or die,' said sir john, stoutly. "the general took a glance at the genoese gunboats. 'at present it is hopeless,' said he; 'but i tell you, as man to man, that in two months i hope to clear the sea of those gentry yonder. meantime, if you _will_ press on to cape corso, and, without listening to reason, i'll beg you to accept a pass from me which will save trouble if you fall in, as you will, with my militia. it's small enough thanks,' said he, 'for the service you have done us this day.' "those were the general's words, sirs, as i heard them and got them by heart. and sir john took the pass from him, scribbled there and then on the fly-leaf of the general's pocket bible, and put it carefully between the leaves of his own: and so, having led us back along the track by which he and his men had come, the general pointed out our way to us and bade us farewell in the lord's name. he saw that my master wanted no thanks, and a gentleman (as they say) would rather be unmannerly than troublesome. "that, sirs, is all my story, except that by the help of the general's pass we made our way up the long length of cape corso: and at first sir john, learning there were yet some genoese left in a valley they call luri, pitched his camp at the head of it, and day by day took out his camp-stool and stalked the mountains till little by little he cleared the valley, driving the enemy down to the _marina_ in terror of his sharp-shooting. after that we lodged for a while in a tower on the top of a crag, where (the country people said) a famous old roman had once lived out his exile. last of all we moved to the shore opposite the island of giraglia; but the genoese had burnt the village which stood there. among the ruins we camped, and day after day my master conned the island across the strait, waiting for the time when the _gauntlet_ should be due. a tower stands in the island, which is but a cliff of bare rock; and there must be deep water close inshore, for once a genoese vessel drew alongside and landed stores: but, for the rest, day after day, my master could see through his glass no sign of life but a sentry or two on the platform above the landing-quay. "at last there came a day when, from a goatherd who brought us meat and wine from the next _paese_, we learned that a body of armed men, corsicans, had pushed up to olmeta, near by nonza, to press the genoese garrison there. sir john, sick of waiting idle, proposed that we should travel back and help them, if only to fill up the time. it would be on our way, at any rate, to send word to the ketch, which was near-about due. so we travelled back to olmeta; and behold, we tumbled upon the princess and her men who had first taken us prisoners; and the princess's brother with her--and be dashed if i like his looks! so sir john told his tale, and the princess sent me along with master prosper's letter of release. and here's a funny thing now!" wound up billy, glancing at me. "the prince was willing enough your release should be sent, and even chose out that fellow stephanu to come along with me. but something in his eye--i can't azackly describe it--warned me he had a sort of reason for thinking that 'twouldn't do you much good. there was a priest, too: i took a notion that _he_ didn't much expect to see you again, sir. and this kept me in a sweat every mile of the journey, so that when you pointed your gun at me yesterday, as natural as life, you might have knocked me down with a feather." "then it is settled," decided my uncle, as billy came to a full stop. "sir john has gone north again, you say, and will be expecting us off the island? there's naught to prevent our starting this evening?" "nothing at all," agreed captain pomery, to whom by a glance he had appealed. "leastways and supposing i can get my hawsers out of curl-papers." "that suits you, prosper?" asked my uncle. i looked across the fire at marc'antonio, who sat with his eyes lowered upon the gun across his knees. "marc'antonio," said i, "my friends here are proposing to sail northward to cape corso to-night. they require me to sail with them. am i free, think you?" "beyond doubt you are free, cavalier," answered marc'antonio, still without lifting his eyes. "now, for my part," i said, "i am not so sure. suppose--look at me please, my friend--suppose that you and i were to go first to the princess together and ask her leave?" my uncle gazed up at marc'antonio, who had sprung to his feet; and-- after a long look at his face--from marc'antonio to me. "prosper," he said quietly, "we shall sail to-night. if we sail without you, will your father forgive us? that is all i ask." "dear uncle," said i, "for the life of me i cannot tell you; but that in my place he would do the like, i am sure." chapter xxii. the great adventure. "he that luvith a starre to follow her, sinke or swym, hath never a feare how farre, for the world it longith to hym: for the road it longith to hym and the fieldes that marcche beside-- lift up thi herte, my maister then, so inery to-morn we ride." _the squyres delyt_. so the _gauntlet_ sailed for the island of giraglia; and we two, having watched her for a while as she stood out to make her offing, trod out our camp-fire and turned our faces northward. marc'antonio's last action before starting was to unhobble the goats and free the hogs from their wooden collars and headpieces. as he finished operating he turned them loose one by one with a parting smack on the buttocks, and they ran from us among the thickets, where we heard their squeals change to grunts of delight. brutes though they were, i could understand their delight, having lived with them, and in even such thraldom as theirs. from my neck also it seemed that a heavy collar-weight fell loose and slipped itself as, having passed nat's grave in the hollow, we left the pine-forest at our feet and wound our way up among the granite pinnacles, upward, still upward, into the clear air. aloft there, beyond the pass, the kingdom of corsica broke on our view, laid out in wide prospect; the distant glittering peaks of monte d'oro and monte rotondo, the forests hitched on their shoulders like green mantles, the creased valleys leading down their rivers to the shore; a magic kingdom ringed with a sea of iris blue; a kingdom bequeathed to me. a few months ago i had shouted with joy to possess it; to-day, with more admiring eyes, i worshipped it for the lists of my greater adventure; and surely nat's spirit marched with me to the air of his favourite song-- "if doughty deeds my lady please, right soon i'll mount my steed; and strong his arm and fast his seat that bears frae me the meed . . ." but, in fact, it was not until the third morning of our journey that marc'antonio (who, like every corsican, abhorred walking) was able to purchase us a steed apiece in the shape of two lean and shaggy hill ponies. they belonged to a decayed gentleman--of the best blood in the island, as he assured me--whom poverty had driven with his family to inhabit a shepherd's hut above the restorica on the flank of monte rotondo where it looks towards corte. we had slept the night under his roof, and i remember that i was awakened next morning on my bed of dry fern by the small chatter of the children, themselves awaking one by one as the daylight broke. after breakfast our host led us down to the pasture where the ponies were tethered; and when he and marc'antonio had haggled for twenty minutes, and i was in the act of mounting, three of the children, aged from five downwards, came toddling with bunches of a blue flower unknown to me, but much like a gentian, which they had gathered on the edge of the tumbling restorica, some way up-stream. i took my bunch and pinned it on my hat as i rode, hailing the omen-- "for you alone i ride the ring, for you i wear the blue . . ." and--how went the chorus? "then tell me how to woo thee, love; o tell me how to woo thee; for thy dear sake nae care i'll take--" the only care taken by marc'antonio was to follow the bridle-tracks winding among the foothills, and give a wide berth to the highroad running north and south through corte, especially to the bridges crossing the golo river, at each of which, he assured me, we should find a guard posted of paoli's militia. luckily, he knew all the fords, and in the hill-villages off the road the inhabitants showed no suspicion of us, but took it for granted that we were the good paolists we passed for. marc'antonio answered all their guileless questions by giving out that we were two roving commissioners travelling northward to delimit certain _pievi_ in the nebbio, at the foot of cape corso--an explanation which secured for us the best of victuals as well as the highest respect. for awhile our course, bending roughly parallel with the golo, led us almost due east, and at length brought us out upon the flat shore of the tuscan sea. here the mountains, which had confined us to the river valley, run northward with a sharp twist, and turning with them we rode once more with our faces set toward our destination, keeping the tall range on our left hand, and on our right the melancholy sea-marshes where men cannot dwell for the malaria, and where for hour after hour we rode in a silence unbroken save by the plash of fish in the lagoon, or the cry of a heron solitary among the reeds. this desolation lasted all the way to biguglia, where we turned aside again among the foothills to avoid the fortress of bastia and the traffic of the roads about it. beyond bastia we were safe in the fastnesses of cape corso, across which, from this eastern shore to the western, and to the camp at olmeta, one only pass (so marc'antonio informed me) was practicable. i guessed we were nearing it when he began to mutter to himself in the intervals of scanning the crags high on our left; for this was to him, he confessed, an almost unknown country. but the gap, when we came abreast of it, could scarcely be mistaken. with a glance around, as though to take our bearings, he abruptly headed off for it, and, having climbed the first slope, reined up and sat for a moment, rigid in his saddle as a statue, listening. the sun had sunk behind the range, and the herbage at our feet lay in a bronze shadow; but light still bathed the sea behind us, and over it a company of gulls kept flashing and wheeling and clamouring. while i listened, following marc'antonio's example, it seemed to me that an echo from the summit directly above us took up the gull's cry and repeated it, prolonging the note. marc'antonio lifted and waved a hand. "that will be stephanu," he announced; and sure enough, before we had pushed a couple of furlongs up the slope, we caught sight of stephanu descending a steep scree to meet us. he and marc'antonio nodded salutation brusquely, as though they had parted but a few hours ago. marc'antonio, though relieved to see him, wore a judicial frown. "what of the princess, o stephanu?" he demanded. "the princess is well enough, for aught i know," answered stephanu, with a glance at me. "you can speak before the cavalier. he knows not everything until we tell him; but he is one of us, and that i will engage." stephanu shrugged his shoulders. "the princess is well enough, for aught i know," he repeated. "but what fool's talk is this? the prince packed you off, meaning mischief of some kind--what mischief you, being on the spot, should have been able to guess." "it is god's truth, then, that i could not," stephanu admitted sullenly; "and what is more, neither could you in my place have made a guess--no, not with all your wisdom." "but you travelled back with all speed? you have seen her?" "i travelled back with all speed." stephanu repeated the words as a child repeats a lesson, but whether ironically or not his face did not tell. "also i have seen her. and that is the devil of it." "will you explain?" "she will have nothing to do with me; nor with you. i told her that you would be upon the road and following close after me. naturally i said nothing of the cavalier here, for i knew nothing--" "did she ask?" i inquired. stephanu appeared to search his memory. "now i come to think of it she _did_ let fall a word. . . . but i for my part supposed you to be dead; and, by the way, signore, you will accept my compliments on your recovery." marc'antonio's frown had deepened. "you mean to tell me, stephanu," he persisted, "that the princess will have none of us?" "she bade me go my ways, and not come near her; which was cold welcome for a man after a nine day's sweat. she added that if i or marc'antonio came spying upon her, or in any way interfering until she sent for us, she would appeal to her brother against us." "was the prince present when she said this?" "he was not. he was away hunting, she said, in the direction of nonza; but in fact he must have gone reconnoitring, for he had left the camp all but empty--no one at home but andrea and jacopo galloni, whose turn it was with the cooking--these and the princess. but the prince has returned since then, for i heard his horn as i crossed the pass." stephanu, as we moved forward, kept alongside marc'antonio's bridle, or as nearly alongside as the narrow track allowed. i, bringing up the rear, could not see the trouble in marc'antonio's face, but i heard it in his voice as he put question after question. "the princess was not a prisoner." "no; nor under any constraint that stephanu could detect. she had her gun; was in fact cleaning and oiling its lock very leisurably when he had walked into camp. he had found her there, seated on a rock, with andrea and jacopo galloni at a little distance below preparing the meal and taking no notice of her. in fact, they could not see her, because the rock overhung them." "she must have been sitting there for sentry," said stephanu, "at any rate, there was no other guard set on the camp. well, if so, she took it easily enough; but catching sight of me she stood up, put her finger to her lip and pointed over the ledge. thereupon i peered over, but drew back my head before andrea and jacopo could spy me. so i stood before her, expecting to be praised for the despatch i had made on the road; but she praised me not. she motioned me to follow her a little way out of earshot of the men below, to a patch of tall-growing junipers within which, when first we pitched camp, she had chosen to make her bower. then she turned on me, and i saw that in some way i had vexed her, for her eyes were wrathful; and, said she, 'why have you made this speed?' 'because, o princess, you have need of me,' i answered. 'i have no need of you,' she said; 'but where is marc'antonio? and the young englishman--is he yet alive?' 'o princess,' i answered again, 'i did not go all the way to the old camp, but only so far that the man priske could not mistake his road to it. then, having put him in the way, i turned back and have travelled night and day. of the young englishman i can tell you nothing; but of marc'antonio i can promise that he will be on the road and not far behind me.'" "_grazie_," muttered marc'antonio; "but how could you be sure i had received the message?" "because the princess had charged you to be at that post until released. therefore i knew you would not have quitted it, if alive; and if you were dead--" stephanu shrugged his shoulders. "i was in a hurry, you understand; and in a hurry a man must take a few risks." "i am not saying you did ill," growled marc'antonio, slightly mollified. "the princess said so, however. 'you are a fool, o stephanu,' she told me; 'and as for needing you or marc'antonio, on the contrary, i forbid you both to join the camp for a while. go back. if you meet marc'antonio upon the road, give him this message for me.' 'but where, o princess,' i asked, 'are we to await your pleasure?' 'fare north, if you will, to cape corso,' she said, 'where that old mad englishman boasts that he will reach my mother in her prison at giraglia. he has gone thither alone, refusing help; and you may perhaps be useful to him.'" marc'antonio's growl grew deeper. "was that all?" he asked. "that was all." "then there is mischief here. the prince, o stephanu, did not without purpose send you out of the way. now, whatever he purposed he must have meant to do quickly, before we two should return to the camp--" "he had mischief in his heart, i will swear," assented stephanu, after a glance at me and another at marc'antonio, who reassured him with a nod. "and that the princess plainly guessed, by her manner at parting, when i set out with the man priske. she was sorry enough then to say good-bye to me," he added, half boastfully. "nevertheless," answered marc'antonio with some sarcasm, "she appears to have neglected to confide to you what she feared." stephanu spread out his hands. "the prince, and the reverend father--who can tell what passes in their minds?" "not you, at any rate! very well, then--the princess was apprehensive. . . . yet now, when the mischief (whatever it is) should either be done or on the point of doing, she will have none of our help. clearly she knows more, yet will have none of our help. that is altogether puzzling to me. . . . and she sends us north. . . . very well again; we will go north, but not far!" he glanced back at me over his shoulder. i read his meaning--that he wished to plan his campaign privately with stephanu--and, reining in my pony, i fell back out of earshot. the pass towards which we were climbing stood perhaps three thousand feet above the shore and the high road we had left; and the track, when it reached the steeper slopes, ran in long zigzagging terraces at the angles of which our ponies had sometimes to scramble up stairways cut in the living rock. as the sun sank a light mist gradually spread over the coast below us, the distant islands grew dim, and we rode suspended, as it were, over a bottomless vale and a sea without horizon. slowly, out of these ghostly wastes, the moon lifted herself in full circle, and her rays, crossing the cope of heaven, lit up a tall grey crag on the ridge above us, and the stem of a white-withered bush hanging from it--an isolated mass which (my companions told me) marked the summit of the ascent. "the path leads round the base of it," said stephanu. "we shall reach it in another twenty minutes." "but will it not be guarded?" i asked. he hunched his shoulders. "the prince is no general. a hundred times our enemies might have destroyed us; but they prefer to leave us alone. it is more humiliating." marc'antonio rode forward deep in thought, his chin sunk upon his breast. at the summit, under the shadow of the great rock, he reined up, and slewing himself about in his saddle addressed stephanu again. "as i remember, there is a track below which branches off to the right, towards nonza. it will take us wide of olmeta and we can strike down into the lowland somewhere between the two. the princess commands us to make for the north; so we shall be obeying her, and at the same time we can bivouac close enough to take stock at sunrise and, maybe, learn some news of the camp--yet not so close that our horses can be heard, if by chance one should whinny." "as to that you may rest easy," stephanu assured him. "it is known that many of the farms below keep ponies in stable." from the pass we looked straight down upon another sea, starlit and dimly discernible, and upon slopes and mountain spurs descending into dense woodland over which, along the bluffs of the ridge, the lights of a few lonely hill-farms twinkled. stephanu found for us the track of which marc'antonio had spoken, and although on this side of the range the shadows of the crags made an almost total darkness, our ponies took us down at a fair pace. after thirty, or it may be forty, minutes of this jolting and (to me) entirely haphazard progress, marc'antonio again reined up, on the edge of a mountain-stream which roared across our path so loudly as to drown his instructions. but at a sign from him stephanu stepped back and took my bridle, and within a couple of minutes i felt that my pony's feet were treading good turf and, at a cry from my guide, ducked my head to avoid the boughs as we threaded our way down through an orchard of stalwart olives. the slope grew gentler as we descended, and eased almost to a level on the verge of a high road running north and south under the glimmer of the moon--or rather of the pale light heralding the moon's advent. marc'antonio looked about him and climbed heavily from his saddle. he had been riding since dawn. i followed his example, though with difficulty--so stiff were my limbs; picketed my pony; and, having unstrapped the blanket from my saddle-bow, wrapped it about me and stretched myself on the thin turf to munch the ration of crust which marc'antonio doled out from his bag; for he carried our provender. "never grudge a hard day's work when 'tis over," said he, as he passed me the wine-skin. "yonder side of the mountain breeds malaria even in winter, but on this side a man may sleep and rise fit for adventure." he offered, very politely, to share his blanket with stephanu, but stephanu declined. those two might share one loyalty and together take counsel for it, but between them as men there could be no liking nor acceptance of favours. i lay listening for a while to the mutter of their voices as they talked there together under the olives; but not for long. the few words and exclamations that reached me carried no meaning. in truth i was worn out. very soon the chatter of the stream, deep among the trees--the stream which we had just now avoided--confused itself with their talk, and i slept. of a sudden i started and sat up erect. i had been dreaming, and in my dream i had seen two figures pass along the road beyond the fringe of the trees. they had passed warily, yet hurriedly, across the patch of it now showing white between the olive trunks, under the risen moon. yet how could this have happened if i had dreamed it merely? the moon, when i fell asleep, had not surmounted the ridge behind me, and that patch of road, now showing so white and clear, had been dim, if not quite invisible. none the less i could be sworn that two figures had passed up the road . . . two men . . . marc'antonio and stephanu?--reconnoitring perhaps? i rubbed my eyes. no: marc'antonio and stephanu lay a few paces away, stretched in profound sleep under the moonlight drifting between the olive boughs; and yonder, past the fringe of the orchard, shone the patch of white high road. two figures, half a minute since, had passed along it. i could be sworn to it, even while reason insisted that i had been dreaming. i flung off my rug, and, stepping softly to the verge of the orchard's shadow, peered out upon the road. to my right--that is to say, northward--it stretched away level and visibly deserted so far as the bend, little more than a gunshot distant, where it curved around the base of low cliff and disappeared. a few paces on this side of the cliff glimmered the rail of a footbridge, and to this spot my ears traced the sound of running water which had been singing through my dreams--the same stream which had turned us aside to seek our bivouac. not even yet could i believe that my two wayfarers had been phantoms merely. i had given them two minutes' start at least, and by this time they might easily have passed the bend. threading my way swiftly between the boles of the olive trees, i skirted the road to the edge of the stream and stood for a moment at pause before stepping out upon the footbridge and into the moonlight. the water at my feet, scarcely seen through the dark ferns, ran swiftly and without noise as through a trough channelled in the living rock; but it brought its impetus from a cascade that hummed aloft somewhere in the darkness with a low continuous thunder as of a mill with a turning wheel. i lifted my head to the sound, and in that instant my ears caught a slight creak from the footbridge on my left. i faced about, and stood rigid, at gaze. a woman was stepping across the bridge, there in the moonlight; a slight figure, cloaked and hooded and hurrying fast; a woman, with a gun slung behind her and the barrel of it glimmering. it was the princess. i let her pass, and as she turned the bend of the road i stole out to the footbridge and across it in pursuit. i knew now that the two wayfarers had not been phantoms of my dreaming; that she was following, tracking them, and that i must track and follow her. beyond the bend the road twisted over a low-lying spur of the mountain between outcrops of reddish-coloured rock, and then ran straight for almost three hundred yards, with olive orchards on either hand; so that presently i could follow and hold her in sight, myself keeping well within the trees' line of shadow. twice she turned to look behind her, but rapidly and as if in no great apprehension of pursuit; or perhaps her own quest had made her reckless. at the end of this straight and almost level stretch the road rose steeply to wind over another foot-hill, and here she broke into a run. i pressed after her up the ascent, and from the knap of it, with a shock, found myself looking down at close hand upon a small dim bay of the sea with a white edge of foam curving away into a loom of shore above which a solitary light twinkled. the road, following the curve of the shore a few paces above the waves, lay bare in the moonlight, without cover to right or left, until, a mile away perhaps, it melted into the grey of night. along that distance my eyes sought and sought in vain for the figure that had been running scarcely two hundred yards ahead of me. the princess had disappeared. for a short while i stood at fault; but searching the bushes on my left, i was aware of a parting between them, overgrown indeed, yet plainly indicating a track; along which i had pushed but two-score of paces--perhaps less--before a light glimmered between the greenery and i stepped into an open clearing in full view of a cottage, the light of which fell obliquely across the turf through a warped or cracked window-shutter. "camillo!"--it was the princess's voice, half imperious, half pleading; and from beyond the angle of the cottage wall came the noise of a latch shaken. "open to me, camillo, or by the mother of christ i will blow the door in! i have a gun, camillo, and i swear to you!" the challenge was not answered. crouching almost on all fours i sprang across the ray of light and gained the wall's shadow. there, as i drew breath, i heard the latch shaken again, more impatiently. "camillo!" the bolt was drawn. peering around the angle of the wall, i saw the light fall full on her face as the door opened and she stepped into the cottage. chapter xxiii. ordeal and choosing. "thou coward! yet art living? canst not, wilt not find the road to the great palace of magnificent death?-- though thousand ways lead to his thousand doors which day and night are still unbarr'd for all." nat. lee.--_oedipus_. "no man"--i am quoting my father--"can be great, or even wise, or even, properly speaking, a man at all, until he has burnt his boats"; but i imagine that those who achieve wisdom and greatness burn their boats deliberately and not--as did i, next moment--upon a sudden wild impulse. my excuse is, the door was already closing behind the princess. i knew she had tracked the prince camillo and his confessor, and that these two were within the cottage. i knew nothing of their business, save that it must be shameful, since she who had detected and would prevent it chose to hide her knowledge even from marc'antonio and stephanu. then much rather (you may urge) would she choose to hide it from me. the objection is a sound one, had i paused to consider it; but (fortunately or unfortunately, as you may determine) i did not. she had stepped into peril. the door was closing behind her: in another couple of seconds it would be bolted again. i sprang for it, hurled myself in through the entry, and there, pulling myself erect, stared about me. four faces returned my stare; four faces, and all dismayed as though a live bombshell had dropped through the doorway. to the priest, whom my impact had flung aside against the wall, i paid no attention. my eyes fastened themselves on the table at which, with a lantern and some scattered papers between them, sat two men--the prince, and a grey-haired officer in the blue-and-white genoese uniform. the prince, who had pushed back his chair and confronted his sister with hands stretched out to cover or to gather up the papers on the table, slewed round upon me a face that, as it turned, slowly stiffened with terror. the genoese officer rose with one hand resting on the table, while with the other he fumbled at a silver chain hanging across his breast, and as he shot a glance at the prince i could almost see his lips forming the word "treachery." the princess's consternation was of all the most absolute. "_the crown! where is the crown?_"--as i broke in, her voice, half imperious, half supplicatory, had panted out these words, while with outstretched hand and forefinger she pointed at the table. her hand still pointed there, rigid as the rest of her body, as with dilated eyes she stared into mine. "yes, gentlemen," said i, in the easiest tone i could manage, "the princess asks you a question, which allow me to repeat. where is the crown?" "in the devil's name--" gasped the prince. the genoese interrupted him. "shut and bolt the door!" he commanded the priest, sharply. "master domenico," said i, "if you move so much as a step, i will shoot you through the body." the genoese tugged at the chain on his breast and drew forth a whistle. "signore," he said quietly and with another side glance at the prince, "i do not know your name, but mine is andrea fornari, and i command the genoese garrison at nonza. having some inherited knowledge of the corsicans, and some fifty years' experience of my own, i do not walk into traps. a dozen men of mine stand within call here, at the back entrance, and my whistle will call me up another fifty. bearing this in mind, you will state your business as peaceably as possible." "nevertheless," said i, "since i have taken a fancy--call it a whim, if you will--that the door remains at least unbolted. . . ." he shrugged his shoulders. "it will help you nothing." "i am an englishman," said i. "indeed? well, i have heard before now that it will explain anything and everything; but as yet my poor understanding scarcely stretches it to cover your presence here." "faith, sir," i answered, "to put the matter briefly, i am here because the princess is here, whom i have followed--though without her knowledge--because i guessed her to be walking into peril." "excuse me. without her knowledge, you say?" the commandant turned to the princess, who bowed her head but continued to gaze at me from under her lowered brows. "absolutely, sir." "and without knowledge of her errand? again excuse me, but does it not occur to you that you may be intruding at this moment upon a family affair?" here the prince broke in with a scornful laugh. for a minute or so his brow had been clearing, but, though he sneered, he could not as yet meet his sister's eye. i noted this as his laugh drew my gaze upon him, and it seemed that my contempt gave me a sudden clear insight; for i found myself answering the commandant very deliberately-- "the princess, sir, until a moment ago, perhaps knew not whether i was alive or dead, and certainly knew not that i was within a hundred miles of this place. had she known it, she would as certainly not have confided her errand to me, mixed up as it is with her brother's shame. she would, i dare rather wager, have taken great pains to hide it from me. and yet i will not pretend that i am quite ignorant of it, as neither will i allow--family affair though it be--that i have no interest in it, seeing that it concerns the crown of corsica." the commandant glanced at the prince, then at the priest, who stood passive, listening, with his back to the wall, his loose-lidded eyes studying me from the lantern's penumbra. "what possible interest--" begun the commandant. "by the crown of corsica," i interrupted, "i mean the material crown of the late king theodore, at this moment concealed (if i mistake not) somewhere in this cottage. in it i may claim a certain interest, seeing that i brought it from england to this island, and that the prince camillo here--whose father gave it to me--is trading it to you by fraud. yes, _messere_, he may claim that it belongs to him by right; but he obtained it from me by fraud, as neither he nor his sister can deny. that perhaps might pass: but when he--he a son of corsica--goes on to sell it to genoa, i reassert my claim." again the commandant shrugged his shoulders. it consoled me to note that his glance at the prince was by no means an admiring one. "i am a soldier," he said curtly. "i do not deal in sentiment; nor is it my business, when a bargain comes to me--a bargain in which i can serve my country--to inquire into how's and why's." "i grant that, sir," said i. "it is your business, now that the crown--with what small profit may go with it--lies under your hand, to grasp it for genoa. but as a soldier and a brave man, you understand that now you must grasp it by force. god knows in what hope, if in any, the princess here tracked out your plot; but at least she can compel you--i can compel you--we two, weak as we are, can compel you--to use force. the honour of a race--and that a royal one--shall at least not pass to you on the mere signature of that coward sitting there." i swung round upon the prince. "you may give up trying to hide those papers, sir, since every one in this room knows what compact you were in the act of signing." the princess stepped forward. "all this," she said to me in a low, hard voice, "i could have done without help of you." her tone promised that she would never forgive, but she looked only at her brother. "camillo," she said, standing before him, "this englishman has said only what i came to say. it is not my fault that he is here and has guessed. when i was sure, i hid my knowledge even from marc'antonio and stephanu; and he--he shall die for having overheard. the genoese will see to that, and the commandant, as he is a gentleman, will write in his report that he took the crown from us, having caught us at unawares. . . . i cannot shoot you, my brother. even you would not ask this of me--of me that have served you, and that serve you now in the end. . . . see, i make no reproaches. . . . we were badly brought up, we two, and when you were young and helpless, vile men took hold on you and taught you to be capable of--of this thing. but we are colonne, we two, and can end as colonne." she dipped a hand within the bosom of her bodice and drew out a phial. "dear, i will drink after you. it will not be hard; no, believe me, it will not be so very hard--a moment, a pang perhaps, and everything will yet be saved. o brother, what is a pang, a moment, that you can weigh it against a lifetime of dishonour!" the prince sprang up cursing. "dishonour? and who are you that talk to me of dishonour?--you that come straying here out of the night with your _cicisbeo_ at your heels? you, with the dew on you and your dress bedraggled, arrive straight from companioning in the woods and prate to me of shame--of the blood of the colonne!" he smote a hand on the table and spat forth a string of vile names upon her, mixed with curses; abominable words before which she drew back cowering, yet less (i think) from the lash of them than from shock and horror of his incredible baseness. passion twisted his mouth; his tongue stammered with the gush of his abuse; but he was lying, and knew that he was lying, for his eyes would meet neither hers nor mine. only after drawing breath did he for a moment look straight at her, and then it was to demand; "and who, pray, has driven me to this? what has made corsica so bitter to me that in weariness i am here to resign it? you, my sister--you, and what is known of you. . . . why can i do nothing with the patriots? why were there no recruits? why, when i negotiated, did the paolists listen as to a child and smile politely and show me their doors? again, because of you, o my sister!--because there is not a household in corsica but has heard whisperings of you, and of brussels, and of the house in brussels where you were sought and found. blood of the colonne!--and now the blood of the colonne takes an english lover to warm it! blood of--" with one hand i caught him by the throat, with the other by the girdle, and flung him clean across the table into the corner, oversetting the lantern, but not extinguishing the light, for the commandant caught it up deftly. as he set it back on the table i heard him grunt, and--it seemed to me--with approval. "i will allow no shooting, sir," said he, quickly, yet with easy authority, noting my hand go down to my gun-stock. "you misunderstand me," i answered, and indeed i was but shifting its balance on my bandolier, which had slipped awry in the struggle. "there are reasons why i cannot kill this man. but you will give me leave to answer just two of his slanders upon this lady. it is false that i came here to-night by her invitation or in her company, as it is god's truth that for many months until we met in this room and in your presence she has not set eyes on me. she could not have known even that i lived since the hour when her brother there--yes, princess, your brother there--left me broken and maimed at the far end of the island. for the rest, he utters slanders to which i have no clue save that i know them to be slanders. but at a venture, if you would know how they grew and who nurtured them, i think the priest yonder can tell you." the commandant waved a hand politely. "you have spoken well, sir. believe me, on this point no more is necessary. i have no doubt-- there can be no doubt--that the prince lies under a misapprehension. nevertheless, there are circumstances which lay me under obligation to him." he paused. "and you will admit that you have placed the lady--thoughtlessly no doubt--in a false position." "well and good, sir," i replied. "if, in your opinion as a man of honour, the error demands a victim, by all means call in your soldiers and settle me. i stipulate only that you escort the lady back to her people with honour, under a flag of truce; and i protest only, as she has protested, that this traitor has no warrant to sell you his country's rights." the prince had picked himself up, and stood sulkily, still in his corner. i suppose that he was going to answer this denunciation, when the priest's voice broke in, smooth and unctuous. "pardon me, _messeri_, but there occurs to me a more excellent way. this englishman has brought dishonour on one of the colonne: therefore it is most necessary that he should die. but before dying let him make the only reparation--and marry her." i turned on him, staring: and in the flicker of his eyes as he lifted them for one instant towards his master, i read the whole devilish cunning of the plot. they might securely let her go, as an englishman's widow. the fact had merely to be proclaimed and the islanders would have none of her. i am glad to remember that--my brain keeping clear, albeit my pulse, already fast enough, leapt hotly and quickened its speed--i had presence of mind to admire the suggestion coolly, impersonally, and quite as though it affected me no jot. the commandant bent his brows. behind them--as it seemed to me--i could read his thought working. "if you, sir, have no objection," he said slowly, looking up and addressing me with grave politeness, "i see much to be said for the reverend father's proposal." he turned to the prince, who--cur that he was--directed his spiteful glee upon his sister. "it appears, o camilla, that in our race to save each other's honour i am to be winner. nay, you may wear your approaching widowhood with dignity, and boast in time to come that your husband once bore the crown of corsica." "prince camillo," said the commandant, quietly, "i am here to-night in the strict service of my republic, to do my best for her: but i warn you that if you a second time address your sister in that tone i shall reserve the right to remember it later as a plain genoese gentleman. sir," he faced about and addressed me again, "am i to understand that you accept?" i looked at the princess. she met my look proudly, with eyes set in a face pale as death. i could not for the life of me read whether they forbade me or implored. they seemed to forbid, protest . . . and yet (the bliss of it!) for one half instant they had also seemed to implore. thank god at least they did not scorn! "princess," i said, "these men propose to do me an infinite honour-- an honour far above my deserving--and to kill me while my heart yet beats with the pride of it. yet say to me now if i must renounce it, and i will die bearing you no grudge. take thought, not of me, but of yourself only, and sign to me if i must renounce." still she eyed me, pale and unblinking. her bosom panted, and for a moment she half-raised her hand; but dropped it again. "i think, sir," said i, facing around on the commandant, i think by this time the day must be breaking. will you kindly open the shutters? also you would oblige me further--set it down to an englishman's whim--by forming up your men outside; and we will have a soldier's wedding." "willingly, cavalier." the commandant stepped to the shutter and unbarred it, letting in daylight with the cool morning breeze--a greenish-grey daylight, falling across the glade without as softly as ever through cathedral aisles, and a breeze that was wine to the taste as it breathed through the exhausted air of the cottage--a sacramental dawn, and somewhere deep in the arcades of the tree-boles a solitary bird singing! the commandant leaned forth and blew his whistle. the bird's song ceased, and was followed by the tramp of men. my brain worked so clearly, i could almost count their footsteps. i saw them, across the commandant's shoulder, as they filed past the corner of the window and, having formed into platoon, grounded arms, the butts of their muskets thudding softly on the turf--a score of men in blue-and-white uniforms, spick and span in the clear morning light. i counted them and drew a long breath. "master priest," said i, and held out my hand to the princess, "in your church, i believe, matrimony is a sacrament. if you are ready, i am ready." his loose lip twitched as he stepped forward. . . . when he paused in his muttering i lifted the princess's cold hand and drew a seal from my pocket--a heavy seal with a ring attached, which i fitted on her finger; and so i held her hand, letting drop on it by degrees the weight of the heavy seal. from the first she had offered no resistance, made no protest. i pressed the seal into the palm of her hand, not telling her that it was her own father's great seal of corsica. but i folded her fingers back on it, reverently touched the one encircled by the ring, and said i-- "it is the best i can give;" and a little later, "it is all i brought in my pockets but this handkerchief. take that, too; lead me out; and bandage my eyes, my wife." she took my arm obediently and we stepped out by the doorway, bridegroom and bride, in face of the soldiery. a sergeant saluted and came forward for the commandant's orders. "a moment, sir," said i, and, laying two fingers on the commandant's arm, i nodded towards the bole of a stout pine-tree across the clearing. "will that distance suit you?" he nodded in reply and as i swung on my heel touched my arm in his turn. "you will do me the honour, sir, to shake hands?" "most willingly, sir." i shook hands with him, casting, as i did so, a glance over my shoulder at the prince and father domenico, who hung back in the doorway--two men afraid. "come," said i to the princess, and, as she seemed to hesitate, "come, my wife," i commanded, and walked to the pine-tree, she following. i held out the handkerchief. she took it, still obediently, and as she took it i clasped her hand and lifted it to my lips. "nay," said i, challenging, "what was it you told your brother? a moment? a pang? what are they to weigh against a lifetime of dishonour?" i saw her blench: yet even while she bandaged me at my bidding, i did not arrive at understanding the folly--the cruel folly of that speech. nay, even when, having bandaged me, she stepped away and left me, i considered not nor surmised what second meaning might be read in it. shall i confess the truth? i was too consciously playing a part and making a handsome exit. after all, had i not some little excuse? . . . here was i, young, lusty, healthful, with a man's career before me, and across it, trenched at my feet, the grave. a saying of billy priske's comes into my mind--a word spoken, years after, upon a poor fisherman of constantine parish whose widow, as by will directed, spent half his savings on a tombstone of carved granite. "a man," said billy, "must cut a dash once in his lifetime, though the chance don't come till he's dead." . . . looking back across these years i can smile at the boy i was and forgive his poor brave flourish. but his speech was thoughtless: the woman (ah! but he knows her better now) was withdrawn with its wound in her heart: and between them death was stepping forward to make the misunderstanding final. i remember setting my shoulder-blades firmly against the bole of the tree. a kind of indignation sustained me; a scorn to be cut off thus, a scorn especially for the two cowards by the doorway. they were talking with the commandant. their voices sounded across the interval between me and the firing-party. why were they wasting time? . . . i could not distinguish their words, save that twice i heard the prince curse viciously. the hound (i told myself, shutting my teeth) might have restrained his tongue for a few moments. the voices ceased. in a long pause i heard the insects humming in the grasses at my feet. would the moment never come? it came at last. a flash of light winked above the edge of my bandage, and close upon it broke the roar and rattle of the volley . . . death? i put out my hands and groped for it. where was death? nay, perhaps this _was_ death? if so, what fools were men to fear it! the hum of the insects had given place to silence--absolute silence. if bullet had touched me, i had felt no pang at all. i was standing, yes, surely i was standing . . . slowly it broke on me that i was unhurt, that they had fired wide, prolonging their sport with me; and i tore away the bandage, crying out upon them to finish their cruelty. at a little distance sat the princess watching me, her gun across her knees. beyond her and beyond the cottage, by the edge of the wood the firing-party had fallen into rank and were marching off among the pine-stems, the prince and father domenico with them. i stared stupidly after the disappearing uniforms, and put out a hand as if to brush away the smoke which yet floated across the clearing. the commandant, turning to follow his men, at the same moment lifted his hand in salute. so he, too, passed out of sight. i turned to the princess. she arose slowly and came to me. chapter xxiv. the wooing of princess camilla. "take heed of loving me, at least remember i forbade it thee; . . . if thou love me, take heed of loving me." donne, _the prohibition_. "you have conquered." she had halted, a pace or two from me, with downcast eyes. she said it very slowly, and i stared at her and answered with an unmeaning laugh. "forgive me, princess. i--i fancy my poor wits have been shaken and need a little time to recover. at any rate, i do not understand you." "you have conquered," she repeated in a low voice that dragged upon the words. then, after a pause,--"you remember, once, promising me that at the last i should come and place my neck under your foot . . ." she glanced up at me and dropped her eyes again. "yes, i see that you remember. _eccu_--i am here." "i remember, princess: but even yet i do not understand. why, and for what, should you beseech me?" "in the first place for death. i am your wife . . ." she broke off with a shiver. "there is something in the name, _messere_--is there not?--that should move you to kindness, as a sportsman takes his game not unkindly to break its neck. that is all i ask of you--" "princess!" she lifted a hand. "--except that you will let me say what i have to say. you shall think hard thoughts of me, and i am going to make them harder; but for your own sake you shall put away vile ones-if you can." i stared at her stupidly dizzied a little with the words _i am your wife_, humming in my brain. or say that i am naturally not quick-witted, and i will plead that for once my dullness did me no discredit. at all events it saved me for the moment: for while i stared at her, utterly at a loss, a crackle of twigs warned us, and we turned together as, by the pathway leading from the high-road, the bushes parted and the face of marc'antonio peered through upon the clearing. "salutation, o princess!" said he gravely, and stepped out of cover attended by stephanu, who likewise saluted. the princess drew herself up imperiously. "i thought, o stephanu, that i had made plain my orders, that you two were neither to follow nor to watch me?" "nevertheless," marc'antonio made answer, "when one misses a comrade and hears, at a little distance, the firing of a volley . . . not to mention that some one has been burning gunpowder hereabouts," he wound up, sniffing the air with an expression that absurdly reminded me of our vicar, at home, tasting wine. "i warn you, o marc'antonio," said the princess, "to be wise and ask no more questions." "i have asked none, o princess," he answered again, still very gravely, and after a glance at me turned to stephanu. "but it runs in my head, comrade, that the time has come to consider other things than wisdom." "for example?" i challenged him sharply. "for example, cavalier, that i cannot reconcile this smell with any corsican gunpowder." "and you are right," said i. "nay, princess, you have sworn not long since to obey me, and i choose that they shall know. that salvo, sirs, was fired, five minutes ago, by the genoese." "a 'salvo' did you say, cavalier?" "for our wedding, marc'antonio." i took the princess's hand--which neither yielded nor resisted--and lifting it a little way, released it to fall again limply. so for a while there was silence between us four. "marc'antonio," said i, "and you, stephanu--it is i now who speak for the princess and decide for her; and i decide that you, who have served her faithfully, deserve to be told all the truth. it is truth, then, that we are married. the priest who married us was fra domenico, and with assent of his master the prince camillo. i can give you, moreover, the name of the chief witness: he is a certain signor or general andrea fornari, and commands the genoese garrison in nonza." "princess!" marc'antonio implored her. "it is true," said she. "this gentleman has done me much honour, having heard what my brother chose to say." "but i do not comprehend!" the honest fellow cast a wild look around the clearing. "ah, yes-the volley! they have taken the prince, and shot him . . . but his body--they would not take his body--and you standing here and allowing it--" "my friends," i interrupted, "they have certainly taken his body, and his soul too, for that matter; and i doubt if you can overtake either on this side of nonza. but with him you will find the crown of corsica, and the priest who helped him to sell it. i tell you this, who are clansmen of the colonne. your mistress, who discovered the plot and was here to hinder it, will confirm me." their eyes questioned her; not for long. in the droop of her bowed head was confirmation. "and therefore," i went on, "you two can have no better business than to help me convey the princess northward and bring her to her mother, whom in this futile following after a wretched boy you have all so strangely forgotten. by god!" said i, "there is but one man in corsica who has hunted, this while, on a true scent and held to it; and he is an englishman, solitary and faithful at this moment upon cape corso!" "your pardon, cavalier," answered marc'antonio after a slow pause. "what you say is just, in part, and i am not denying it. but so we saw not our duty, since the queen emilia bade us follow her son. with him we have hunted (as you tell us) too long and upon a false scent. be it so: but, since this has befallen, we must follow on the chase a little farther. for you, you have now the right to protect our well-beloved; not only to the end of cape corso, but to the end of the world. but for us, who are two men used to obey, the princess your wife must suffer us to disobey her now for the first time. the road to the cape, avoiding nonza, is rough and steep and must be travelled afoot; yet i think you twain can accomplish it. at the cape, if god will, we will meet you and stand again at your service. but we travel by another road--the road which does not avoid nonza." he glanced at stephanu, who nodded. "farewell then, o princess; and if this be the end of our service, forgive what in the past has been done amiss. farewell, o cavalier, and be happy to protect her in perils wherein we were powerless." the princess stretched out both hands. "nay, mistress," said marc'antonio, with another glance at stephanu; "but first cross them, that there be no telling the right from the left: for we are two jealous men." she crossed them obediently, and the two took each a hand and kissed it. now all this while i could see that she was struggling for speech, and as they released her hands she found it. "but wherefore must you go by nonza, o marc'antonio? and how many will you take with you?" marc'antonio put the first question aside. "we go alone, princess. you may call it a reconnaissance, on which the fewer taken the better." "you will not kill him! nay, then, o marc'antonio, at least--at least you will not hurt him!" "we hope, princess, that there will be no need," he answered seriously, and, saluting once more, turned on his heel. stephanu also saluted and turned, and the pair, falling into step, went from us across the clearing. i watched them till their forms disappeared in the undergrowth, and turned to my bride. "and now, princess, i believe you have something to say to me. shall it be here? i will not suggest the cottage, which is overfull maybe of unpleasant reminders; but here is a tree-trunk, if you will be seated." "that shall be as my lord chooses." i laughed. "your lord chooses, then, that you take a seat. it seems (i take your word for it) that there must be hard thoughts between us. well, a straight quarrel is soonest ended, they say: let us have them out and get them over." "ah, you hurt! is it necessary that you hurt so?" her eyes no less than her voice sobered me at once, shuddering together as though my laugh had driven home a sword and it grated on the bone. i remembered that she always winced at laughter, but this evident anguish puzzled me. "god knows," said i, "how i am hurting you. but pardon me. speak what you have to speak; and i will be patient while i learn." "'a lifetime of dishonour,' you said, and yet you laugh . . . a lifetime of dishonour, and you were blithe to be shot and escape it; yet now you laugh. ah, i cannot understand!" "princess!" i protested, although not even now did i grasp what meaning she had misread into my words. "but you said rightly. it is a lifetime of dishonour you have suffered them to put on you: and i--i have taken more than life from you, cavalier--yet i cannot grieve for you while you laugh. o sir, do not take from me my last help, which is to honour you!" "listen to me, princess," said i, stepping close and standing over her. "what do you suppose that i meant by using those words? they were your own words, remember." "that is better. it will help us both if we are frank--only do not treat me as a child. you heard what my brother said. yes, and doubtless you have heard other things to my shame? answer me." "if your brother chose to utter slanders--" "yes, yes; it was easy to catch him by the throat. that is how one man treats another who calls a woman vile in her presence. it does not mean that he disbelieves, and therefore it is worthless; but a gallant man will act so, almost without a second thought, and because it is _dans les formes_." she paused. "i learned that phrase in brussels, cavalier." i made no answer. "in brussels, cavalier," she repeated, "where it was often in the mouths of very vile persons. you have heard, perhaps, that we--that my brother and i--lived our childhood in brussels?" i bent my head, without answering; but still she persisted. "i was brought to corsica from brussels, cavalier. marc'antonio and stephanu fetched us thence, being guided by that priest who is now my brother's confessor." "i have been told so, princess. marc'antonio told me." "did he also tell you where he found me?" "no, princess." "did he tell you that, being fetched hither, i was offered by my brother in marriage to a young count odo of the rocca serra, and that the poor boy slew himself with his own gun?" i stuffed my hands deep in my pockets, and said i, standing over her-- "all this has been told me, princess, though not the precise reason for it: and since you desire me to be frank i will tell you that i have given some thought to that dead lad--that rival of mine (if you will permit the word) whom i never knew. the mystery of his death is a mystery to me still; but in all my blind guesses this somehow remained clear to me, that he had loved you, princess; and this (again i ask your leave to say it), because i could understand it so well, forbade me to think unkindly of him." "he loved his honour better, sir." her face had flushed darkly. "i am sorry, then, if i must suffer by comparison." "no, no," she protested. "oh, why will you twist my words and force me to seem ungrateful? he died rather than have me to wife: you took me on the terms that within a few minutes you must die. for both of you the remedy was at hand, only _you_ chose to save me before taking it. on my knees, sir, i could thank you for that. the crueller were they that, when you stood up claiming your right to die, they broke the bargain and cheated you." "princess," i said, after musing a moment, "if my surviving seemed to you so pitiable, there was another way." i pointed to her musket. "yes, cavalier, and i will confess to you that when, having fired wide, they turned to go and the cheat was evident, twice before you pulled the bandage away i had lifted my gun. but i could not fire it, cavalier. to make me your executioner! me, your wife--and while you thought so vilely of me!" "faith," said i grimly, "it was asking too much, even for a genoese! yet again i think you overrate their little trick, since, after all"--i touched my own gunstock--"there remains a third way--the way chosen by young odo of rocca serra." she put out a hand. "sir, that way you need not take--if you will be patient and hear me!" "lady," said i, "you may hastily despise me; but i am neither going to take that way, nor to be patient, nor to hear you. but i am, as you invited me, going to be very frank and confess to you, risking your contempt, that i am extremely thankful the genoese did not shoot me, a while ago. indeed, i do not remember in all my life to have felt so glad, as i feel just now, to be alive. give me your gun, if you please." "i do not understand." "no, you do not understand. . . . your gun, please . . . nay, you can lay it on the turf between us. the phial, too, that you offered your brother. . . . thank you. and now, my wife, let us talk of your country and mine; two islands which appear to differ more than i had guessed. in corsica it would seem that, let a vile thing be spoken against a woman, it suffices. belief in it does not count: it suffices that a shadow has touched her, and rather than share that shadow, men will kill themselves--so tender a plant is their honour. now, in england, o princess, men are perhaps even more irrational. they, no more than your corsicans, listen to the evidence and ask themselves, 'is this good evidence or bad? do i believe it or disbelieve?' they begin father back, princess--shall i tell you how? they look in the face of their beloved, and they say, 'slander this, not as you wish for belief, but only as you dare; for here my faith is fixed beforehand.' "and therefore, o princess," i went on, after a pause in which we eyed one another slowly, "therefore, i disbelieve any slander concerning you; not merely because your brother's confessor was its author--though that, to any rational man, should be enough--but because i have looked in your face. therefore also i, your husband, forbid you to speak what would dishonour us both." "but, cavalier--if--if it were true?" "true?"--i let out a harsh laugh. "take up that phial. hold it in your hand, so. now look me in the face and drink--if you dare! look me in the face, read how i trust you, and so, if you can say the lie to me say it--and drink!" she lifted the phial steadily, almost to her lips, keeping her eyes on mine--but of a sudden faltered and let it fall upon the turf: where i, whose heart had all but stood still, crushed my heel upon it savagely. "i cannot. you have conquered," she gasped. "conquered?" i swore a bitter oath. "o princess, think you _this_ is the way i promised to conquer you? take up your gun again and follow me. . . . eh? you do not ask where i lead?" "it is enough that i follow you, my husband," she said humbly. "it is something, indeed; but before god it is not enough, nor half enough. i see now that 'enough' may never come: almost i doubt if i, who swore to you it should come, and since have desired it madly, desire it any longer; and until it comes you are still the winner. 'enough' shall be said, princess--for my price rises--not when (as i promised) you come to me without choosing to be loved or hated, only beseeching your master, but when you shall come to me having made your choice. . . . but so far, so good," said i, cheerfully, changing my tone. "you do not ask where i lead. i am leading you, if i can to cape corso, to my father; and by his help, if it shall serve, to your mother." "i thank you, cavalier," she said, still in her restrained voice. "you are a good man; and for that reason i am sorry you will not hearken to me." "the mountains are before us," said i, shouldering my gun. "listen, princess: let us be good comrades, us two. let us forget what lies at the end of the journey--the convent for you, may be, and for me at least the parting. my life has been spared to-day, and i tell you frankly that i am glad of the respite. for you, the mountains hold no slanders, and shall hold no evil. put your hand in mine on the compact, and we will both step it bravely. forget that you were ever a princess or i a promised king of this corsica! o beloved, travel this land, which can never be yours or mine, and let it be ours only for a while as we journey." i turned and led the way up the path between the bushes: and she followed my stride almost at a run. on the bare mountain-spur above the high-road she overtook and fell into pace with me: and so, skirting nonza, we breasted the long slope of the range. chapter xxv. my wedding day. come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; let us lodge in the villages. let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see whether the vine hath budded and the tender grape appear.-- _the song of songs_. ahead of us, high on our right, rose the mountain ridges, scarp upon scarp, to the snowy peak of monte stella; low on our left lay nonza, and beyond it a sea blue as a sapphire, scarcely rippled, void save for one white sail far away on the south-west horizon--not the _gauntlet_; for, distant though she was, i could make out the shape of her canvas, and it was square cut. nonza itself lay in the shadow of the shore with the early light shimmering upon its citadel and upper works--a fortress to all appearance asleep: but the genoese pickets would be awake and guarding the northward road for at least a league beyond, and to avoid them we must cross the high mountain spurs, using where we could their patches of forest and our best speed where these left the ridges bare. the way was hard--harder by far than i had deemed possible--and kept us too busy for talk. our silence was not otherwise constrained at all. passion fell away from us as we climbed; fell away with its strife, its confusion, its distempered memories of the night now past; and was left with the vapours of the coast where the malaria brooded. through the upper, clearer atmosphere we walked as gods on the roof of the world, saw with clear eyes, knew with mind and spirit untroubled by self-sickness. we were silent, having fallen into an accord which made all speech idle. arduous as the road soon became, and, while unknown to both of us, more arduous to me because of my inexperience, we chose without hesitating, almost without consulting. each difficulty brought decision, and with decision, its own help. now it was i who steadied her leap across a chasm; now came her turn to underprop my foothold till i clambered to a ledge whence i could reach down a hand and drag her up to me. as a rule i may call myself a blundering climber, my build being too heavy; but i made no mistake that day. in the course of a three hours' scramble she spoke to me (as i remember) once only, and then as a comrade, in quiet approval of my mountaineering. we had come to a crag over which--with no word said--i had lowered her by help of my bandolier. she had waited at the foot while i followed her down without assistance, traversing on the way an outward-sloping ledge of smooth rock which overhung a precipice and a sheer fall of at least three hundred feet. the ledge had nowhere a notch in it to grip the boot-sole, and was moreover slippery with the green ooze of a mountain spring. it has haunted my dreams since then; i would not essay it again for my weight in money; but i crossed it that day, so to speak, with my hands in my pockets. the most curious (you might call it the most uncanny) part of the whole adventure, was that from time to time we came out of these breathless scrambles plump upon a patch of cultivated ground and a hill-farm with its steading; the explanation being that these farms stand each at the head of its own ravine, and, inaccessible one to another, have communication with the world only by the tracks which lead down their ravines. here, three thousand feet and more above the sea--upon which we looked down between cliff and woodland as through a funnel, and upon the roofs and whitewashed walls of fishing-villages on the edge of the blue--lived slow, sedate folks, who called their dogs off us and stared upon us as portents and gave us goat's-milk and bread, refusing the coins we proffered. the inhabitants of this cape (i have since learned) are a race apart in corsica; slow, peaceable, without politics and almost (as we should say) without patriotism. we came to them as gods from the heights, and they received and sped us as gods. they were too slow of speech to question us, or even to express their astonishment. there was one farm with a stream plunging past it, and, by the house wall, a locked mill-wheel (god knows what it had ever ground), and by the door below it a woman, seated on a flight of steps, with her bosom half-covered and a sucking-child laid asleep in her lap. she blinked in the sunshine as we came across the yard to her, and said she-- "salutation, o strangers, and pardon that i cannot rise: but the little one is sick of a fever and i fear to stir him, for he makes as if he would sleep. nor is there any one else to entertain you, since my husband has gone down to the _marina_ to fetch the wise woman who lives there." the princess stepped close and stood over her. "_o paesana_," said she, "do you and your man live here alone, so far up the mountain?" "there is the _bambino_," said the mother, simply. "he is my first-- and a boy, by the gift of the holy virgin. already he takes notice, and soon he will be learning to talk: but since we both talk to him and about him, you may say that already there are three of us, and anon the good lord may send us others. it is hard work, _o bella donna_, on such a farm as ours, and doubly hard on my husband now for these months that i have been able to help him but little. but with a good man and his child--if god spare the child--i shall want no happiness." "give me the child," said the princess, taking a seat on the stone slab beside her. "he shall not hurt with me while you fetch us a draught of milk." the woman stared at her and at me, fearfully at first, then with a strange look in her eyes, between awe and disbelief and a growing hope. "even when you came," she said hoarsely after a while, "i was praying for an angel to help my child. . . . o blind, o hard of faith that i am! and when i lifted my eyes and saw you, i bethought me not that none walk this mountain by the path you have come, nor has this land any like you twain for beauty and stature. . . . o lady--whether from heaven or earth--you will not take my child but to cure it? he is my only one." "give him to me." the woman laid her child in the princess's arms and ran into the house, throwing one look of terror back at us from the doorstep. the princess sat motionless, gazing down on the closed lids, frowning, deep in thoughts i could not follow. "you will not," said i, "leave this good foolish soul in her error?" "i have heard," she answered quietly, without lifting her eyes, "that a royal touch has virtue to heal sometimes--and there was a time when you claimed to be king of corsica. nay, forgive me," she took herself up quickly, "there is bitterness yet left in me, but that speech shall be the last of it. . . . o husband, o my friend, i was thinking that this child will grow into a man; and of what his mother said, that there is such a thing as a good man: and i am trying to believe her. . . . _eccu!_ he sleeps, poor mite! listen to his breathing." the farm-wife came out with a full bowl of milk. her hands shook and spilled some as she handed it to me, so eager were they to hold her infant again. taking it and feeling the damp sweat as she passed a hand over its brow, she broke forth into blessings. we told her of her mistake: but i doubt if she heard. "i have dwelt here these three years," she persisted, "and none ever walked the mountain by the path you have come." she watched us as i held the bowl for the princess to drink, and asked quaintly, "but is there truly no marrying in heaven? i have thought upon that many times, and always it puzzles me." we said farewell to her, and took her blessings with us as she watched us across the head of the ravine. then followed another half-hour of silence and sharp climbing: but the worst was over, and by-and-by the range tailed off into a chain of lessening hills over which in the purple distance rose a solitary sharp cone with a ruinous castle upon it, which (said the princess) was seneca's tower at the head of the vale of luri. we were now beyond the danger of the genoese, and therefore turned aside to the left and descended the slopes to the high-road, along which we made good speed until, having passed the tower and the mouth of the gorge which leads up to it from the westward, we came, almost at nightfall, within sight of pino by the sea. here i proposed that i should go forward to the village and find a night's lodging for her, pointing out that, the night being warm and dry, i could make my couch comfortably enough in one of the citron orchards that here lined the road on the landward side. to this at first she assented--it seemed to me, even eagerly. but i had scarcely taken forty paces up the road before i heard her voice calling me back, and back i went obediently. "o husband," she said, "the dusk has fallen, and now in the dusk i can say a word i have been longing all day to be free of. nay"--she put out a hand--"you must not forbid me. you must not even delay me now." "what is it, that i should forbid you?" "it is--about brussels." i dropped my hand impatiently and was turning away, but she touched my arm and the touch pleaded with me to face her. "i have a right. . . . yes, it was good of you to refuse it; but you cannot go on refusing, because--see you--your goodness makes my right the stronger. this morning i could have told you, but you refused me. all this day i have known that refusal unjust." "all this day? then--pardon, princess--but why should i hear you now, at this moment?" "the daylight is past," she said. "you can listen now and not see my face." on the hedge of the ditch beside the high-road lay a rough fragment of granite, a stone cracked and discarded, once the base of an olive-mill. she found a seat upon it and motioned to me to come close, and i stood close, staring down on her while she stared down at her feet, grey with dust almost as the road itself. "we were children, camillo and i," she said at length, "in keep of an ill woman we called maman trebuchet, and in a house near the entrance of a court leading off the rue de la madeleine and close beside the market. how we had come there we never inquired. . . . i suppose all children take such things as they find them. the house was of five storys, all let out in tenements, and we inhabited two rooms on the fourth floor to the left as you went up the staircase. . . . some of the men quarrelled with their wives and beat them. there was always a noise of quarrelling in the house: but outside, before the front door, the men who were not beating their women would sit for hours together and smoke and spit and tell one another stories against the church and against women. the pavement where they sat and the street before it were strewn always with rotting odds and ends of vegetables, for almost every one in that quarter earned his living by the market, and maman trebuchet among the rest. she divided her time between walking the streets with a basket and drinking the profits away in the cabarets, and in the intervals she cursed and beat us. we lived for the most part on the refuse she brought home at night-- on so much of her stock as had found no purchaser--and we played about the gutters and alleys of the market. so far as i remember we were neither very happy nor yet very miserable. we knew that we were brother and sister, and that maman trebuchet was not our real mother. beyond this we were not inquisitive, but took life as we found it. "nevertheless, i know now that we were not altogether lost, but that eyes in brussels were watching us; though how far they were friendly i cannot tell you. i think sometimes that the agents of the genoese, who had hidden us there, must have been playing their own game as well as their masters'. there was, for example, a dark man who often visited the market: he called himself a lay-brother, and seemed to be busy with religious work among the poor of the quarter. we knew him as maitre antoine at first, and so he was generally called: but he told us that his real name was antonio--or antoniu, as he spoke it--and that he came from italy. he took a great fancy to us and obtained leave of maman trebuchet to teach us the scriptures: but what he really taught us was to speak with him in italian. we did not know at the time that, though he called it tuscan, he was all the while teaching us our own corsican. nor, i believe, did our guardian know this; but one day, finding out by chance that we knew italian (for we had begun to talk it together, that she might not understand what we said) and discovering how we had picked it up, she flew into a dreadful rage, lay in wait next day to catch maitre antoine as he came up the stairs, and fell upon him with such fury that the poor man fled out of the house and we never saw him again. "after this--i believe about a year later--there came a day when she bought a new cap and shawl for herself and new clothes for us, and, having seen that we were thoroughly washed, took us up the hill to a fine street near the palace, and to a hotel which was almost the grandest house in the street. we entered, and were led into the presence of a very noble-looking gentleman in a long yellow dressing-gown, who blessed us and gave us a kiss apiece, and some gold money, and afterwards poured out wine for maman trebuchet and thanked her for taking such good care of us." "that was your father, princess." "i have often thought so. but i remember nothing of his face except that he had tears in his eyes when we said good-bye to him; at which i wondered a great deal, for i had never seen a man crying. when we were outside again in the street maman trebuchet took the gold away from us. i think she too must have received money: for from that day she neglected her marketing and drank more heavily than before. about a month later she was dead. "on the day of the funeral there came to our house a man dressed like a gentleman--yet i believe rather that he must have been some kind of courier or valet. he spoke to us very kindly, and said that we had friends, who had sent him to us; that when we grew up we should not want for money; but that just now it was most important we should be put to school and made fit for our proper position in life. we must make up our minds to be separated, he said--and at this we both wept--but we should see one another often. for camillo he had found lodgings with an excellent tutor, in whose care, after a year's study, he was to travel abroad and see the world: while for me he had chosen a home with some discreet ladies who would attend to my schooling." "the house was in the rue de luxembourg--a corner house, where the street is joined by a lane running from the place du parvis. he led me to it that same evening, and camillo came too, to make sure that i was comfortable. it was a strange house and full of ladies, the most of them young and all very handsomely dressed. but for their dresses i could almost have fancied it some kind of convent. at all events, they received me kindly, and many of them wept when they saw my parting with camillo." here the princess paused, and sat silent for so long that i bent forward in the dusk to read her face. she drew away, shivering, and put up both hands as if to cover it. "well, princess?" "that house, cavalier! . . . that horrible house! . . . ah, remember that i was a child, scarcely twelve years old--i had heard vile words among the market folk, but they were words and meant nothing to me: and now i saw things which i did not understand and--and i became used to them before ever guessing that these were the things those vile words had meant. the women were pretty, you see . . . and merry, and kind to me at first. before god i never dreamed that i was looking on harm--not at first--but afterwards, when it was too late. the people who had put me there ceased to send money, and being a strong child and willing to work, at first i was put to make the women their chocolate, and carry it up to them of a morning, and so, little by little, i came to be their house-drudge. i had lost all news of camillo. for hours i have hunted through the streets of brussels, if by chance i might get sight of him . . . but he was lost. and i--o cavalier, have pity on me!" "wife," said i, standing before her, "why have you told me this? did i not say to you that i have seen your face and believe, and no story shall shake my belief? . . . nay, then, i am glad--yes, glad. dear enough, god knows, you would have been to me had i met you, a child among these hills and ignorant of evil as a child. how much dearer you, who have trodden the hot plough-shares and come to me through the fires! . . . see now, i could kneel to you, o queen, for shame at the little i have deserved." but she put out a hand to check me. "o friend," she said sadly, "will you never understand? for the great faith you pay me i shall go thankfully all my days: but the faith that should answer it i cannot give you. . . . ah, there lies the cruelty! you are able to trust, and i can never trust in return. you can believe, but i cannot believe. i have seen all men so vile that the root of faith is withered in me. . . . sir, believe, that though everything that makes me will to thank you must make me seem the more ungrateful, yet i honour you too much to give you less than an equal faith. i am your slave, if you command. but if you ask what only can honour us two as man and wife, you lose all, and i am for ever degraded." i stepped back a pace. "o princess," i said slowly, "i shall never claim your faith until you bring it to me. . . . and now, let all this rest for a while. take up your story again and tell me the story to the end." so in the darkness, seated there upon the millstone with her gun across her knees, she told me all the story, very quietly:--how at the last she had been found in the house in brussels by marc'antonio and stephanu and fetched home to the island; how she had found there her brother camillo in charge of fra domenico, his tutor and confessor; with what kindness the priest had received her, how he had confessed her and assured her that the book of those horrible years was closed; and how, nevertheless, the story had crept out, poisoning the people's loyalty and her brother's chances. i heard her to the end, or almost to the end: for while she drew near to conclude, and while i stood grinding my teeth upon the certainty that the whole plot--from the kidnapping to the spreading of the slanders--had been master domenico's work, and his only, the air thudded with a distant dull concussion: whereat she broke off, lifting her head to listen. "it is the sound of guns," said i, listening too, while half a dozen similar concussions followed. "heavy artillery, too, and from the southward." "nay; but what light is yonder, to the north?" she pointed into the night behind me, and i turned to see a faint glow spreading along the northern horizon, and mounting, and reddening as it mounted, until the black hills between us and cape corso stood up against it in sharp outline. "o wife," said i, "since you must be weary, sleep for a while, and i will keep watch: but wake soon, for yonder is something worth your seeing." "whose work is it, think you?" "the work," said i, "of a man who would set the whole world on fire, and only for love." chapter xxvi. the flame and the altar. "and when he saw the statly towre shining baith clere and bricht, whilk stood abune the jawing wave, built on a rock of height, "'says, row the boat, my mariners, and bring me to the land, for yonder i see my love's castle close by the saut sea strand." _rough royal_. "as 'twixt two equal armies fate suspends uncertain victory, our souls--which to advance our state were gone out--hung 'twixt her and me: "and whilst our souls negotiate there, we like sepulchral statues lay; all day the same our postures were, and we said nothing, all the day." donne, _the ecstasie_. she rose from the stone, but swayed a little, finding her feet. the dim light, as she turned her face to it, showed me that she was weary almost to fainting. she had come to a pass where the more haste would certainly make the worse speed. "it is not spirit you lack, but sleep," said i; and she confessed that it was so. an hour's rest would recover her, she said, and obediently lay down where i found a couch for her on a bank of sweet-smelling heath above the road. i too wanted rest, and settled myself down with my back against a citron tree, some twenty paces distant. chaucer says somewhere (and it is true), that women take less sleep and take it more lightly than men. it seemed to me that i had scarcely closed my eyes before i opened them again at a touch on my shoulder. the night was yet dark around us, save for the glow to the northward, and at first i would hardly believe when the princess told me that i had been sleeping near upon three hours. then it occurred to me that for a long while the sky overhead had been shaking and repeating the boom of cannon. "there is firing to the south of us," she said; "and heavier firing than where the light is. it comes from nonza or thereabouts." "then it is no affair of ours, even if we could reach it. but the flame yonder will lead us to my father." so we took the white glimmering high-road again and stepped out briskly, refreshed by sleep and the cool night air that went with us, blowing softly across the ridges on our right. we found a track that skirted the village of pino, leading us wide among orchards of citron and olive, and had scarcely regained the road before the guns to the south ceased firing. also the red glow, though it still suffused the north, began to fade as we neared it and climbed the last of steep hills that run out to the extremity of the cape. there, upon the summit, we came to a stand and caught our breath. the sea lay at our feet, and down across its black floor to the base of the cliff on which we stood there ran a broad ribbon of light. it shone from a rock less than half a league distant: and on that rock stood a castle which was a furnace--its walls black as the bars of a grate, its windows aglow with contained fire. for the moment it seemed that this fire filled the whole pile of masonry: but presently, while we stood and stared, a sudden flame, shooting high from the walls, lit up the front of a tall tower above them, with a line of battlements at its base and on the battlements a range of roofs yet intact. as though a slide had been opened and as rapidly shut again, this vision of tower, roofs, battlements, gleamed for a second and vanished as the flame sank and a cloud of smoke and sparks rolled up in its place and drifted heavily to leeward. with a light touch on the princess's arm i bade her follow me, and we raced together down the slope. at the foot of it we plunged into a grove of olives and through it, as through a screen, into the street of a little _marina_--two dozen fisher-huts, huddled close above the foreshore, and tenantless; for their inhabitants were gathered all on the beach and staring at the blaze. i have said that the folk at cape corso are a race apart: and surely there never was a stranger crowd than that in which, two minutes later, we found ourselves mingling unchallenged. they accepted us, may be, as a minor miracle of the night. they gazed at us curiously there in the light of the conflagration, and from us away to the burning island, and talked together in whispers, in a patois of which i caught but one word in three. they asked us no questions. their voices filled the beach with a kind of subdued murmuring, all alike gentle and patiently explanatory. "it is the island of giraglia," said one to me. "yes, yes; this will be the work of the patriots--a brave feat too, there's no denying." i pointed to a line of fishing-boats moored in the shoal water a short furlong off the shore. "if you own one," said i, "give me leave to hire her from you, and name your price." "_perche, perche?_" "i wish to sail her to the island." "_o galant'uomo_, but why should any one desire to sail to the island to-night of all nights, seeing that to-night they have set it on fire?" i stared at his simplicity. "you are not patriots, it seems, at this end of the cape?" he shook his head gravely. "the genoese on the island are our customers, and buy our fish. why should men quarrel?" "if it come to commerce, then, will you sell me your boat? the price of her should be worth many a day's barter of fish." he shook his head again, but called his neighbours to him, men and women, and they began to discuss my offer, all muttering together, their voices mingling confusedly as in a dream. by-and-by the man turned to me. "the price is thirty-five livres, signore, on deposit, for which you may choose any boat you will. we are peaceable folk and care not to meddle; but the half shall be refunded if you bring her back safe and sound." "fetch me a shore-boat, then," said i, while they counted my money, having fetched a lantern for the purpose. but it appeared that shore-boat there was none. i learned later that my father and captain pomery, acting on his behalf, had hired all the shore-boats at these _marinas_ (of which there are three hard by the extremity of the cape) for use in the night attack upon the island. "hold you my gun, then, princess," said i, "while i swim out to the nearest:" and wading out till the dark water reached to my breast, i chose out my boat, swam to her--it was but a few strokes--clambered on board, caught up a sweep, and worked her back to the beach. the princess, holding our two guns high, waded out to me, and i lifted her on board. we heard the voices of the villagers murmuring behind us while i hoisted the little sail and drew the sheet home. the night-breeze, fluking among the gullies, filled the sail at once, fell light again and left it flapping, then drew a steady breath aft, and the voices were lost in the hiss of water under the boat's stern. but not until we had passed the extreme point of land did we find the true breeze, which there headed us lightly, blowing (as nearly as i can guess) from n.n.e., yet allowed us a fair course, so that by hauling the sheet close i could point well to windward of the fiery reflection on the water and fetch the island on a single tack. it was here, as we ran out of the loom of the land, that the waning moon lifted her rim over the hills astern; and it was here, as we cleared the point, that her rays, traversing the misty sea between us and elba, touched the grey-white canvas of a vessel jeeling along (as we say at the fishing in cornwall) and holding herself to windward for a straight run down upon the island--a vessel which at first glance i recognized for the _gauntlet_. plainly she was standing-by, waiting; plainly then her crew--or those of them engaged for the assault--were detained yet upon the island; whence (to make matters surer) there sounded, as our boat ran up to it, a few loose dropping shots and a single cry--a cry that travelled across to us down the lane of light directing us to the quay. the blaze had died down; the upper keep, now overhanging us, stood black and unlit against a sky almost as black; but on a stairway at the base of it torches were moving and the flame of them shone on the slippery steps of a quay to which i guided the boat. there, jamming the helm down with a thrust of the foot, i ran forward and lowered sail. we carried more way than i had reckoned for, and--the princess having no science to help me--this brought us crashing in among a press of boats huddled in the black shadow alongside the quay-steps with such force as almost to stave in the upper timbers of a couple and sink them where they lay. no voice challenged us. i wondered at this as i gripped at the dark dew-drenched canvas to haul it inboard, and while i wondered, a strong light shone down upon us from the quay's edge. a man stood there, holding a torch high over his head and shading his eyes as he peered down at the boat--a tall man in a trappist habit girt high on his naked legs almost to the knees. "my father?" i demanded. "where is my father?" he made no answer, but signed to us to make our landing, and waited for us, still holding the torch high while i helped the princess from one boat to another and so to the slippery steps. "my father?" i demanded again. he turned and led us along the quay to a stairway cut in the living rock. at the foot of it he lowered his torch for a moment that we might see and step aside. two bodies lay there--two of his brethren, stretched side by side and disposedly, with arms crossed on their breasts, ready for burial. high on the stairway, where it entered the base of a battlemented wall under an arch of heavy stonework, a solitary monk was drawing water from a well and sluicing the steps. the water ran past our feet, and in the dawn (now paling about us) i saw its colour. . . . the burnt building--it had been the genoese barracks--stood high on the right of the stairway. its roof had fallen in upon the flames raging through its wooden floors, so that what had been but an hour ago a blazing furnace was now a shell of masonry out of which a cloud of smoke rolled lazily, to hang about the upper walls of the fortress. through its window-spaces, void and fire-smirched, as now and again the reek lifted, i saw the pale upper-sky with half a dozen charred ends of roof-timber sharply defined against it--a black and broken grid; and while yet i stared upward another pair of monks crossed the platform above the archway. they carried a body between them--the body of a man in the genoese uniform--and were bearing it towards a bastion on the western side, that overhung the sea. there the battlements hid them from me; but by-and-by i heard a splash. . . . by this time we were mounting the stairway. we passed under the arch--where a door, shattered and wrenched from its upper hinge, lay askew against the wall--and climbed to the platform. from this another flight of steps (but these were of worked granite) led straight as a ladder to a smaller platform at the foot of the keep; and high upon these stood my uncle gervase directing half a score of monks to right an overturned cannon. his back was toward me, but he turned as i hailed him by name-- turned, and i saw that he carried one arm in a sling. he came down the steps to welcome me, but slowly and with a very grave face. "my father--where is he?" "he is alive, lad." my uncle took my hand and pressed it. "that is to say, i left him alive. but come and see--" he paused--my uncle was ever shy in the presence of women--and with his sound hand lifted his hat to the princess. "the signorina, if she will forgive a stranger for suggesting it--she may be spared some pain if--" "she seeks her mother, sir," said i, cutting him short; "and her mother is the queen emilia." "your servant, signorina." my uncle bowed again and with a reassuring smile. "and i am happy to tell you that, so far at least, our expedition has succeeded. your mother lives, signorina--or, should i say, princess? yes, yes, princess, to be sure--but come, the both of you, and be prepared for gladness or sorrow, as may betide." he ran up the steps and we followed him, across the platform to a low doorway in the base of the keep, through this, and up a winding staircase of spirals, so steep and so many that the head swam. open lancet windows--one at each complete round of the stair-- admitted the morning breeze, and through them, as i clung to the newel and climbed dizzily, i had glimpses of the sea twinkling far below. i counted these windows up to ten or a dozen, but had lost my reckoning for minutes before we emerged, at my uncle's heels, upon a semi-circular landing, and in face of an iron-studded door, the hasp of which he rattled gently. a voice answered from within bidding him open, and very softly he thrust the door wide. the room into which we looked was of fair size and circular in shape. three windows lit it, and between us and the nearest knelt dom basilio, busy with a web of linen which he was tearing into bandages. his was the voice that had commanded us to enter; and passing in, i was aware that the room had two other occupants; for behind the door stood a truckle bed, and along the bed lay my father, pale as death and swathed in bandages; and by the foot of the bed, on a stool, with a spinning-wheel beside her, sat a woman. it needed no second look to tell me her name. mean cell though it was that held her, and mean her seat, the worn face could belong to no one meaner than a queen. a spool of thread had rolled from her hand, across the floor; yet her hands upon her lap were shaped as though they still held it. as she sat now, rigid, with her eyes on the bed, she must have been sitting for minutes. so, while dom basilio snipped and rent at his bandages, she gazed at my father on the bed, and my father gazed back into her eyes, drinking the love in them; and the faces of both seemed to shine with a solemn awe. i think we must have been standing there on the threshold, we three, for close upon a minute before my father turned his eyes towards me-- so far beyond this life was he travelling, and so far had the sound of our entrance to follow and overtake his dying senses. "prosper! . . ." "my father!" he lifted a hand weakly toward the bandages wrapping his breast. "these--these are of her spinning, lad. this is her bed they have laid me on. . . . who is it stands there behind your shoulder?" "it is the princess, father. you remember the princess camilla? yes, madam"--i turned to the queen--"it is your daughter i bring-- your daughter, and, with your blessing, my wife." the queen, though her daughter knelt, did not offer to embrace her, but lifted two feeble hands over the bowed head as though to bless, while over her hands her gaze still rested on my father. "we have had brave work, lad," he panted. "i am sorry you come late for it--but you were bound on your own business, eh?" he turned with a ghost of his old smile. "nay, child, and you did right; i am not blaming you--the young to the young, and let the dead bury the dead! kiss me, lad, if you can find room between these plaguey bandages. your pardon, dom basilio: you have done your best, and, if i seem ungrateful, let me make amends and thank you for giving me this last, best hour. . . . indeed, dom basilio, i am a dead man, but your bandages are tying my soul here for a while, where it would stay. gervase"--he reached out a hand to my uncle, who was past hiding his tears--"gervase--brother--there needs no talk, no thanks, between you and me. . . ." i drew back and, touching dom basilio by the shoulder, led him to the window. "he has no single wound that in itself would be fatal," the trappist whispered; "but a twenty that together have bled him to death. he hacked his way up this stair through half a score of genoese; at the door here, there was none left to hinder him, and we, having found and followed with the keys, climbed over bodies to find him stretched before it." "emilia!" it was my father's voice lifted in triumph; and the queen rose at the sound of it, trembling, and stood by the bed. "emilia! ah, love--ah, queen, bend lower!--the love we loved--there, over the taravo--it was not lost. . . . it meets in our children--and we--and we--" the queen bent. "o great one--and we in heaven!" i raised the princess and led her to the window fronting the dawn. we looked not toward the pillow where their lips met; but into the dawn, and from the dawn into each other's eyes. chapter xxvii. my mistress re-enlists me. "if all the world were this enchanted isle, i might forget that every man was vile, and look on thee, and even love, awhile." _the voyage of sir scudamor_. we had turned from the bed, that no eyes but the queen's might witness my father's passing. her arm had slipped beneath his head, to support it, and i listened dreading to hear her announce the end. but yet his great spirit struggled against release, unwilling to exchange its bliss even for bliss celestial; and presently i heard his voice speaking my name. "prosper," he said; but his eyes looked upward into the queen's, and his voice, as it grew firmer, seemed to interpret a vision not of earth. "learn of me that love, though it delight in youth, yet forsakes not the old; nay, though through life its servant follow and never overtake. even such service i have paid it, yet behold i have my reward! "to you, dear lad, it shall be kinder; yet only on condition that you trust it. "you will need to trust it, for it will change. lose no faith in the beam when, breaking from your lady's eyes, it fires you not as before. it widens, lad; it is not slackening; it is passing, enlarging into a diviner light. "by that light you shall see all men, women, children--yes, and all living things--akin with you and deserving your help. it is the light of god upon earth, and its warmth is god's charity, though he kindle it first as a selfish spark between a youth and a maid. "trust it, then, most of all when it frightens you, its first passion fading. for then, sickening of what is transient, it dies to put on permanence; as the creature dies--as i am dying, prosper--into the greatness of the creator. "take comfort and courage, then. for though the narrow beam falls no longer from heaven, you and she will remember the spot where it surprised you, unsealing your eyes. let the place, the hour, be sacred, and you the witnesses sacred one to another. so he that made you ministers shall keep your garlands from fading. "o lord of love, high and heavenly king! who, making the hands of boy and girl to tremble, dost of their thoughtless impulse build up states, establish societies, and people the world, accept these children! "o master, who payest not by time, take the thanks of thy servant! o captain, receive my sword! o hands!"--my father raised his stiffly towards the crucifix which dom basilio uplifted, standing a little behind the queen. "o wounded hands--nay, they are shaped like thine, emilia--reach and resume my soul! _in manus tuas, domine--in manus-- in manus tuas. . . ." "it is over," said dom basilio, slowly, after a long silence. i saw the queen lower the grey head back against its pillow, and turned to the window, where the princess gazed out over the sea. for a minute--maybe for longer--i stood beside her following her gaze; then, as she lifted a hand and pointed, i was aware of two ships on the south-west horizon, the both under full sail and standing towards the castle. "last night," said i, and paused, wondering if indeed so short a while had passed; "theirs were the guns, off nonza." she nodded, meeting my eyes for an instant only, and averting hers again to the horizon. to my dismay they were dark and troubled. "not now--not now!" she murmured hurriedly, almost fiercely, as i would have touched her hand. again her eyes crossed mine, and i read that love no longer looked forth from them, but a gloomy doubt in its place. from the next window my uncle gervase had spied the ships, and now drew dom basilio's attention to them. the two discussed them for a minute. "were they corsican vessels, or genoese?" dom basilio plucked me by the arm, to know my opinion. i told him of the firing we had heard off nonza. "in my belief," said i, "they are corsicans that have drawn off from the bombardment, though why i cannot divine, unless it be in curiosity to discover why giraglia was a-burning last night." "if, on the other hand they be genoese," answered my uncle, shaking his head, "this is a serious matter for us. the _gauntlet_ has but five men aboard, and will be culled like a peach." "had she fifty, she could not keep up a fight against two gunboats-- as gunboats they appear to be," said i. "you will make a better defence of it from the island here, with the few cannon you have not dismounted." "in that case i had best take boat, tell captain pomery to drop his anchor, leaving the ketch to her fate, and fetch him ashore to help us." "do so," said i. "yet i trust 'tis a false alarm; for that these are corsicans i'll lay odds." "it may even be," suggested dom basilio, "that the two are enemies, the one in chase of the other." "no," i decided, scanning them; "for they have the look of being sister ships. and, see you, the leader has rounded the point and caught sight of the _gauntlet_. mark how she is carrying her headsheets over to windward, to let her consort overtake her." "the lad's right!" exclaimed my uncle. "well, god send they be not genoese! but i must pull out to the ketch and make sure. you, prosper, can help dom basilio meanwhile to muster his men and right as many cannon as time allows." he stepped to the door, tip-toeing softly, and we followed him--with a glance, as we went, at the figure bending over the bed. the queen did not heed us. from the upper terrace at the foot of the tower the princess and i watched my uncle as, with two stalwart trappists to row him, he pushed out and steered for the _gauntlet_. we saw him run his boat alongside and climb aboard. five slow minutes passed, and it became apparent that captain pomery had views of his own about abandoning the ship, for the _gauntlet_ neither dropped anchor nor took in canvas, but held on her tack, letting the boat drop astern on a tow-rope. just then dom basilio sent up half a dozen stout monks to me from the base of the rock; and for the next few minutes i was kept busy with them on the eastern bastion, refixing a gun which had been thrown off its carriage in the assault, until, casting another glance seaward, i saw to my amazement that the ketch had run up her british colours to her mizzen. but happily captain pomery's defiance was thrown away. a minute later the leading gunboat ran up a small bundle on her main signal halliards, and shook out the green flag of corsica. "you can let the gun lie," said i to my monks. "these are friends." "they are my countrymen," said the princess at my elbow. "that they are friends is less certain." "at any rate, they are lowering a boat," said i; "and see, my uncle is jumping into his, to intercept them." the corsicans, manning their boat, pulled straight for the island; but at half a mile's distance or less, being hailed by my uncle, lay on their oars and waited while he bore down on them. i saw him lift his hat to a man seated in the stern-sheets, who stood up and saluted politely in response. the two boats drew close alongside, while their commanders conversed, and after a couple of minutes resumed their way abreast and drew to the landing-quay, where dom basilio stood awaiting them. "by his stature and bearing," said i, conning him through a glass which one of the monks passed to me, "this must be the general himself." "paoli?" queried the princess. i nodded. "shall we go down the rock to meet him?" "it is paoli's place to mount to us," said she proudly. we waited therefore while my uncle led him up to us. but pascal paoli was too great a man to trouble about his dignity; and for courtesies, he contented himself with omitting none. "salutation, o princess!" he halted within a few steps of the head of the stairway, and lifted his hat. "salutation, o general!" "and to you, cavalier!" he included me in his bow, "pouf!" he panted, looking about him; "the ascent is a sharp one, under the best conditions. and you carried it in the darkness, against odds?" he turned upon my uncle. "you english are a great race." "excuse me, general," said my uncle, indicating dom basilio and the monks: "the credit belongs rather to my friends here." "i had the pleasure to meet sir john constantine, a while ago, outside our new town of isola rossa, where he did me a signal service. you are his son, sir?" i bowed. "i condole with you, since i come too late to thank him--on behalf of corsica, princess--for a yet more brilliant service. an assault such as your party made last night requires brave men; but even more, it requires a brave leader and a genius even to conceive it. let me say, sirs, that we heard your fire and saw giraglia blazing, as far south as nonza, where we were conducting a far meaner enterprise; and came north in wonder where corsica had found such friends." "say rather, sir, where my mother had found them," interposed the princess, coldly. "is this curiosity of yours all your business?" the general met her look frankly. if annoyed, he hid his annoyance. "o princess," answered he, "i will own that corsica has left the queen, your mother, overlong here in captivity. for reasons of state it was decided to work northward from point to point, clearing the genoese as we went. we did not reckon that, before we reached giraglia, an englishman of genius would step in to anticipate us. our hopes, princess, fell short of an event so happy. but i can say that every corsican is glad, and would wish to be such a hero." "did you, then, clear the genoese from nonza?" i put in hastily, noting the curl of my mistress's lips. "sir, there were no genoese to clear. we bombarded it idly, only to learn that the commandant fornari had abandoned it some hours before; that he and his men had escaped northward in long boats, rowing close under the land." i glanced at the princess, and saw her mouth whiten. "excuse me," i said. "do you tell me that the whole garrison of nonza had escaped?" "unfortunately, yes." paoli, too, glanced at the princess; but for an instant only. "we landed after the fortress had fired one single gun at us, which we silenced. beside it we found two men standing at bay; its only defenders; and they, strange to tell, were corsicans. i have brought them with me on my own ship." "you need not tell me their names," said i. "my brother?" the princess gasped. "where is my brother?" the general lowered his eyes. "i regret to tell you, princess, that your brother has fallen into our enemies' hands. they have carried him north, to genoa, and with him the priest who was his confessor. this i learned from your two heroes, who had entered nonza with no other purpose than to rescue him, but had arrived too late. they shall be brought ashore, that you may question them. "but what is this?" said a voice from the turret-door behind us. "my son camillo a prisoner, and in genoa!" we turned all, to see the queen standing there, on the threshold. the princess, suddenly pallid, shot a look at paoli--a look which at once defied and implored him. "it is true, dear mother," said she, steadying her voice. "god help us all!" the queen clasped her hands. "the genoese have no pity." "let your majesty be reassured," said paoli, slowly, "the genoese, to be sure, have no pity; yet i can almost promise they will not proceed to extremities with your son. an enemy, madam, may have good reasons for negotiating; and although the genoese government would be delighted to break me on the wheel, yet, on some points, i can compel them to bargain with me." he lifted his eyes. mine were fixed on the princess's, and i saw them thank him for the falsehood. "come, dear mother," she said, taking the queen's hand. "though camillo be in genoa he can be reached." "my poor boy was ever too rash." "he can be reached," the princess repeated--but i saw her wince-- "and he shall be reached. general, i pray you to send these two men to me. and now, mother, let one sorrow be enough for a time. there is woman's work to be done upstairs; take me with you that i may help." i did not understand these last words, but was left puzzling over them as the two passed through the turret-door and mounted the stairway. nor did i remember the custom of the country until, ten minutes later, i heard their voices lifted together in the upper chamber intoning a lament over my father's body. my father--so my uncle told me--had left express orders that he should be buried at sea. throughout the long afternoon, with short pauses, the voices wailed overhead, while we worked to set the fortress in order for the garrison which paoli sent (despatching his second gunboat) to fetch from isola rossa; until, an hour before sunset, two monks came down the stairway with the corpse, and bore it to the quay, where billy priske waited with one of the _gauntlet's_ boats. paoli and my uncle had taken their places in the stern-sheets, and dom basilio and i, having lifted the body on board and covered it with the _gauntlet's_ flag, ourselves stepped into the bows, where i took an oar and helped billy to pull some twenty furlongs off the shore. dom basilio recited the funeral service; and there, watched by his comrades from the quay, we let sink my father into six fathoms, to sleep at the foot of the great rock which had been his altar. as i landed and climbed the path again, i caught sight of camilla, standing by the parapet of the east bastion, in converse with marc'antonio and stephanu. she had braided her hair, and done away with all traces of mourning, at the turret door her mother met me, equally neat and composed. "i have been waiting for you," said the queen. "come, o son, for i want your advice." she led me up past the second window of the turret, lifted the latch of an iron-studded door in the opposite wall, and, pushing it open, motioned me to enter. "but what is this?" said i, gazing around upon two camp beds, spread with white coverlets, and a dressing-table with a jugful of lilac-coloured stocks, such as grew in the crannies of the keep and the rock-ledges under the platform. "i had no mother," said she, "to prepare my bride-chamber, and rough is the best i can prepare for my child. but it is done with my blessing." "madame--" said i, flushing hotly, and paused at the sound of a footstep on the stair. it was the princess who came; and in an angry haste. she kissed her mother, thrust her gently from the room, and so, closing the door, stood with her back against it. "you knew of this?" she demanded. "before god, i did not," i answered. "it is folly." she glanced around the room. "you will admit that it is folly," she insisted. i bowed my head. "it is folly, if you choose to call it so." "i have been wanting to tell you . . . i believe you to be a good man. oh yes, the fault is with me! this morning--you remember what your father said? well, i listened, and the truth was made clear to me, that i cannot give you the like of such love--or the like of any such as a woman ought to give, who--who--" "say no more," said i, as gently as might be. "i understand." "ah, that is kind of you!" she caught at the admission eagerly. "it is not that i doubted; i see now that some men are not vile. but until i can _feel_ it, what use is being convinced?" she paused, "moreover, to-night i go on a journey." "and i, too," said i, meeting her eyes firmly. "to genoa, is it not?" "you guessed it? . . . but you have no right--" she faltered. i laughed. "but excuse me, my wife, i have all the right in the world. at what hour will marc'antonio be ready with the boat?" chapter xxviii. genoa. "_gobbo_. master young gentleman, i pray you, which is the way to master jew's? "_launcelot_. turn up on the right hand at the next turning, but at the very next turning of all, on your left: marry at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the jew's house. "_gobbo_. by god's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit." _the merchant of venice_. at eleven o'clock that night we four--the princess, marc'antonio, stephanu, and i--hoisted sail and stood away from the north shore of giraglia, carrying a fair wind with us. our boat had been very cunningly chosen for us by marc'antonio out of the small flotilla which my father had hired at cape corso for the assault. she was undecked, measured some eighteen feet over-all, and carried a fair-sized lateen sail; but her great merit for our purpose, lay in her looks. the inhabitants of cape corso (as the reader knows) have neither the patriotism nor the prejudices of their fellow-islanders; and this (however her owner had come by her) was a boat of genoese build. so marc'antonio had assured me; and my own observation confirmed it next day, as we neared the coast off porto fino. we had laid this course of set purpose, intending to work up to the great harbour coastwise from the southward and enter it boldly, passing ourselves off for a crew from porto fino with a catch of fish for market. the others had discarded all that was corsican in their dress, and the princess had ransacked the quarters of the late garrison on giraglia to rig us out in odds and ends of genoese costume. for the rest we trusted to fortune; but an hour before starting i had sought out my uncle gervase and made him privy to the plot. he protested, to be sure; but acquiesced in the end with a wry face when i told him that the princess and i were determined. this understood, at once my excellent and most practical uncle turned to business. within ten minutes it was agreed between us that the _gauntlet_ should sail back with general paoli and anchor under the batteries of isola rossa to await our return. she was to wait there one month exactly. if within that time we did not return, he was to conclude either that our enterprise had come to grief or that we had re-shaped our designs and without respect to the _gauntlet's_ movements. in any event, at the end of one calendar month he might count himself free to weigh anchor for england. we next discussed the queen. my uncle opined, but could not say with certainty, that the general had it in mind to offer her protection and an honourable retirement on her own estates above the taravo. i bade him tell her that, if she could wean herself from corsica to follow her daughter, our house of constantine would be proud to lodge her--i hoped, for the remainder of her days--for certain, until she should tire of it and us. the rest (i say) we left to chance, which at first served us smoothly. the breeze, though it continued fair, fell light soon after daybreak, and noon was well past before we sighted the ligurian coast. we dowsed sail and pulled towards it leisurably, waiting for the hour when the fishing-boats should put out from porto fino: which they did towards sunset, running out by ones and two's before the breeze which then began to draw off the land, and making a pretty moving picture against the evening glow. when night had fallen we hoisted our lateen again and worked up towards them. these fishermen (as i reasoned, from our own cornish practice) would shoot their nets soon after nightfall and before the moon's rising-- to haul them, perhaps, two hours later, and await the approach of morning for their second cast. towards midnight, then, we sailed boldly up to the outermost boat and spoke her through marc'antonio, who (_fas est ab hoste doceri_) had in old campaigns picked up enough of the genoese patois to mimic it very passably. he announced us as sent by certain genoese fishmongers--a new and enterprising firm whose name he invented on the spur of the moment--to trade for the first catch of fish and carry them early to market, where their freshness would command good prices. the fishermen, at first suspicious, gave way at sight of the genoese money in his hand, and accepted an offer which not only saved them a journey but (as we calculated) put from three to four extra livres in their pockets. within twenty minutes they had transferred two thousand fish to our boat, and we sailed off into the darkness, ostensibly to trade with the others. doubtless they wished us good night for a set of fools. we did not trouble their fellows. two thousand fish, artfully spread to look like thrice the number, ought to pass us under the eyes of all genoa: so for genoa we headed forthwith, hauling up on the starboard tack and heeling to our gunwale under the breeze which freshened and blew steadily off the shore. sunrise found us almost abreast of the harbour: and the clocks from the city churches were striking seven as we rounded up under the great mole on the eastern side of the entrance and floated into the calm basin within. i confess that my heart sank as genoa opened in panorama before us, spreading in a vast semicircle with its dockyards and warehouses, its palaces, its roofs climbing in terrace after terrace to the villas and flower-gardens on the heights: nor was this sense of our impudence lessened by reflecting that, once within the mole, we had not a notion to which of the quays a fishing-boat ought to steer to avoid suspicion. but here, again, fortune helped us. to the right, at the extreme inner corner of the mole, i espied half a dozen boats, not unlike our own, huddled close under a stone stairway; and i had no sooner thrust down the helm than a man, catching sight of us, came running along the mole to barter. marc'antonio's conduct of the ensuing bargain was nothing short of masterly. the stranger--a fishmonger's runner--turned as he met us and trotted alongside, shaping his hands like a trumpet and bawling down his price. marc'antonio, affecting a slight deafness, signalled to him to bawl louder, hunched his shoulders, shook his head vehemently, held up ten fingers, then eight, then (after a long and passionate protest from above) eight again. by this time two other traffickers had joined the contest, and with scarcely a word on his side marc'antonio kept them going, as a juggler plays with three balls. not until our boat's nose grated alongside the landing was the bargain concluded, and the first runner, a bag of silver in his fist, almost tumbled upon us down the slippery stairs in his hurry to clinch it. i stepped ashore and held out a hand to the princess who, in her character of _paesana_, very properly ignored it. luckily the courtesy escaped notice. stephanu was making fast the boat; the runner counting his coins into marc'antonio's hand. the princess and i mounted the stairs and, after a pretence to loiter and await our comrades, strolled off towards the city around the circuit of the quay. we passed the great warehouses of the porto franco, staring up at them, but impassively, in true country fashion, and a little beyond them came to the entrance of a street which--for it was strewn with cabbage leaves and other refuse--we judged to lead to the vegetable market. "let us turn aside here," said the princess. "i was brought up in a cabbage-market, remember; and the smell may help to put me at my ease." now along the quays we had met and passed but a few idlers, the hour being early for business; but in the market, when we reached it, we found a throng--citizens and citizens' wives and housekeepers, all armed with baskets and chaffering around the stalls. the crowd daunted me at first; but finding it too intent to heed us, i drew breath and was observing it at leisure when my eyes fell on the back of a man who, bending over a stall on my right, held forth a cabbage in one hand while with the other--so far as the basket on his arm allowed--he gesticulated violently, cheapening the price against an equally voluble saleswoman. good heavens! that back--that voice--surely i knew them! the man turned, holding the cabbage aloft and calling gods, mortals, and especially the population of genoa, to witness. it was mr. pett!--and, catching sight of me, he stared wildly, almost dropping the vegetable. "angels and ministers--" here, at a quick sign of warning from me, he checked himself sharply. "_o anima profetica, il mio zio!_ . . . devil a doubt but it sounds better in shakespeare's mother-english," he added, as i hurried him aside; and then--for he still grasped the cabbage, and the stallwoman was shouting after him for a thief. "you'll excuse me, signora. two soldi, i think you said? it is an infamy. what? your cabbage has a good heart? ah, but has it ever loved? has it ever leapt in transport, recognizing a long-lost friend? importunate woman, take your fee, basely extracted from me in a moment of weakness. o, heel of achilles! o, locks of samson! go to, delilah, and henceforth for this may a murrain light on thy cucumbers! "though, strictly speaking," said mr. fett, as i drew him away and down the street leading to the quay, "i believe murrain to be a disease peculiar to cattle. well, my friend, and how goes it with you? for me"--here he tapped his basket, in which the cabbage crowned a pile of green-stuff--"i am reduced to _buying_ my salads." he wheeled about, following my glance, and saluted the princess, who had followed and overtaken us. "man," said i, "you shall tell us your story as soon as ever you have helped us to a safe lodging. but here are we--and there, coming towards us along the quay, are two comrades--four corsicans in all, whose lives, if the genoese detect us, are not worth five minutes' purchase." "then, excuse me," said mr. fett, becoming serious of a sudden, "but isn't it a damned foolish business that brings you?" "it may be," i answered. "but the point is, can you help us?" "to a lodging? why, certainly, as luck has it, i can take you straight--no, not straight exactly, but the devil of a way round--to one where you can lie as snug as fleas in a blanket. oh--er--but excuse me--" he checked himself and stood rubbing his chin, with a dubious glance at the princess. "indeed, sir," she put in, smoothing down at her peasant-skirt, "i think you first found me lodging upon a bare rock, and even in this new dress it hardly becomes me to be more fastidious." "i was thinking less of the lodgings, princess, than of the company: though, to be sure, the girls are very good-hearted, and donna julia, our _prima amorosa_, makes a most discreet _duenna_, off the boards. there is badcock too--il signore badcocchio: give badcock a hint, and he will diffuse a most permeating respectability. for the young ladies who dwell at the entrance of the court, over the archway, i won't answer. my acquaintance with them has not passed beyond an interchange of winks: but we might send badcock to expostulate with them." "you are not dealing with a child, sir," said the princess, with a look at me and a somewhat heightened colour. "be assured that i shall have eyes only for what i choose to see." mr. fett bowed. "as for the lodgings, i can guarantee them. they lie on the edge of a small jew quarter--not the main _ghetto_-- and within a stone's-throw of the alleged birthplace of columbus; if that be a recommendation. actually they are rated in the weavers' quarter, the burgh of san stefano, between the old and new walls, a little on the left of the main street as you go up from sant' andrea towards porticello, by the second turning beyond the olive gate." "i thank you," i interrupted, "but at a reasonable pace we might arrive there before you have done giving us the direction." "my loquacity, sir, did you understand it," said mr. fett, with an air of fine reproach, "springs less from the desire to instruct than from the ebullience of my feelings at so happy a rencounter." "well, that's very handsomely said," i acknowledged. "oh, sir, i have a deal to tell, and to hear! but we will talk anon. meanwhile"--he touched my arm as he led the way, and i fell into step beside him--"permit me to note a change in the lady since i last had the pleasure of meeting her--a distinct lessening of _hauteur_--a touch of (shall i say?) womanliness. would it be too much to ask if you are running away with her?" "it would," said i. "as a matter of fact she is in genoa to seek her brother, the prince camillo." "nevertheless," he insisted, and with an impertinence i could not rebuke (for fear of drawing the attention of the passers-by, who were numerous)--"nevertheless i divine that you have much either to tell me or conceal." he, at any rate, was not reticent. on our way he informed me that his companions in the lodgings were a troupe of strolling players among whom he held the important role of _capo comico_. we reached the house after threading our way through a couple of tortuous alleys leading off a street which called itself the via servi, and under an archway with a window from which a girl blew mr. fett an unabashed kiss across a box of geraniums. the master of it, a messer' nicola (by surname fazio) had rooms for us and to spare. to him mr. fett handed the market-basket, after extracting from it an enormous melon, and bade him escort the princess upstairs and give her choice of the cleanest apartments at his disposal. he then led us to the main living-room where, from a corner-cupboard, he produced glasses, plates, spoons, a bowl of sugar, and a flask of white wine. the flask he pushed towards marc'antonio and stephanu: the melon he divided with his clasp-knife. "you will join us?" he asked, profering a slice. "you will drink, then, at least? ah, that is better. and will you convey my apologies to your two bandits and beg them to excuse my conversing with you in english? to tell the truth"--here, having helped them to a slice apiece and laid one aside for the princess, he took the remainder upon his own plate--"though as a rule we make collation at noon or a little before, my english stomach cries out against an empty morning. you will like my thespians, sir, when you see 'em. the younger ladies are decidedly--er--vivacious. bianca, our columbine, has all the makings of a beauty--she has but just turned the corner of seventeen; and lauretta, who plays the scheming chambermaid, is more than passably good-looking. as for donna julia, her charms at this time of day are moral rather than physical: but, having married our leading lover, rinaldo, she continues to exact his vows on the stage and the current rate of pay for them from the treasury. does rinaldo's passion show signs of flagging? she pulls his ears for it, later on, in conjugal seclusion. poor fellow!-- "_non equidem invideo; miror magis_. "do the night's takings fall short of her equally high standard? she threatens to pull mine: for i, cavalier, am the treasurer. . . . but at what rate am i overrunning my impulses to ask news from you! how does your father, sir--that modern bayard? and captain pomery? and my old friend billy priske?" i told him, briefly as i could, of my father's end. he laid down his spoon and looked at me for a while across the table with eyes which, being unused to emotion, betrayed it awkwardly, with a certain shame. "a great, a lofty gentleman! . . . you'll excuse me, cavalier, but i am not always nor altogether an ass--and i say to you that half a dozen such knights would rejuvenate christendom. as it is, we live in the last worst ages when the breed can afford but one phoenix at a time, and he must perforce spend himself on forlorn hopes. mark you, i say 'spend,' not 'waste': the seed of such examples cannot be wasted--" 'only the actions of the just smell sweet and blossom in the dust:' nay, not their actions only, but their every high thought which either fate froze or fortune and circumstance choked before it could put forth flower. did i ever tell you, cavalier, the story of my father and the jobbing gardener?" "not that i remember," said i. "yet it is full of instruction as an egg is full of meat. my father, who (let me remind you) is a wholesale dealer in flash jewellery, had ever a passion for gardening, albeit that for long he had neither the time nor the money nor even the space to indulge his hobby. his garden--a parallelogram of seventy-two feet by twenty-three, confined by brick walls--lay at the back of our domicile, which excluded all but the late afternoon sunshine. as the mantuan would observe--" 'nec fertilis illa juvencis, nec cereri opportuna seges, nec commoda baccho.' to attend to it my father employed, on wednesdays and saturdays, an old fellow over whose head some sixty-five summers had passed without imparting to it a single secret. in short, he was the very worst gardener in west bromicheham, and so obstinately, so insufferably, opinionated withal that one day, in a fit of irritation, my father slew him with his own spade. "this done, he had at once to consider how to dispose of the body. our garden, as i have said, was confined within brick walls, two long and one short; and this last my father had screened with a rustic shed and a couple of laurel-bushes; that from his back-parlour window, where he sat and smoked his pipe on a sunday afternoon, he might watch the path 'wandering,' as he put it, 'into the shrubbery,' and feast his eyes on a domain which extended not only further than the arm could stretch, but even a little further than the eye could reach. "in the space, then, intervening between the laurels and the terminal wall my father dug a grave two spits deep and interred the corpse, covering it with a light compost of loam and leaf-mould. this was on a wednesday--the second wednesday in july, as he was always particular to mention. (and i have heard him tell the story a score of times.) "on the sunday week, at half-past three in the afternoon, my father had finished his pipe and was laying it down, before covering his head (as his custom was) with a silk handkerchief to protect his slumber from the flies, when, happening to glance towards the shrubbery, he espied a remarkably fine crimson hollyhock overtopping the laurels. he rubbed his eyes. he had invested in past years many a shilling in hollyhock seed, but never till now had a plant bloomed in his garden. "he rubbed his eyes, i say. but there stood the hollyhock. he rushed from the room, through the back-doorway and down the garden. my excellent mother, aroused from her siesta by the slamming of the door, dropped the family bible from her lap, and tottered in pursuit. she found my father at the angle of the shrubbery, at a standstill before a tangled mass of vegetation. hollyhocks, sunflowers, larkspurs, lilies, carnations, stocks--every bulb, every seed which the dead man had failed to cultivate--were ramping now and climbing from his grave high into the light. my father tore his way through the thicket to the tool-shed, dragged forth a hook and positively hacked a path back to my mother, barely in time to release her from the coils of a major convolvulus (_ipomoea purpurea) which had her fast by the ankles. "now, this story, which my father used to tell modestly enough, to account for his success at our local flower-shows, seems to me to hold a deeper significance, and a moral which i will not insult your intelligence by extracting for you . . . the _actions_ of the just? foh!" continued mr. fett, and filled his mouth with melon. "what about their _passions?_ why, sir, yet another story occurs to me, which might pass for an express epologue upon your father's career. did you never hear tell of the grand duchess sophia of carinthia and her three wooers?" "pardon me, mr. fett--" i began. "pardon _me_, sir," he cut me short, with a flourish of his spoon. "i know what you would say: that you are impatient rather to hear how it is that you find me here in genoa. that also you shall hear, but permit me to come to it in my own way. for the moment your news has unhinged me, and you will help my recovery by allowing me to talk a little faster than i can think. . . . i loved your father, cavalier. . . . but our tale, just now, is of--" "the grand duchess and her three wooers." "once upon a time, in carinthia, there lived a grand duchess, of marriageable age. her parents had died during her childhood, leaving her a fine palace and an ample fortune, which, however, was not--to use the parlance of the exchange--easily realizable, because it consisted mainly in an avenue of polished gold. by this avenue, which extended for three statute miles, the palace was approached between two parallel lines of spanish chestnuts. it ran in an easterly direction and was kept in a high state of polish by two hundred retainers, so that it shone magnificently every morning when the grand duchess awoke, drew her curtains, and looked forth towards the sunrise. "her name was sophia, and the charms of her young mind rivalled those of her person. therefore suitors in plenty presented themselves, but only to be rejected by her chancellor (to whom she left the task of preliminary inspection) until he had reduced the list to three, whom we will call prince melchior, prince otto, and prince caspar. the two former reigned over neighbouring states, but prince caspar, i have heard, came from the north, beyond the alps. "a day, then, was fixed for these three to learn their fate, and they met at the foot of the avenue, at the far end of which, on her palace steps, stood the grand duchess to make her choice. now, when prince melchior came to the golden road, he thought it would be a sin and a shame were his horse to set hoof on it and scratch it and perchance break off a plate of it; so he turned aside and rode up along the right of it under the chestnuts. likewise and for the same reason prince otto turned aside and rode on the left. but prince caspar thought of the lady so devoutly and wished so much to be with her that he never noticed the golden pavement at all, but rode straight up the middle of it at a gallop. "when the three arrived, sophia felt that she liked prince caspar best for his impetuosity; but, on the other hand, she was terribly annoyed with him for having dented her precious avenue with hoof-marks. she temporized, therefore, professing herself unable to decide, and dismissed them for three years with a promise to marry the one who in that time should prove himself the noblest knight. "thereupon prince melchior and prince otto rode away in anger, for they coveted the golden road as well as the lady. prince melchior, who loved fighting, went home to collect an army and avenge the insult, as he called it. prince otto, whose mind worked more subtly, set himself by secret means to stir up disaffection among the carinthians, telling them that their labour and suffering had gone to make the splendid useless avenue of gold; and he persuaded them the more easily because it was perfectly true. (he forbore to add that ho coveted it for his own.) but prince caspar, having seen his lady-love, could find no room in his heart either for anger or even for schemes to prove his valour. he could think of her and of her only, day and night. and finding that his thoughts brought her nearer to him the nearer he rode to the stars, he turned his horse towards the alps, and there, on the summit, among the snows, lived solitary in a little hut. "his mountain overlooked the plain of carinthia, but from such a height that no news ever came to him of the grand duchess or her people. from his hut, to which never a woodman climbed, nor even a stray hunter, he saw only a few villages shining when they took the sun, a lake or two, and a belt of forest through which--for it hid the palace--sometimes at daybreak a light glinted from the golden avenue. but one night the whole plain broke out far and wide with bonfires, and from the grand-ducal park--over which the sky shone reddest--he caught the sound of a bell ringing. then he bethought him that the three years were past, and that these illuminations were for the wedding; and he crept to bed, ashamed and sorrowful that he had failed and another deserved. "towards daybreak, as he tossed on his straw, he seemed to hear the bells drawing nearer and nearer, until they sounded close at hand. he sprang up, and from the door of his hut he saw a rider on muleback coming up the mountain track through the snow. the rider was a woman, and as she alighted and tottered towards him, he recognized the grand duchess. he carried her in and set her before his fire; and there, while he spread food before her, she told him that the princes melchior and otto had harried her lands and burnt her palace, and were even now fighting with each other for the golden avenue. "then," said caspar, pulling his rusty sword from under a heap of faggots, "i will go down and win it from them; for i see my hour coming at last." but the princess said, "foolish man, it is here! and as for the golden avenue, that too is here, or all that was ever worth your winning." and thereupon she drew aside her cloak, shaking the snow from it; and when the folds parted and the firelight fell on her bosom, he saw a breastplate gleaming--a single plate of gold--and in the centre of it the imprint of a horse's hoof. "so these two, cavalier--or so the story reached me--lived content in their silly hut, nor ever thought it worth their while to descend to the plain and lose what they had found. . . . but you were good enough just now to inquire concerning my own poor adventures." "billy priske," said i, "has given me some account of them up to your parting from my father--at calenzana, was it not?" "at calenzana." mr. fett sighed assent. "ah! cavalier, it has been a stony road we have travelled from calenzana. _infandum jubes renovare dolorem_ . . . but badcock must bear the blame." badcock with his flute made trees-- has it ever struck you sir, that orpheus possibly found the gift of apollo a confounded nuisance; that he must have longed at times to get rid of his attendant beasts and compose in private? even so it was with badcock. "that infernal _mufro_ chivvied us up the road to calvi and into the very arms of a genoese picket. the soldiers arrested us--there was no need to arrest the _mufro_, for he trotted at our heels--and marched us to the citadel, into the presence of the commandant. to the commandant (acting, as i thought, upon a happy inspiration) i at once offered the beast in exchange for our liberty. i was met with the reply that, as between rarities, he would make no invidious distinctions, but preferred to keep the three of us; and moreover that the _mufro_ (which had already put a sergeant and two private soldiers out of action) appeared amenable only to the strains of mr. badcock's flute. . . . and this was a fact, cavalier. at first, and excusably, i had supposed the brute's behaviour to express aversion; until, observing that he waited for the conclusion of a piece before butting at mr. badcock's stomach, i discovered this to be his rough-and-ready method of demanding an _encore_. "the commandant proved to be a _virtuoso_. persons of that temperament (as you may have remarked) are often unequal to the life of the camp with its deadening routine, its incessant demand for vigilance in details; and, as a matter of fact, he was on the point of being superseded for incompetence. his recall arrived, and for a short while he was minded to make a parting gift of us to his late comrades-in-arms, sharing us up among the three regiments that composed the garrison and endowing them with a _mascot_ apiece; but after a sharp struggle selfishness prevailed and he carried us with him to the mainland. there for a week or two, in an elegant palace behind the _darsena_, we solaced his retirement and amused a select circle of his friends, till (wearying perchance of badcock's minstrelsy) he dismissed us with a purse of sequins and bade us go to the devil, at the same time explaining that only the ingratitude he had experienced at the hands of his countrymen prevented his offering us as a gift to the republic. "we left the city that afternoon and climbed the gorges towards novi, intending our steps upon turin. the _mufro_ trotted behind us, and mile after mile at the brute's behest--its stern behest, cavalier-- mr. badcock fluted its favourite air, _i attempt from love's sickness to fly_. but at the last shop before passing the gate i had provided myself with a gun; and at nightfall, on a ledge above the torrent roaring at our feet, i did the deed. . . . yes, cavalier, you behold a sportsman who has slain a wild sheep of corsica. such men are rare. "the echoes of the report attracted a company of pedestrians coming down the pass. they proved to be a party of comedians moving on genoa from turin, whence the church had expelled them (as i gathered) upon an unjust suspicion of offending against public morals. at sight of badcock, their leader, with little ado, offered him a place in the troupe. his ignorance of italian was no bar; for pantomime, in which he was to play the role of pantaloon, is enacted (as you are aware) in dumb-show. nay, on the strength only of our nationality they enlisted us both; for englishmen, they told me, are famous over the continent of europe for other things and for making the best clowns. we therefore turned back with them to genoa. "but oh, cavalier! these bodily happenings which i recite to you, what are they in comparison with the adventures of the spirit? i am in italy--in genoa, to be sure, which of all italian cities passes for the unfriendliest to the muse: but that is my probation. i have embraced the mission of my life. here in italy--here in the land of the vine, the olive--of maecenas and the medicis--it shall be mine to revive the arts and to make them pay; and if i can win out of this city of skinflints at a profit, i shall have served my apprenticeship and shall know my success assured. the genoese, cavalier, are a banausic race, and penurious at that; they will go where the devil cannot, which is between the oak and the rind; opportunity given, they would sneak the breeches off a highlander: they divide their time between commercialism and a licentiousness of which, sordid as it is, they habitually beat down the price. and yet genoa is italy, and has the feeling of italy--the golden atmosphere, the clean outlines, the amplitude of its public spaces, the very shadows in the square, the statues looking down upon the crowd, the pose, the colouring, of any chance poor onion-seller in the market--" but here mr. fett broke off his harangue to rise and salute the princess, who, entering with our host at her heels, turned to marc'antonio and bade him, as purse-bearer, count out the money for a week's lodging. payment in advance (it seemed) was the rule in genoa. messer' fazio bit each coin carefully as it was tendered, and had scarcely pocketed the last before a noise at the front-door followed by peals of laughter announced the arrival of our fellow-lodgers. they burst into the room singing a chorus, _o pescatore da maremma_, and led by mr. badcock, who wore a wreath of seaweed a-cock over one eye and waved a dripping basket of sea-urchins. two pretty girls held on to him, one by each arm, and thrust him staggering through the doorway. "o pesca--to--o--o--" mr. badcock's eyes, alighting on me, grew suddenly large as gooseberries and he checked himself in the middle of a roulade. "eh! why! bless my soul, if it's not--" "precisely," interjected mr. fett, with a quick warning wink and a wave of his hand to introduce us. "_i pescatori da maremma_. . . . to them enter proteus with his attendant nymphs. . . . they rush on him and bind him with strings of sausages (will the donna julia oblige by tucking up her sleeves and fetching the sausages from the back kitchen, _with_ a brazier?) the music, slow at first, becomes agitated as the old man struggles with his captors; it then sinks and breaks forth triumphantly, _largo maestoso_, as he discourses on the future greatness of genoa. the whole written, invented, and entirely stage-managed by il signore fetto, director of periodic festivities to the genoese republic. . . . to be serious, ladies, allow me to present to you four fellow-lodgers from--er-- porto fino, whom i have invited to share our repast. what ho! without, there! a brazier! fazio--slave--to the macaroni! bianca, trip to the cupboard and fetch forth the val pulchello. badcock, hand me over the basket and go to the ant, thou sluggard; and thou, rinaldo, to the kitchen, where already the sausages hiss, awaiting thee. . . ." in less than twenty minutes we were seated at table. master fazio's hotel (it appeared) welcomed all manner of strange guests, and (thanks to mr. fett's dextrous tomfooling) the comedians made us at home at once, without questions asked. twice i saw mr. badcock, as he held a mouthful of macaroni suspended on his fork, like an angler dangling his bait over a fish, pause and roll his eyes towards me; and twice mr. fett slapped him opportunely between the shoulder-blades. he had seated me between the duenna and the pretty bianca, to both of whom--for both talked incessantly--i gave answers at random; which by-and-by the columbine observed, and also that i stole a glance now and then across the princess, who was trying her best to listen to the conversation of the matamor. "are you newly married, you two?" asked the columbine, slily. "oh, you need not blush! she puts us all in the shade. you are in love with her, at least? well, she scorns us and is not clever at concealing it: but i will not revenge myself by trying to steal you away. i am magnanimous, for my part; and, moreover, all women love a lover." chapter xxix. vendetta. "have ye not seyn som tyme a pale face among a prees, of him that hath be lad toward his death, wher-as him gat no grace, and swich a colour in his face hath had, men mighte knowe his face that was bistad, amonges alle the faces in that route." chaucer. _man of lawe's tale_. "criticism," said mr. fett, with his mouth full of sausage, "is the flower of all the arts." "for my part, i hate it," put in the melancholy rinaldo. "to be sure," mr. fett conceded, "if all men grasped this great truth, there would be an end of artists; and in time, by consequence, of critics, who live by them and for whom they exist. therefore i keep my discovery as a platonic secret, and utter it but occasionally, in my cups, and when"--with a severe glance at mr. badcock--"the vulgar are not attending." mr. badcock woke up at once. "on the contrary," he explained, "i listen best with my eyes closed; a habit i acquired in axminster parish church. indeed, i am all ears." "indeed you are. . . . well then, as i was about to say, the secret of success in the arts is to make other men do the work for you. at this obviously he will excel who has learnt to appraise other men's work, and knows exactly of what they are capable; that is to say, the critic. believe me, dear friends, the happiest moment of my life will come when, as _impresario_ i shall have realized the ambition of giving myself, as _capo comico_, the sack at twenty-four hours' notice." "a man should know his own worth," grumbled rinaldo, "if only in self-defence on pay-day." "'tis notorious, my dear rinaldo, that your mere artist never does. intent upon expressing self, he misses the detachment which alone is olympian; whereas the critic--tell me, why is an architect architectonic? because he sits in his parlour, pushing the brown sherry and chatting with his clients, while his clerks express their souls for him in a back office. this lesson, o badcocchio, i learnt from an uncle of mine, who had amassed a tidy competence by thus vicariously erecting a quite incredible number of villa residences for retired tradesmen in the midlands--to be precise, in and around wolverhampton. i say vicariously, for on his deathbed it brought him inexpressible comfort that he himself had not designed these things. "he was in many respects a remarkable man, and came near to being a great one. his name originally was lorenzo smith, to which in later years he added that of desborough--partly for euphony, partly because the initials made to his mind a pleasing combination, partly also in pursuance of his theory of life, that he best succeeds who makes others work for him. by annexing the desborough patronymic--which, however, he tactfully spelled desboro', to avoid conflict with the family prejudices--he added, at the cost of a trifling fee to the consistory court of canterbury, a flavour of old gentility to the artistic promise of lorenzo, the solid commercial assurance of smith. together the three proved irresistible. he prospered. he died worth twenty-five thousand pounds, which had indeed been fifty thousand but for an unlucky error. "like many another discoverer, he pushed his discovery too far. he reasoned--but the reasoning was not _in pari materia_--that what he had applied to art he could apply to religion. in compliment to what he understood to be the ancient faith of the desboroughs he had embraced the principles of roman catholicism--his motto, by the way, was _thorough_--and this landed him, shortly after middle age, in an awkward predicament. he had, in an access of spleen, set fire to the house of a client whose payments were in arrear. the good priest who confessed him recommended, nay enjoined, an expiatory pilgrimage to rome; and my uncle, on the excuse of a rush of orders, despatched a junior clerk to perform the pilgrimage for him. "for a time all went well. the young man (whom my uncle had promoted from the painting of public-house sign-boards) made his way to rome, saluted the statue of the fisherman, climbed on his knees up the scala sancta, laid out the prescribed sum on relics, beads, scapulars, medals, and what-not, and, in short, fulfilled all the articles of my uncle's vow. on the second evening, after an exhausting tour of the churches, he sat down in a tavern, and incautiously, upon an empty stomach, treated himself to a whole flask of the white wine of sicily. it produced a revulsion, in which he remembered his protestant upbringing; and the upshot was, a switzer found him, late that night, supine in the roadway beneath the vatican gardens, gazing up at the moon and damning the pope. behaviour so little consonant with his letters of introduction naturally awoke misgivings. he was taken to the cells, where he broke down, and with crapulous tears confessed the imposture; which so incensed his holiness that my uncle only bought himself off excommunication by payment of a crippling sum down, and an annual tribute of his own weight (sixteen stone twelve) in candles of pure spermaceti. o badcock, fill donna julia's glass, and pass the bottle!" we spent the next five days in company with these strange fellow-lodgers, and more than once it gave me an uncanny feeling to turn in the midst of mr. fett's prattle and, catching the eye of marc'antonio or stephanu as they sat and listened with absolute gravity, to reflect on the desperate business we were here to do. we went about the city openly, no man suspecting us. on the day after our arrival we discovered the prince camillo's quarters. the republic had lodged him, with a small retinue, in the palazzo verde, a handsome building (though not to be reckoned among the statelier palaces of the city), with a front on the via balbi, and a garden enclosed by high walls, around which ran the discreetest of _vicoli_. one of the dorias, so tradition said, had built it to house a mistress, early in the seventeenth century. i doubt not the prince camillo found comfortable quarters there. for the rest, he had begun to enjoy himself after the fashion he had learnt in brussels, returning to dissipation with an undisguised zest. the genoese--themselves a self-contained people, and hypocritical, if not virtuous--made less than a nine days' wonder of him, he was so engagingly shameless, so frankly glad to have exchanged corsica for the fleshpots. there was talk that in a few days he would make formal and public resignation of his crown in the great hall of the bank of saint george. meanwhile, he flaunted it in the streets, the shops, the theatres. his very publicity baulked us. we tracked him daily--his sister and i, in our peasant dress; but found never a chance to surprise him alone. his eyes, which rested nowhere, never detected us. we hunted him together, not consulting marc'antonio and stephanu, but rather agreeing to keep them out of the way. indeed i divined that the princess's anxiety to hold him in sight was due in some degree to her fear of these two and what they might intend. for my part, i watched them of an evening, at messer' fazio's board, expecting some sign of jealousy. but it appeared that they had resigned her to me, and were content to be excluded from our counsels. another thing puzzled me. public as the prince made himself, he was never accompanied by his evil spirit (as i held him) the priest domenico. yet--_ame damnee_, or master devil, whichever he might be--i felt sure that the key of our success lay in unearthing him. so, while the princess tracked her brother, i begged off at whiles to haunt the purlieus of the palazzo verde--for three days without success. but on the fourth i made a small discovery. the rear of the palazzo verde, i have said, was surrounded by narrow alleys, of which that to the south was but a lane, scarcely five feet in width, dividing its garden from the back wall of another palace (as i remember, one of the durazzi). halfway up this lane a narrow door broke the wall of the palazzo verde's garden. i had tried this door, and found it locked. on the afternoon of the fourth day, as i turned into this lane, a middle-aged man met and passed me at the entrance, walking in a hurry. i had no proof that he came from the garden-door of the palazzo verde, but i thought it worthwhile to turn and follow him; which i did, keeping at a distance, until he entered a goldsmith's shop in the strada nuova, where presently, through the pane, i saw him talking with a customer across the counter. i retraced my steps to the lane. the door (needless to say) was closed; but behind it, not far within the garden, i heard a gentle persistent tapping, as of a hammer, and wondered what it might mean. it spoke eloquently for the prince camillo's zest after pleasure that he pursued it abroad in spite of the weather, which was abominable. a searching mistral blew through the streets for four days, parching the blood, and on the night of the fourth rose to something like a hurricane. our players fought their way against it to the theatre, only to find it empty; and returned in the lowest of spirits. the pretty bianca was especially disconsolate. before dawn the gale dropped, and between eleven o'clock and noon, in a flat calm, the snow began, freezing as it fell. the prince camillo did not show himself in the streets that day. but towards dusk, as we passed down the via roma, he drove by in an improvised sleigh with bells jingling on the necks of his horses. he was bound for the theatre, which stood at the head of the street. the princess turned with me, and we were in time to see him alight and run up the steps, radiant, wrapped in furs, and carrying a great bouquet of pink roses, such as grow in the genoese gardens throughout the winter. but it appeared that, if we kept good watch on him, others had been keeping better; for, five minutes later, as we stood debating whether to follow him into the theatre, marc'antonio and stephanu emerged from its portico and came towards us. "o princess," said marc'antonio, "we have seen him at length and had word with him. when we told him that you were here in genoa, he looked at us for a moment like a man distraught--did he not, stephanu?" "one would have said he was going to faint," stephanu corroborated. "i think, with all his faults, he is terrified for your sake, for the risk you run. he implored us to get you away from the city; and when we told him it was impossible, he sent word that he would come to you after the play, and himself try to persuade you. we dared not let him know where we lodged, for fear of treachery; so, being hurried, we appointed the street by the weavers' gate, where, if you will meet him, masked, a little after nine o'clock, stephanu and i will be near--in case of accidents--and doubtless the cavalier also." "did he say anything of the crown, o marc'antonio?" "no, princess, for we had not time. the crowd was all around us, you understand; and he drew up and talked to us, forcing himself to smile, like a nobleman amusing himself with two peasants. for the crown, we shall leave you to deal with him." "and i shall hold you to that bargain, o marc'antonio," said she. "but what will you two be doing with yourselves meanwhile?" "with permission, princess, we return to the theatre. we shall watch the play, and keep our eyes on him; and at half-past seven o'clock the girl bianca dances in the ballet. mbe! i have not witnessed a ballet since my days of travel." "and i will run home, then, and fetch my mask. at nine o'clock, you say?" "at nine, or a little after--and by the weavers' gate." "and you will leave him to me? you understand, you two, that there is to be no violence." "as we hope for heaven, princess." "farewell, then, until nine o'clock!" she dismissed them, and they returned to the portico and passed into the theatre. "that is good," said she, turning to me with a sigh that seemed to lift a weight from her heart. "for, to tell the truth, i was afraid of them." for me, i was afraid of them still, having observed some constraint in marc'antonio as he told his story, and also that, though i tried him, his eyes refused to meet mine. to be sure, there was a natural awkwardness in speaking of the prince to his sister. nevertheless marc'antonio's manner made me uneasy. it continued to worry me after i had escorted the princess back to our lodgings. across the court, in the chamber over the archway, some one was playing very prettily upon a mandolin. in spite of the cold i stepped to the outer door to listen, and stood there gazing out upon the thick-falling snow, busy with my thoughts. yes, decidedly marc'antonio's manner had been strange. . . . while i stood there, a clock, down in the city, chimed out the half-hour. its deep note, striking across the tinkle of the mandolin, fetched me out of my brown study. half-past seven. . . . i had an hour and a half to spare; ample time to step down to the palazzo verde and reconnoitre. if only i could hit upon some scent of the priest domenico! i started at a brisk pace to warm my blood, which had taken a chill from the draught of the doorway. the snow by this time lay ankle-deep, and even deeper in the pitfalls with which the ill-lit streets abounded; but in twenty minutes i had reached the via balbi. the wind was rising; in spite of the snow driven against my face i had not noticed until i heard it humming in the alley which led under the shadow of the garden wall. i had scarcely noticed it before my ears caught the jingle of bells approaching swiftly down the via balbi. "eh?" thought i, "is the prince returning, then, to change his dress? or has he sent home his carriage, meaning to pursue the adventure on foot?" there was no time to run back to the street corner and satisfy my curiosity. the horses went clashing past the head of the alley at a gallop, and presently i heard the front gates of the palace grind open on their great hinges. half a minute later they were closed again with a jar, and almost immediately the clocks of the city began to toll out the hour. was it my fancy? or did the last note die away with a long-drawn choking sound, as of some one struggling for breath? . . . and, last time, it had been the tap-tap of a hammer. . . . surely, strange noises haunted this alley. . . . i listened. i knew that i must be standing near the small door in the wall, though in the darkness i could not see it. the sinister sound was not repeated. i could be sworn, though, that my eyes had heard it; and still, for two minutes perhaps, i stood listening, my face lifted towards the wall's coping. then indeed i heard something--not at all that for which i strained my ears, but a soft muffled footfall on the snow behind me--and faced about on it, clutching at the sailor's knife i wore in my belt. it was a woman. she had almost blundered into me as i stood in the shadow of the wall, and now, within reach of my arm, drew back with a gasp of terror. terror indeed held her numb while i craned forward, peering into her face. "signorina bianca!" "but what--what brings you?" she stammered, still between quick gasps for breath. in the darkness, close by, a door slammed. "ah!" said i, drawing in my breath. stretching out a hand, i laid it on her shoulder, from which the cloak fell away, disclosing a frosty glint of tinsel. "so it was for _you_ the prince drove home early from the theatre! but why is the door left open?" pretty bianca began to whimper. "i--i do not know; unless some one has stolen my key." she put a hand down to fumble in the pocket of her cloak. "then we had best discover," said i, and drew her (though not ungently) to the door. i found it after a little groping and, lifting the latch--for the gust of wind had fastened it--thrust it open upon a light which, though by no means brilliant, dazzled me after the darkness of the alley. i had counted on the door's opening straight into the garden. to my dismay i found myself in a narrow vestibule floored with lozenges of black and white marble and running, under the wall to my left, towards an archway where a dim lamp burned before a velvet curtain. for a moment i halted irresolute, and then, slipping a hand under bianca's arm, led her forward to the archway and drew aside the curtain. again i stood blinking, dazzled by the light of many candles--or were they but two or three candles, multiplied by the mirrors around the walls and the gleams from the gilded furniture? and what--merciful god, _what!_--was that foul thing hanging from the central chandelier?--hanging there while its shadow, thrown upward past the glass pendants, wavered in a black blot that seemed to expand and contract upon the ceiling? it was a man hanging there, with his neck bent over the curtain's rope that corded it to the chandelier; a man in a priest's frock, under which his bare feet dangled limp and hideous. as the unhappy bianca slid from under my arm to the floor, i tiptoed forward and stared up into the face. it was the face of the priest domenico, livid, distorted, grinning down at me. with a shiver i sprang past the corpse for a doorway facing me, that led still further into this unholy pavilion. the curtain before it had been wrenched away from the rings over the lintel--by the hand, no doubt, of the poor wretch as he had been haled to execution--since, save for a missing cord, the furniture of the room was undisturbed. the room beyond was bare, uncarpeted, and furnished like a workshop. a solitary lamp burned low on a bracket, over a table littered with tools, and in the middle of the room stood a brazier, the coals in it yet glowing, with five or sick steel-handled implements left as they had been thrust into the heart of the fire. were they, then, also torturers, these murderers? my eyes turned again to the work-table. on it, among the tools, rested a crown--the crown of corsica! nay, there were two--two crowns of corsica! . . . in what new art of treachery had the man been surprised? treachery to genoa, on top of treachery to corsica. . . . the crowns were surprisingly alike, even to the stones around the band--and i bethought me of the jeweller i had met in the alley. but, feeling around the rim of each, i recognized the true one by a dent it had taken against the _gauntlet's_ ballast. quick as thought, then, i whipped it under my arm, ran back to bianca, and thrust it under her cloak as i bent over her. she lay in a cold swoon. i could not leave her in this horrible place. . . . i was lifting her to carry her out into the alley, when--in the workshop or beyond it--a key grated in a lock; and i raised myself erect as the prince camillo came through the pavilion, humming a careless tune of opera. "hola!" he broke off and called, "hola, padre, where the devil are you hiding? and where's the pretty bianca? . . . o, confusion seize your puss-in-the-corner! i shall be jealous, i tell you--and br-r-h! what a mistral of a draught!" he came into the room rubbing his hands, half scolding, half laughing, with the drops of melted snow yet shining on his furred robe from his walk across the garden. i saw him halt on the threshold and look about him, prepared to call "hola!" once again. i saw his eyes fall on the corpse dangling from the chandelier, fix themselves on it, and slowly freeze. i saw him take one tottering step forward; and then, from an alcove, marc'antonio and stephanu stepped quietly out and posted themselves between him and retreat. "it will be best done quietly," said marc'antonio. "the cavalier, there"--he pointed to me--"has the true crown, and will carry it to good keeping. you will pardon us, o cavalier, that we were forced to tell the princess an untruth this evening; but right is right, and we could not permit her to interfere." in all my life i have never seen such a face as the prince turned upon us, knowing that he must die. the face grinning from the chandelier was scarcely less horrible. he put up a hand to it. "not here!" he managed to say. "in the next room--not here!" "as your highness wishes." marc'antonio let him pass into the workshop and he stood before the brazier, stretching out his palms as though to warm them. "these!" he whispered hoarsely, pointing to the instruments on the brazier. "your highness misunderstands. we are not torturers, we of the colonne," answered marc'antonio, gravely. a clock on the mantelpiece tinkled out the hour of nine. "no, nor shall be murderers," i interposed. "the princess is yet your mistress, o marc'antonio, and i am her husband. in the princess's name i command you both that you do not harm him." to my amazement the wretched youth drew himself up, his cowardice gone, his face twisted with sudden venomous passion. "_you? you_ will protect me? dog, i can die, but not owe _that!_" i leapt forward, disregarding him, seeing that marc'antonio's hand was lifted, and that in it a dagger glittered. but before i could leap the prince had snatched one of the steel rods from the brazier-- a charcoal rake. and as i struck up marc'antonio's arm, the rake crashed down on my skull, tearing the scalp with its white-hot teeth. i staggered back with both hands held to my head. i did not see the stroke itself; but between my spread fingers i saw the prince sink to the floor with the handle of marc'antonio's dagger between his shoulder-blades. i saw the blood gush from his mouth. and with that i heard scream after scream from the doorway where bianca stood swaying, and shouts from the garden answering her screams. "foolish girl!" said marc'antonio, quietly. "and yet, perhaps, so best!" he stepped over the prince's body, and taking me by both shoulders, hurried me through the room where the priest hung, and forth into the vestibule. stephanu did the same with bianca, halting on his way to catch up the crown and wrap it carefully in the girl's cloak. at the garden gate he thrust the bundle into my hands, even as marc'antonio pushed us both into the lane. outside the door i caught at the wall and drew breath, blinking while the hot blood ran over my eyes. i looked for them to follow and help me, for i needed help. but the door was closed softly behind us, and a moment later i heard their footsteps as they ran back along the vestibule, back towards the shouting voices; then, after a long silence, a shot; then a loud cry, "corsica!" and another shot. "they have killed him?" i turned feebly to bianca; but bianca had not spoken. she leaned, dumb with fright, against the wall of the alleyway, and stared at the princess, who faced us, panting, in the whirls of snow. "i tried"--it was my own voice saying this--"yes, indeed, i tried to save him. he would not, and they killed him . . . and now they also are killed." "yes--yes, i heard them." she peered close. "can you walk? try to think it is a little way; for it is most necessary you should walk." i had not the smallest notion whether i could walk or not. it appeared more important that my head was being eaten with red-hot teeth. but she took my arm and led me. "go before us, foolish girl, and make less noise," she commanded the sobbing bianca. "but you must try for _my_ sake," she whispered, "to think it but a little way." and i must have done so with success; for of the way through the streets i remember nothing but the end--a light shining down the passage of messer' fazio's house, a mandolin still tinkling over the archway behind us, and a door opening upon a company seated at table, the faces of all--and of mr. fett especially--very distinct under the lamp-light. they rose--it seemed, all at once--to welcome us, and their faces wavered as they rose. chapter xxx. the summit and the stars. "aucassins, biax amis doux en quel terre en irons nous? --douce amie, que sai jou? moi ne caut u nous aillons, en forest u en destor, mais que je soie aveuc vous!" _aucassin and nicolete. "e quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle." _dante_. i awoke to a hum of voices . . . but when my eyes opened, the speakers were gone, and i lay staring at an open window beyond which the sky shone, blue and deep as a well. on a chair beside the window sat the princess, her hands in her lap. . . . while i stared at her, two strange fancies played together in my mind like couples crossing in a dance; the first, that she sat there waiting for something to happen, and had been waiting for a very long, an endless, while; the other that her body had grown transparent. the sunlight seemed to float through it as through a curtain. i dare say that i lay incapable of movement; but this did not distress me at all, for i felt no desire to stir--only a contentment, deep as the sky outside, to rest there and let my eyes rest on her. yet either i must have spoken or (yes, the miracle was no less likely!) she heard my thoughts; for she lifted her head and, rising, came towards me. as she drew close, her form appeared to expand, shutting out the light . . . and i drifted back into darkness. by-and-by the light glimmered again. i seemed to be rising to it, this time, like a drowned man out of deep water; drowned, not drowning, for i felt no struggle, but rather stood apart from my body and watched it ascending, the arms held downwards, rigid, the palms touching its thighs--until at the surface, on the top of a wave, my will rejoined it and forced it to look. then i knew that i had been mistaken. the sky was there, deep as a well; and, as before, it shone through an opening; and the opening had a rounded top like the arch of a window; yet it was not a window. as before, my love sat between me and the light, and the light shone through her. my bed rocked a little under me, and for a while i fancied myself on board the _gauntlet_, laid in my bunk and listening to the rolling of her loose ballast--until my ear distinguished and recognized the sound for that of wheels, a low rumble through which a horse's footfall plodded, beating time. i was scarcely satisfied of this before the sound grew indistinct again and became a murmur of voices. the arch that framed the sunlight widened; the sky drew nearer, breaking into vivid separate tinctures--orange, blood-red, sapphire-blue; and at the same time the princess receded and diminished in stature. . . . the frame was a window again, and she a figure on a coloured pane, shining there in a company of saints and angels. but her voice remained beside me, speaking with another voice in a great emptiness. the other voice--a man's--talked most of the while. i could not follow what it said, but by-and-by caught a single word, "milano"; and again two words, "the mountains" and yet again, but after an interval, "the people are poor; they give nothing; from year's end to year's end"--and the voice prolonged itself like an echo, repeating the words until, as they died away, they seemed to measure out the time. "the more reason why _you_--" began the princess's voice. "there shall be spared one--a little one--for our lady." but here i felt myself drifting off once more. i was as one afloat in a whirlpool, now carried near to a straw and anon swept away as i clutched at it. the eddy brought me round again to the window that was no window, the rumble of wheels, the plodding of a horse's hoofs. beyond the low arch--or was it a pent?--shone a star or two, and against their pale radiance a shadow loomed--the shadow of the princess, still seated, still patient, still with her hands in her lap. the rumble of the wheels, the slow rocking of my bed beneath me, fitted themselves to the intermittent flash of the stars, and beat out a rhythm in my memory--a rhythm, and by degrees the words to fit it-- "tanto ch'io vidi delle cose belle che porta il ciel, per un pertugio tondo, e quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle." _a riveder le stelle_--i closed my eyes, opened them again, and lo! the stars were gone. in their place shone pale dawn, touching the grey-white arch of a tilt-waggon, on the floor of which i lay in a deep litter of straw. but still by the tilt, between me and the dawn, rested my love, and drowsed, still patient, her hands in her lap. "at last! at last!" she called to the driver--i could not see him, for i lay with my face to the tilt--and he pulled up his horse with a jolt. belike he had been slumbering, and with the same jolt awoke himself. i tried to lift a hand--i think to brush away the illusion of the window and its painted panes. maybe, slight as it was, she mistook the movement to mean that i felt stifled under the hood of the waggon and wanted air. at any rate, she called again, and the driver (i have clean forgotten his face), left his reins and came around to her. between them they lifted me out and laid me on a bank between the road and a water-course that ran beside it. i heard the water rippling, near by, and presently felt the cool, delicious touch of it as she dipped up a little in her hollowed palms and moistened my bandages. our waggon had come to a halt in the very centre (as it seemed) of a great plain, criss-crossed with dykes and lines of trees, and dotted with distant hamlets. the hamlets twinkled in the fresh daylight, and in the nearest one--a mile back on the road--a fine campanile stood up against the sun, which pierced through three windows in its topmost story. so flat was the plain that mere sky filled nine-tenths of the prospect; and all the wide dome of it tinkled with the singing of larks. "_ma dove? dove?_ . . ." the princess pointed, and far on the road, miles beyond the waggon, i saw that which no man, sick or hale, sees for the first time in his life without a lift of the heart--the long glittering rampart of the alps. "do we cross them?" "_pianu_. . . . in time, o beloved; thou and i . . . all in good time." i gazed up at her, half-frightened by the tenderness in her voice; and what i saw frightened me wholly. the sullenness had gone from her eyes; as a mother upon the child in her lap, so she looked down upon me; but her face was wan, even in the warm sunlight, and pinched, and hollow-eyed. i lifted her hand--a little way only, my own being so weak. it was frail, transparent, as though wasted by very hunger. she read the question i could not ask, and answered it with a brave laugh. (it appeared, then, that she had taught herself to laugh.) "we have been sick, thou and i. the mountains will cure us." i looked along the road towards them, then up at her again. i remembered afterwards that though she spoke so cheerfully of the mountains, her gaze had turned from them, to travel back across the plain. "a little while!" she went on. "we must wait a little while to recover our strength. but there are friends yonder, to help us." "friends?" i echoed, wondering that i possessed any. "you must leave all talk to me," she commanded; "and, if you are rested, we ought not to sit idling here." she helped the driver to lift me back into the waggon, where, as it moved on, she seated herself in the straw and took my hand. all her shyness had gone, with all her sullenness. "there is a farm," began she, "a bare twelve leagues from here, says the waggoner, who knows it. i carry a letter to the farmer from his brother, who is the parish priest of trecate, and a good man. he says that his brother, too, is a good man, and will show us kindness for his sake, because the farm once belonged to my friend, as the elder, until he gave it up to follow god. the pair have not met since twenty years; for trecate lies not far from milan, and the farm is deep in the mountains, above a village called domodossola, where the folk are no travellers. . . ." here her voice faded into a dream again; for a very little waking wearied me, then and for weeks to come, and the word milano brought back the church, the stained window, the priest's voice talking, and confused all these with the rumbling of the waggon. but i held my love's hand, and that was enough. we came that same evening to the shore of a lake, beautiful as a pool dropped out of paradise, and the next day crawled uphill, hour after hour, over a jolting road to the village, where i lay while the driver climbed to the farm with the princess's letter. he was gone five hours, but returned with the farmer, and the farmer's tall eldest son; and the pair had brought a litter, in which to carry me home. the name of this good man was bavarello--giacomo bavarello--and he lived with his wife battestina in a house full of lean children and live-stock. the house had deep overhanging eaves, held down by cords and weighted with rocks; but this must have been rather in deference to the custom of the country than as a precaution against storms, for the farmstead lay cosily in a dingle of the mountain, where storms never reached it. yet it took the sun from earliest dawn almost to the last beam of midsummer daylight. behind it a pine forest climbed to the snow; and up and across the snow a corniced path traversed the face of the mountain and joined the _diligence_-road a little below the summit of the pass. at the point of junction stood a small chapel, with a dwelling-room attached, where lived a brother from the benedictine _hospice_ on the far side of the pass. his name was brother polifilo, and it was supposed that he had fallen in love with solitude (else how could he have endured to live in such a place?); yet his smile justified his name, and his manner of playing with the children when he descended to bring us the consolations of religion-- which he did by arrangement with the infirm parish priest in the valley. also, on fine mornings when the snow held and the little ones could be trusted along the path, the entire household of the bavarelli would troop up to mass in his tiny chapel. for me, it was many weeks before my sick brain allowed me to climb beyond the pines; and many weeks, though the princess always went with me--before she told me all the story of what had happened in genoa. yet we talked much, at one time and another, though we were silent more; for the silences told more. only our talk and our silences were always of the present. it was understood that the whole story of the past would come, some day, when i had strength for it. of the future we never spoke. i could not then have told why; though now all too well i can. sick man though i was, bliss filled those days for me, and their memory is steeped in bliss. yet a thought began, after a while, to trouble me. we were living on these poor bavarelli, and, for aught i knew, paying them not a penny. the good farmer might be grateful to his priest-brother down yonder; but even if his gratitude were inexhaustible we--strangers as we were--ought not to test it so. to be sure, he and his wife wore a smile for us, morning and evening--and this, though i had a notion that donna battestina was of a saving disposition. i had heard the pair of them protest when the princess offered to make herself useful in the farm-work--for which she was plainly unfit--or, failing that, in the housework. they had made up their minds about us, that we were persons of gentle blood, to whom all work must be derogatory. the next day i insisted on climbing the slope to the pine-wood without support of her arm. "it is time," said i, "that i grew strong; unless somewhere you are hiding a fairy purse." she looked at me--for between us, by this time, one spoken word would be the key to a dozen unspoken. "you are not fit to start," she stammered hastily, "nor will be for a long while. there are mountains behind these, and again more mountains--" she broke off and sat down upon a pine-log, trembling. "i was not thinking of that," said i; "but of these people and their hospitality. since we have no money i must work for them--at least, until i can get money sent from england." she glanced at me again, and with a shiver up at the snow peaks beyond the pines. i could read that she struggled with something, deep within her, and i waited. by-and-by she leaned forward, clasped her hands about her knee, and sat silent for a long minute, gazing southward over the plain at our feet. "listen," she said at length, but without turning her eyes. "i have something to confess to you." her voice dragged upon the words; but she went on, "you have not asked me what has happened in genoa after--that night. the snow covered up our footmarks and the blood--for you were bleeding all the way; but at our lodgings the actors were frightened out of their wits, and worse than ever when i told them what had happened to marc'antonio and stephanu. they would all be arrested, they declared; the bank of genoa had eyes all over the city. nevertheless one of them showed great courage. it was that strange friend of yours, messer' badcock. my first thought was to get you down to the boat and slip away to sea; and he offered--he alone--first of all to make his way to the harbour and bring word if the coast (as he said) was clear. he went very cautiously, by way of a cellar leading under our house and the next, and opening on a back street--this, that his steps might not be traced to the front door; and it was well that he went, for on the quay, hiding behind a stack of timber, he saw two men in uniform posted at the head of the water-stairs. so he hastened back, using less caution, because by this time the snow had smoothed over his tracks, and was falling faster every moment. the actors had already begun to pack, and messer' fazio was running about in a twitter, albeit he declared that, beside themselves, not a soul in genoa knew of his having lodged these corsicans. doubtless, however, his house would be searched in the morning, and the important, the pressing need was to get rid of us. "in his haste he could think of nothing better than an old onion-loft, some sixty paces up the lane at the back. it was a store merely, not connected with any house, but owned by a rich merchant of the city who had acquired it for some debt and straightway forgotten all about it--at least, so messer' fazio declared. if we were discovered in hiding there, it could be explained that we had found it, and used it for a lodging, asking no man's leave; and suspicion would fall on no good citizen. "i made sure that you were dying, and for myself i was past caring; so i thanked him and told him to do with us as he thought best. he and messer' badcock carried you out then, and i followed. the building was of two floors, with a door to each. a flight of steps led from the lane to the upper door, which was padlocked; and no one had used that way for twenty years, or so the landlord said. we entered by the lower door, which was broken--both hasp and hinge-- and led straight from the lane into a dirty cellar, worse than any cowshed and paved with mud. but from this a ladder rested against the wooden ceiling, and just above it was a plank that had worked loose. messer' fazio slipped the plank aside, and with great pains we carried you up through the opening and into the loft. i had bandaged your head so that we left no traces of blood in the lane or on the floor below. then messer' fazio gathered up some onions which were strewn on the floor--i believe he had been drying them there on the sly--and took leave of us in a hurry. when he reached the bottom again, he carried away the ladder, declaring that it belonged to him. "i had brought with me but a loaf of bread, a flask of milk, and one thing else--i will tell you what that was, by-and-by. i sat by you, waiting for you to die. when morning came i forced you to drink some of the milk. the loft was bitterly cold, and i wondered indeed that you were not dead. "towards evening i felt faint with hunger, and was gnawing a piece of my loaf, when a voice spoke up to me from below. it was a woman's voice, and i took it at first for lauretta's--she was the girl, you remember, who played the confidante's part and such-like. but when i pulled the plank a little aside and looked down, i saw a girl unknown to me--until i recognized her for one of those who lived above the archway at the entrance of messer' fazio's court. lauretta had told her, swearing her to be secret, and she was here in pity. she called herself gioconda; and i bless her, for your sake. "she fetched me bread, milk, and a little wine. but for her--for messer' fazio came never near us, and the actors, she told me, had decamped--we should both have perished. the cold lasted for ten days; i cannot tell how you endured it; but at the end of them i hoped you might recover, and with that i tried to think of some plan for escaping from genoa. the worst was, i had no money. . . ." the princess paused, and shivered a little. "that cold . . . it is in my bones yet. i feel as though the least touch of it now would kill me . . . and i want to live. ah, my love, turn your eyes from me while i tell you what next i did! the crown . . . it belonged to corsica. i had denied your right to it; but you had won it back from dishonour, and i remembered that in the band of it were jewels, the price of which might save you. moreover, the little that kept us from starving came from--those women; and it was hateful to owe them even for a little bread. so i felt then. afterwards--but you shall hear; only turn away your eyes. i prayed to the virgin, but my prayers seemed to get no clear answer. . . . then i pulled a staple from the wall, and with the point of it prised out one of the jewels, an amethyst. . . . i had spoken already to gioconda. that evening she brought me one of her dresses, with shoes, stockings, and underskirt; a mirror, too, and brush and comb, with paints, powders, and black stuff for the eye-lashes, all in the same bundle, which she passed up through the floor. i dressed myself, painted my face, tired my hair, till i looked like even such a woman as gioconda; and then, letting myself down at dark by a rope made of the sheet i drew from under you, i ran through the streets to the quarter of the merchants. la gioconda had forgotten to pack a cloak in the bundle; the night was snowing, with snow underfoot; and i had run past the quays before the fear struck me that, at so late an hour, the jewellers would have closed their shops. but in the street behind the dogano i found one open, and the jeweller asked no questions. it appeared that he was used to such women, and, having examined the stone through his magnifying-glass, he counted me out three hundred livres. "i ran back, faster than i had come, and climbed to the loft, hand over hand, with the money weighing me down. it was in my mind to bribe one of the market-women, through gioconda, to smuggle you out through the north gate, under the baskets in her cart. but the day had scarcely broken before gioconda came (and she had never come yet until evening) with terrible news. she said that i must count on her no more, for the accursed clericals (as she called them) had made interest with the genoese government to clear all the stews, and that she and her sisters by the gateway had orders to be quit of the city within twenty-four hours; in fact her sisters had begun to pack already, and the whole party would drive away, with their belongings, soon after night-fall. i asked her whither. 'to milan,' she said; for at turin the church was even stronger and more bigoted than in genoa. "a new thought came to me then. i handed down my money to gioconda, keeping back only a little, and prayed her to go to the woman, her mistress, and bargain with her to carry you out of the city, concealed beneath the furniture. the girl clapped her hands at the notion, and ran, but in an hour's time came creeping back in tears. the woman would have more money--even threatened to betray us unless i found her five hundred livres in all. . . . "i borrowed gioconda's shawl and sent her away, charging her to return before evening. then i loosened another stone from the crown--a sardonyx--and again i went out through the streets to the jeweller's. it was worse now than by night, for the people stared, and certain men followed me. i took them for spies at first; but presently my stupid brain cleared, and i guessed for what they mistook me; and then i kept them at their distance, using such tricks as in brussels i had seen the women use. . . ." "o brave one! o beloved!" i stretched out my hand, but she turned from the caress, and hurried on with her tale, her eyes still fastened on the distant plain, her voice held level on the tone of a child reciting its task. "the jeweller, too, asked many questions. i think he was suspicious at my coming twice in a few hours. but the sardonyx was a finer stone than the amethyst, and he ended by giving me three hundred and fifty livres. two of the men were loitering for me outside the shop. i gave them a false address and walked home quickly, longing to run but not daring. to mislead the men, in case they were following, i made first for the house by the archway, and there on the stairs i met the woman coming down with a bundle of stuff. "i bargained with her, then and there. there was a horrible man belonging to the house, and at night-fall he fetched you, a little before the carts arrived; and this was not a minute too soon. for a crowd came with the carts. while the loading went on they stood around the door, calling out vile jokes, and afterwards they followed through the streets, waving torches and beating upon old pans. i sat in the second cart, among half a dozen women. my face was painted, and i smiled when they smiled. but you lay under the straw at my feet; and when the gate was passed, while the women were calling back insults to the soldiers there, i gave thanks to our lady. "beloved, that is my story. at tortona i parted from the women, and hired the waggon which brought us the rest of the way. but i had done better, perhaps, to go with them to milan, as gioconda advised. for my money began to run low, and, save milan, there was no large town on the road where i could sell another jewel. yet here again our lady helped; for at trecate i found the good priest, the brother of these bavarelli, and he, having heard my tale, offered to travel to milan and do my business. so i parted with two more of the stones; and yet a third--a little one--i gave him for our lady of trecate, as a thank-offering. we have money enough to reward these good people, though they lodge us for yet another six months; but the crown has only one stone remaining. it is a diamond--set in the very front of the band--and, i think, more valuable than all the rest." her voice came to a halt. "o beloved," she asked after a while, quietly, almost desperately, "why are you silent? can you not forgive?" "forgive?" i echoed. "dear, i was silent, being lost in wonder, in love. forget that foolish crown; forget even corsica! soon we will take the diamond and cross the mountains together, to a kingdom better than corsica. there," i wound up, forcing myself to speak lightly, "if ever dispute should arise between us, as king and queen we will ask my uncle gervase to decide. he, gallant man, will say, 'prosper, to whom do you owe your life?' . . ." "the mountains? ah, not yet--not yet!" she put out her hands and crept to me blindly, nestling, pressing her face against my ragged coat. "a little while," she sobbed while i held her so. "a little while!--until the child--until our child--" how can i write what yet remains to be written? our child was never born. so often, hand in hand, we had climbed to the pine-woods that it escaped my notice how she, who had used to be my support, came by degrees to lean on my arm. i saw her broken by fasting and vigil, and for me, i winced at the sound of her cough. the blood on her handkerchief accused me. "but we must wait until the child is born," i promised myself, "and the mountain air will quickly cure her." fool! the good farm-people knew better. while i gained strength, day by day she was wasting. "only let us cross the mountains," i prayed, "and at home all my life shall pay for her love!" fool, again! she would never cross the mountains, now. there came a day when i climbed the pine-wood alone. with my new strength, and because her weight was not on my arm, i climbed higher than usual; and then the noise of chopping drew me on to the upper edge of the forest, where i found brother polifilo with his sleeves rolled, hacking at a tree. he dropped his axe and stared at me, as at a ghost. i could not guess what perturbed him; for he had called at the farm but the day before and heard me boast of my new strength. i sat down to watch him. but after a stroke or two his arm appeared to fail him, and he desisted. without a word, almost without looking at me, he laid the axe over his shoulder and went up the path towards his chapel. i gazed after him, wondering. then, of a sudden, i understood. three days later she died. to the end they could not persuade me it was possible; nay at the very end, while she lay panting against my arm, i could not believe. she died quietly--so quietly. a little before the end she had been restless, lying with a pucker on her brow, and eyes that asked pitiably for something--i could not guess what, until she turned them to the chair, over the back of which (for the day was sultry), i had tossed my coat. i reached for the coat and slipped it on. her eyes grew glad at once. "closer!" she whispered. as i bent closer, she nestled her face against it. "_la macchia! . . . la macchia!_" with that last breath, drawing in the scent of it, she laid her head slowly back, and slept. the bavarelli took it for granted that i would bury her in the graveyard, down the valley. but i consulted with brother polifilo. i argued that every high mountain-top by its very nature came within the definition of consecrated ground; and after a show of reluctance he accepted the heresy, on condition i allowed him first to visit the spot chosen and recite the prayer of consecration over it. we laid her in the coffin that brother polifilo brought, and carried her to the summit of the mountain overlooking the pass, where the rock had allowed us to dig the shallowest of graves. beside it, when the coffin was covered, i said good-bye to the bavarelli and dismissed them down the hill. they understood that i had yet a word to speak to the good monk. "one thing remains," i said, and showed him the crown with the five empty settings, and the one diamond yet glittering in its band. "help me to build a cairn," said i. so he helped me. we built a tall cairn, and i laid the crown within it. the sun was setting as we laid the last stone in place. we walked in silence down to the pass, and there i shook hands with him by the little chapel, and received his blessing before setting my face northwards. i dare say that he stood for a long while, watching me as i descended the curves of the road. but i never once looked back until i had crossed the valley, far below. the great peak rose behind me; and it seemed to me that on its summit a diamond shone amongst the stars. postscript. by gervase arundel. july (st. swithun's), . my nephew has asked me to write the few words necessary to conclude this narrative. the day after my brother's burial, the _gauntlet_, in company with general paoli's gunboat, _il sampiero_, weighed and left the island of giraglia for isola rossa, where by agreement we were to wait one calendar month before sailing for england. the foregoing pages will sufficiently explain why the month passed without my nephew's putting in an appearance. for my part, albeit my arguments had been powerless to dissuade him from going to genoa, i never expected him to return, but consoled myself with the knowledge that he had gone to his fate in a good cause, and in a spirit not unworthy of his father. we were highly indebted during our stay at isola rossa to the general, who, being detained there by the business of his new fortifications, exerted himself that we should not lack a single comfort, and seemed to inspire a like solicitude in his subjects. i call the corsicans his subjects since (if the reflection may be permitted) i never met a man who carried a more authentic air of kingliness--and i am not forgetting my own dear brother-in-law. alive, these two men met face to face but once; and priske, who witnessed the meeting, yet understood but a bare word or two of what was said, will have it that for dignity of bearing the general would not compare with his master. the honest fellow may be right; for certainly no one could speak with john constantine and doubt that here was one of a line of kings. nevertheless to me (a matter-of-fact man), paoli appeared scarcely less imposing in person, and withal bore himself with a businesslike calm which, in a subtle way i cannot describe, seemed to tolerate the others, yet suggest that, beside his own purpose, theirs were something unreal. as an englishman i should say that he felt the weight of public opinion behind him all the while, without which in these days the kingliest nature must miss something of gravity. yet he has proved more than once that no public man can be more quixotic, upon occasion. it distressed me to find that the queen emilia would have none of his courtesies; as i think it distressed him, though he comported himself perfectly. she rejected, and not too graciously, his offer to restore her to her palace at casalabriva and secure her there against all enemies. from the first she had determined, failing her son's return, to sail with us to england; and sail she did. but from the first i doubted her reaching it alive. her sufferings had worn her out, and it is a matter of dispute between dom basilio (who administered the last sacrament), and me whether or no her eyes ever saw the home to which we carried her. they were open, and she was certainly breathing, when we made the entrance of helford river; for we had lifted her couch upon deck and propped her that she might catch the earliest glimpse of constantine above the trees. they were open when we dropped anchor, but she was as certainly dead. she lies buried in the private chapel of the house, disused during my brother-in-law's lifetime, but since restored and elaborately decorated by our trappist guests. a slab of rose-pink corsican granite covers her, and is inscribed with the words, "orate pro anima emiliae, corsicorum reginae," the date of her death, and beneath it a verse which i took to be from the vulgate until parson grylls quarrelled with dom basilio over it-- "cras amet qvi nvnqvam amavit qviqve amavit cras amet." as i have said, i had parted with all hope to see my nephew again: and it but confirmed my despair when i received a letter from general paoli with news that the prince camillo had been assassinated; for neither his sister nor prosper had said word to me of the young man's treachery, and i concluded that they had bound themselves to rescue him, an unwilling prisoner. in our last brief leave-taking on the island, prosper had confided to me certain wishes of his concerning the house at constantine, and the disposal of his estate; wishes of which i need only say here that they obliged me after a certain interval to get his death "presumed" (as the phrase is), and for that purpose to ride up to london and seek counsel with our lawyer, mr. knox. i arrived in london early in the second week of november, --a few days after the decease of our king george ii.; and, my business with mr. knox drawing to a conclusion, it came into my head to procure a ticket and go visit the prince's chamber, near the house of peers, where his majesty's body lay in state. this was on the very afternoon of the funeral, that would start for the abbey after nightfall, and at westminster i found a throng already gathered in the mud and murk. in the _chambre ardente_, which was hung with purple, a score of silver lamps depended from the roof around a tall purple canopy, under which the corpse reposed in its open coffin, flanked with six immense silver candelabra. between the candelabra and at the head and foot of the coffin stood six gigantic soldiers of the guard, rigid as statues, with bowed heads and arms reversed. only their eyes moved, and i dare say that i stared at them in something like terror. certainly a religious awe held me as the pressure of the sightseers carried me forth from the doors again and into the street, where i wedged myself into the crowd, and waited for the procession. by this time a fog had rolled up from the river, and the foot-guards who lined the road had begun to light their torches. behind them were drawn up the horse-guards, their officers erect in saddle, with naked sabres and heavy scarves of crape. there amid the sounds of minute guns, and of bells tolling i must have waited a full hour before the procession came by--the fifes, the muffled drums, the yeomen of the guard staggering with the great coffin, the pall-bearers and peers walking two and two, with pages bearing their heavy trains. all this i watched as it went by, and with a mind so shaken that a hand from behind had plucked twice or thrice at my elbow before i was aware that any one claimed my attention. then, turning with a moisture in my eyes--for the organ had begun to sound within the abbey--i found myself staring past the torch of a foot-guard and into the face of my nephew, risen from the dead! he was haggard, unkempt in his hair and dress, and (i think) had been fasting for a long while without being aware of his hunger. he drew me back and away from the crowd; but when i had embraced him, it seemed that to all my eager questions he had nothing to answer. "i was starting for cornwall, to-morrow," he said. "shall we travel together?" and then, as though painfully recollecting, he passed a hand over his forehead and added, "i have walked half-way across europe. i am a good walker by this time." "we will hire horses, to be sure," said i, finding nothing better to say. the age, the lines in his young face cut me to the heart, and i longed to ask concerning the princess, but dared not. "horses? ah, yes, to be sure, i come back to riches. nay, my dear uncle, you are going to tell me that the estates are mortgaged deep as ever--i know. but allow me to tell you there is all the world's difference between poverty that is behindhand with its interest, and poverty that has to trust god for its next meal." at the eating-house to which i carried him he held out his scarred palms to me across the table. "they have worked my way for me from the alps," said he. "i left my crown there, and"--he laughed wearily--"i come back to find another monarch in the act of laying aside a greater one. my god! the vanity of it!" he drank off a glass of wine. "find me a bed, uncle gervase," said he. "i feel that i can sleep the clock round." we rode out of london next day. he started in a fret to be home, but this impatience declined by the way, and by the time we crossed tamar had sunk to a lethargy. sore was i to mark the dull gaze he lifted (by habit) at the corner of the road where constantine comes into view; and sorer the morning after, when, having put gun into his hand and packed him off with diana, the old setter, at his heel, i met him an hour later returning dejectedly to the house. for the next three or four months he went listless as a man dragging a wounded limb. but since spring brought back rod and angle, i think and pray that the voice of running water (best medicine in nature) begins to cure him. he has written the foregoing narrative in a hot fit which, while it lasted, more than once kept his lamp burning till daybreak; and although the last chapter was no sooner finished than he flung the whole away in disgust. i have hopes of him. i may even live to see a child running about these silent terraces . . . but this, my dearest wish, outruns all present indications; and if prosper ever marries again it will be as his father married, and not for love.[ ] by good fortune i am able to supply the reader with some later news of two members of the expedition, mr. fett and mr. badcock. it came to me, early this summer, in the following letter:-- _to gervase arundel, esq., of constantine in cornwall, england_. "venice. ash wednesday ( . a.m.), . "excellent sir, "i take up my pen, and lay aside the false nose i have been wearing night and day for close on a week, to make a communication which will doubtless interest you as it has profoundly affected me. it will also interest your nephew and his lady (whose hands i kiss) if they succeeded in effecting their escape to england--where, failing news of them, i do myself a frequent pleasure to picture them at rest upon the quiet waters of domestic felicity. but i address myself rather to you, whom (albeit on the briefest acquaintance) i shall ever regard as the personification of stability and mild repose. heracleitus and his followers may prate of a world of flux; but there are men to whom the recollections of their fellows ever turn confidently, secure of finding them in the same place; and of such, sir, you are the palmary example among my acquaintance. "on the circumstances of our retreat from genoa i need not dilate. we decamped--i and my brother _artistes_--to pisa, where, after an unsatisfactory season, we broke up our company by mutual consent and went our various ways in search of fortune. mr. badcock--by this time a pantaloon of considerable promise and not to be sneezed at in senile parts where affection or natural decay required, or at least excused, a broken accent--threw in his lot with me: and we bent our steps together upon this unique city, where for close upon twelve months i have drawn a respectable salary as director of public festivities to the sisterhood of the conventual body of santa chiara. nor is the post a sinecure; since these estimable women, though themselves vowed against earthly delights, possess a waterside garden which, periodically--and especially in the week preceding lent--they throw open to the public; a practice from which they derive unselfish pleasure and a useful advertisement. "on thursday last, the giovedi grasso, the abbess had (in consultation with me) provided an entertainment which not only attracted the rank and fashion of venice but (i will dare to say) made them forget the exhaustion of the maddest day of carnival with its bull-baiting and battles of _confetti_. an hour before midnight all venice had taken to its gondolas and was being swept, with song and music, towards the giudecca. the lagoons swam with the reflections of a thousand moving lanterns, and all their streaming ribbons of light converged upon the bridge of santa chiara, beyond which, where the gardens descended in stairways of marble to the water, i had lined the banks with coloured lamps. discreet narrow water-alleys, less flauntingly lit, but with here and there a caged nightingale singing in the boscage, intersected the sisters' pleasure-grounds; but the main canal led around an ample stretch of turf in the midst of which my workmen had reared a stage for a masque of my composing, entitled _the rape of helen_. badcock, who was to enact the part of menelaus, had at my request attired himself early, for some few of my nightingales were young birds and not to be depended on, and i had an idea of concealing him in the shrubberies to supply a _flauto obbligato_ while our guests arrived. i had interrupted my instructions to despatch him on some small errand connected with the coloured fires, and he had scarcely disappeared among the laurels, when along the path came strolling two figures i recognized as fellow-countrymen--the young lord algernon shafto, of the english embassy, and his mother's brother, the venerable john kynaston worley, archdeacon of wells. lord algernon wore a domino. his uncle (i need scarcely say) had made no innovation upon the laced hat and gaiters proper to his archidiaconal rank--though it is likely enough that the venetians found this costume as eccentric as any in the throng. he had arrived in the city a bare week before; and walked with an arm paternally thrust in his nephew's, while he made acquaintance with the luxurious frivolities of a venetian carnival. "as they passed me i stooped to trim the peccant wick of one of the many lamps disposed like glowworms along the path: but a moment later their voices told me that my countrymen had found a seat a few paces away, in an arbour whence, by the rays of a paper lantern which overhung it, they could observe the passers-by. "'a wonderful nation,' the archdeacon was saying, in that resonant voice of which the well-connected among the anglican clergy (and their wives) alone possess the secret. 'i may tell you, my dear lad, that this visit to venice has been a dream of my life, cherished though long deferred. i had not your advantages when i was a young man. the grand tour was denied me; and a country curacy with an increasing family promised to remove the realization of my dream to the greek kalends. but in all those years i never quite lost sight of it. there is a bull-dog tenacity in us british: and still from time to time i renewed the promise to myself that, should i survive my dear wife--as i hoped to do--' "here, having trimmed my lantern, i straightened myself up to find that mr. badcock had returned and was standing behind my shoulder. to my amazement he was trembling like an aspen. "'hush!' said he, when i would have asked what ailed him. "i listened. i suppose lord algernon responded with a polite hope that venice fulfilled his uncle's long expectation: but i could not catch the words. "'entirely so,' was the reply. 'i may even say that it surpasses them. such an experience enlarges the mind, the--er--outlook. and if a man of sixty can confess so much, how happy should you be, my dear algy, to have received these impressions at _your_ age! yet, my dear lad, remember they are of value only when received upon a previous basis of character. the ladies, for instance, who own these delightful grounds . . . doubtless they are devout, in their way, but in a way how far removed from those god-fearing english traditions which one day, as a landlord among your tenantry and to that extent responsible for the welfare of dependent souls, it will be yours to foster!' "here, warned by a choking cry, i put out a hand to catch mr. badcock by the sleeve of his pallium: but too late! with a wild gesture he broke loose from me and plunged down the pergola towards the arbour, at the entrance of which he flung himself on his knees. "'oh, sir!' he panted, abasing himself and stretching forth both hands to the archidiaconal gaiters. 'oh, sir, have pity! teach me to be saved!' "the archdeacon (i will say) after the momentary shock rose to the occasion like a sportsman. a glance sufficed to assure him that the poor creature was in earnest, and with great presence of mind he felt in his pocket for a visiting-card. "'certainly, my good fellow, certainly . . . if you will call on me to-morrow at my lodgings . . . two doors from the embassy. . . . dear me, how provoking! would you mind, algernon, lending me one of your cards? i remember now leaving mine on the dressing-table.' "he fished out a pencil, took the card his nephew proffered and, having written down name and address, handed it to badcock. "'the door of grace, my friend, stands ever open to him who knocks. . . . shall we say at ten-thirty to-morrow morning? yes, yes, a very convenient hour for me, if you have no objection? farewell, then, until to-morrow!' with a benedictory wave of the hand he linked arms with lord algernon and strolled away down the walk. "'badcock,' said i, stepping forward and clapping a hand on his shoulder. 'hark to the gong calling you to the masque!' "but the creature stood as in a trance. 'his signature!' he answered in an awed whisper. 'the archdeacon of wells's own signature, and upon lord algernon's card!'--and i declare to you that he fell to kissing the pasteboard ecstatically. "well, he was past all reason. luckily, having written it, i had his part by rote; and so, snatching his menelaus' wig and beard, i ran towards the theatre. "that, sir, is all my tale. the man is lost to me. he left venice yesterday in the archdeacon's carriage, but in what precise capacity--whether as valet, secretary, or courier--he would not impart. he told me, however, that his salary was sufficient, if not ample, and that he had undertaken as a repentant sinner to make himself generally useful. the archdeacon, it appears, is collecting evidence in particular of the horrors of a continental sabbath. "addio, sir! for me, i have now parted with the last of my comrades, yet my resolution remains unshaken. on this sacred soil, where so many before me have cultivated the arts, i will do more. i will make them pay. meanwhile i beg you to accept my sincere regards, and to believe me "your obliged, obedient servant, "phineas fett." william priske has espoused mrs. nance, our good housekeeper; i believe upon her own advice. the trappists (sixteen in number) yet dwell with us, and the left wing of constantine has been reserved for their use. they have deserved our gratitude, though, out of respect for their rules, i could never convey it to them in words. indeed, it is but seldom that i get speech even with dom basilio. sometimes when his walk leads him by the river-bank where i stand a-fishing he will seat himself for a while and watch; and then i find a comfort in his presence, as though we conversed together without help of speech. then also, though my reason disapprove of our guest's rigour, an inward voice tells me that there is good in their religion, as perchance there is good wherever men have found anchorage for their souls. i remember once listening in our summer-house, upon st. swithun's feast, while my dear brother-in-law disputed with mr. grylls upon action and contemplation--which of them was the properer end of man. i thought then that each of them, though they talked up and down and at large, was in truth defending his own temperament: and, because i loved them both, that neither needed defending. for my own part, the small daily cares of constantine have stolen away from me, not altogether unhappily, the time of choosing, and i ask now but to follow that counsel of the apostle wherewith my master walton closed his book, and "study to be quiet." g.a. [ ] here--for it scarcely appears in the narrative--let me say that my sister was an exemplary wife and, while fate spared her, a devoted mother. i knew my brother-in-law for a great man, incapable of a thought or action less than kingly, and i worshipped him (as ben jonson would say) "on this side idolatry"; but if the constantines have a fault, it is that they demand too much of life, and exact it somewhat too much as a matter of course. i have heard this fault attributed to other great men.--g.a. finis transcriber's note: inconsistencies and idiosyncrasies of spelling, punctuation, hyphenation, capitalization, and use of diacriticals are preserved as they appear in the original text. boswell's correspondence with the honourable andrew erskine and his journal of a tour to corsica (reprinted from the original editions) edited with a preface, introduction, and notes by george birkbeck hill, d.c.l. author of "dr. johnson: his friends and his critics." london: thos. de la rue & co. printed by thomas de la rue and co., bunhill row, london. contents. preface i letters between the honourable andrew erskine and james boswell, esq. introduction to the journal of a tour to corsica preface to the first edition preface to the third edition the journal of a tour to corsica appendix boswell and erskine's letters. preface. boswell did not bring out his "life of johnson" till he was past his fiftieth year. his "journal of a tour to the hebrides" had appeared more than five years earlier. while it is on these two books that his fame rests, yet to the men of his generation he was chiefly known for his work on corsica and for his friendship with paoli. his admiration for johnson he had certainly proclaimed far and wide. he had long been off, in the words of his father, "wi' the land-louping scoundrel of a corsican, and had pinned himself to a dominie--an auld dominie who keeped a schule and cau'd it an acaadamy." nevertheless it was to corsica and its heroic chief that he owed the position that he undoubtedly held among men of letters. he was corsica boswell and paoli boswell long before he became famous as johnson boswell. it has been shown elsewhere[ ] what a spirited thing it was in this young scotchman to make his way into an island, the interior of which no traveller from this country had ever before visited. the mediterranean still swarmed with turkish corsairs, while corsica itself was in a very unsettled condition. it had been computed that, till paoli took the rule and held it with a firm hand, the state had lost no less than subjects every year by assassination. boswell, as he tells us in his journal, had been warned by an officer of rank in the british navy, who had visited several of the ports, of the risk he ran to his life in going among these "barbarians." moreover a state of hostility existed between the corsicans and the republic of genoa--which, the year before boswell's visit, had obtained the assistance of france. the interior of the island was still held by paoli, but many of the seaport towns were garrisoned by the french and the genoese. at the time of boswell's visit war was not being actively carried on, for the french commander had been instructed merely to secure these points, and not to undertake offensive operations against the natives. from the journal that boswell gives, we see that when once he had landed he ran no risks; but it is not every young man who, when out on his travels, leaves the safe and beaten round to go into a country that is almost unknown, and to prove to others that there also safety is to be found. with good reason did johnson write to him--"come home and expect such welcome as is due to him whom a wise and noble curiosity has led where perhaps no native of this country ever was before." with scarcely less reason did paoli say, "a man come from corsica will be like a man come from the antipodes." [footnote : "dr. johnson: his friends and his critics." by george birkbeck hill, d.c.l. smith, elder & co.] how strongly his journey and his narrative touched the hearts of people at home may still be read in mrs. barbauld's fine lines on corsica:-- "such were the working thoughts which swelled the breast of generous boswell; when with nobler aim and views beyond the narrow beaten track by trivial fancy trod, he turned his course from polished gallia's soft delicious vales, from the grey reliques of imperial rome, from her long galleries of laureled stone, her chiseled heroes and her marble gods, whose dumb majestic pomp yet awes the world, to animated forms of patriot zeal; warm in the living majesty of virtue; elate with fearless spirit; firm; resolved; by fortune nor subdued; nor awed by power."[ ] [footnote : "mrs. barbauld's poems," vol. i., p. . it is certainly strange that boswell, so far as i know, nowhere quotes these lines. he was not wont to let the world remain in ignorance of any compliment that had been paid him. i fear that he was rather ashamed at finding himself praised by a writer who was not only a woman, but also was the wife of "a little presbyterian parson who kept an infant boarding school."] gray was moved greatly by the account given of paoli. "he is a man," he wrote, "born two thousand years after his time." horace walpole had written to beg him to read the book. "what relates to paoli," he said, "will amuse you much." what merely amused walpole "moved" gray "strangely." it moved others besides him. subscriptions were raised for the corsicans, and money and arms were sent to them from this country. boswell writes to tell his friend temple--"i have hopes that our government will interfere. in the meantime, by a private subscription in scotland, i am sending this week £ worth of ordnance." other subscriptions were forwarded which paoli, as is told in a letter from him published in the "gentleman's magazine,"[ ] "applied to the support of the families of those patriots who, abhorring a foreign yoke, have abandoned their houses and estates in that part of the country held by the enemy, and have retired to join our army." [footnote : "gentleman's magazine," vol. xxxix., p. .] boswell's work met with a rapid sale. the copyright he sold to dilly for one hundred guineas. the publisher must have made no small gain by the bargain, for a third edition was called for within a year. "my book," writes boswell, "has amazing celebrity: lord lyttelton, mr. walpole, mrs. macaulay, mr. garrick have all written me noble letters about it." with his lordship's letter he was so much delighted that in the third edition he obtained leave to use it to "enrich" his book. johnson pronounced his journal in a very high degree curious and delightful. it is surprising that a work which thus delighted johnson, moved gray strangely, and amused horace walpole, can now be met with only in old libraries and on the shelves of a dealer in second-hand books. i doubt whether a new edition has been published in the last hundred years. it is still more surprising when we remember that it is the work of an author who has written a book "that is likely to be read as long as the english exists, either as a living or as a dead language." the explanation of this, i take it, is to be found in the distinction that johnson draws between boswell's account of corsica, which forms more than two-thirds of the whole book, and the journal of his tour. his history, he said, was like other histories. it was copied from books. his journal rose out of his own experience and observation. his history was read, and perhaps read with eagerness, because at the time when it appeared there was a strong interest felt in the corsicans. in despair of maintaining their independence, they had been willing to place themselves and their island entirely under the protection of great britain. the offer had been refused, but they still hoped for our assistance. not a few englishmen felt with lord lyttelton when he wrote--"i wish with you that our government had shown more respect for corsican liberty, and i think it disgraces our nation that we do not live in good friendship with a brave people engaged in the noblest of all contests, a contest against tyranny." but in such a contest as this corsica was before long to play a different part. scarcely four years after boswell from some distant hill "had a fine view of ajaccio and its environs," that town was rendered famous by the birth of napoleon buonaparte. with whatever skill boswell's history had been compiled it could not have lived. there were not, indeed, the materials out of which a history that should last could have been formed. the whole island boasted of but one printing press and one bookseller's shop. the feuds and wars of the wild islanders might have lived in the songs of the poet, but were little fit for the purposes of the historian. he who attempts to write the history of such a people is almost forced to accept tradition for fact, and to believe in their arthurs and their tells. the corsicans are, indeed, from time to time found in one or other of the great tracks of european history. as boswell says, their island had belonged to the phoenicians, the etruscans, the carthaginians, the romans, the goths, and the saracens. it had been conquered by france, and had been made a gift from that kingdom to the pope. it had been given by the pope to the pisans, and from them had passed to the republic of genoa. it had undergone strange and rapid revolutions, but they were those common revolutions that befall a wild race that lives in the midst of powerful neighbours. boswell, unsurpassed though he is as a biographer, admirable as he is as a writer of a journal, yet had little of the stuff out of which an historian is made. his compilation is a creditable performance for a young man who had but lately returned home from his travels. it certainly adds nothing to the reputation of the author of the "life of johnson." but while it lies overwhelmed with deserved neglect, it ought not to drag down with it the journal of his tour. that portion of the work is lively, is interesting, and is brief. it can be read with pleasure now, as it was read with pleasure when it first appeared. but, besides this, it is interesting to us as the early work of a writer whose mind has been a puzzle to men of letters. even should we accept macaulay's judgment on boswell, and despise him as he despises him, yet it must surely be worth while to examine closely the early writings of an author, who has, "in an important department of literature, immeasurably surpassed such writers as tacitus, clarendon, alfieri, and his own idol johnson."[ ] this journal is like the youthful sketch of some great artist. it exhibits the merits which, later on, distinguished, in so high a degree the mature writer. [footnote : "macaulay's essays," vol. i., p. .] together with the "journal of a tour to corsica," i am reprinting a volume of letters that passed between boswell and his friend the honourable andrew erskine. lively and amusing though they often are, yet i should not have proposed to republish them did not they throw almost as much light on boswell's character as the journal throws light on his powers as a writer. in his account of corsica, there is a passage in which, while describing the historian petrus cyrnaeus, he at the same time describes himself. "the fourth book of petrus cyrnaeus," he says, "is entirely taken up with an account of his own wretched vagabond life, full of strange, whimsical anecdotes. he begins it very gravely: 'quoniam ad hunc locum perventum est, non alienum videtur de petri qui haec scripsit vita et moribus proponere.' 'since we are come thus far it will not be amiss to say something of the life and manners of petrus, who writeth this history.' he gives a very excellent character of himself, and, i dare say, a very faithful one. but so minute is his narration, that he takes care to inform posterity that he was very irregular in his method of walking, and that he preferred sweet wine to hard. in short, he was a man of considerable parts, with a great simplicity and oddity of character." to the simplicity and oddity of character that boswell shared with this learned historian, there was certainly added not a little impudence. it was an impudence that was lively and amusing; but none the less was it downright impudence. we are amazed at the audacity with which two young men ventured to publish to the world the correspondence which had passed between them when they were scarcely of age. in fact, the earlier letters were written when boswell was but twenty. their justification only increases their offence. "curiosity," they say, "is the most prevalent of all our passions; and the curiosity for reading letters, is the most prevalent of all kinds of curiosity. had any man in the three kingdoms found the following letters, directed, sealed, and adorned with postmarks,--provided he could have done it honestly--he would have read every one of them." there is this, however, that makes us always look with a certain indulgence on boswell. he never plays the hypocrite. he likes praise, he likes to be talked about, he likes to know great people, and he no more cares to conceal his likings than sancho panza cared to conceal his appetite. three pullets and a couple of geese were but so much scum, which don quixote's squire whipped off to stay his stomach till dinner-time. by the time boswell was six-and-twenty he could boast that he had made the acquaintance of adam smith, robertson, hume, johnson, goldsmith, wilkes, garrick, horace walpole, voltaire, rousseau, and paoli. he had twice at least received a letter from the earl of chatham. but his appetite for knowing great men could never be satisfied. these might stay his stomach for a while, but more would be presently wanted. at the time when he published this volume of letters he seems to have had some foresight into his future life. "i am thinking," he says, "of the intimacies which i shall form with the learned and ingenious in every science, and of the many amusing literary anecdotes which i shall pick up." when fame did come upon him by his book on corsica, no one could have relished it more. "i am really the _great man_ now," he writes to his friend temple. "i have had david hume in the forenoon, and mr. johnson in the afternoon of the same day visiting me. sir john pringle, dr. franklin, and some more company dined with me to-day; and mr. johnson and general oglethorpe one day, mr. garrick alone another, and david hume and some more _literati_ another, dine with me next week. i give admirable dinners and good claret; and the moment i go abroad again, which will be in a day or two, i set up my chariot. this is enjoying the fruit of my labours, and appearing like the friend of paoli.... david hume came on purpose the other day to tell me that the duke of bedford was very fond of my book, and had recommended it to the duchess." in the preface to the third edition, he says,--"when i first ventured to send my book into the world, i fairly owned an ardent desire for literary fame. i have obtained my desire: and whatever clouds may overcast my days, i can now walk here among the rocks and woods of my ancestors, with an agreeable consciousness that i have done something worthy." it was about this time that, writing to the great earl of chatham, he said--"i can labour hard; i feel myself coming forward, and i hope to be useful to my country. could your lordship find time to honour me now and then with a letter? i have been told how favourably your lordship has spoken of me. to correspond with a paoli and a chatham, is enough to keep a young man ever ardent in the pursuit of virtuous fame."[ ] [footnote : "chatham correspondence," vol. iii., p. .] a few months before his account of corsica was published, he had fixed upon the date of its publication as the period when he should steadily begin that pursuit of virtuous fame, which now was to be secured by correspondence with a paoli and a chatham. "i am always for fixing some period," he wrote, "for my perfection, as far as possible. let it be when my account of corsica is published; i shall then have a character which i must support." unhappily the time for his perfection was again and again put off. johnson, in speaking of derrick, said--"derrick may do very well, as long as he can outrun his character; but the moment his character gets up with him, it is all over." with boswell, just the opposite was the case. he soon acquired a character--a character which he was bound to support. but he could never get up with it. the friend of paoli, the friend of johnson, was, unhappily, given to drink. the gay spirits and lively health of youth supported him for a while; but, even in these early days, he was too often troubled with that depression of spirit which follows on a debauch. but, as time passed on, and the habit grew stronger upon him, his health began to give way, and his cheerfulness of mind to desert him. he lived but four years after the publication of his great work. in the preface to the second edition of the "life of johnson" he shows his delight in his fame. "there are some men, i believe, who have, or think they have, a very small share of vanity. such may speak of their literary fame in a decorous state of diffidence. but i confess that i am so formed by nature and by habit, that to restrain the effusion of delight on having obtained such fame, to me would be truly painful. why, then, should i suppress it? why, 'out of the abundance of the heart,' should i not speak?" this preface bears the date of july , . only ten days earlier he had written to tell temple how he had been drinking, and had been robbed. "the robbery is only of a few shillings; but the cut on my head and bruises on my arms were sad things, and confined me to bed in pain, and fever, and helplessness, as a child, many days.... this shall be a crisis in my life: i trust i shall henceforth be a sober, regular man. indeed, my indulgence in wine has, of late years especially, been excessive.... your suggestion as to my being carried off in a state of intoxication, is awful. i thank you for it, my dear friend. it impressed me much, i assure you." it was too late in life to form resolutions. a year later he was again "resolved anew to be upon his guard." in the may of , he died, after an illness of great suffering. to him might be applied some of the lines which the great poet who lived so near him wrote as his own epitaph:-- "he keenly felt the friendly glow, and softer flame; but thoughtless follies laid him low, and stain'd his name." boswell had, indeed, but little of that "prudent, cautious, self-control," which, as burns tells us, "is wisdom's root." it is a sad thought that at the very same time the two most famous writers that ayrshire can boast, men whose homes were but a few miles apart, were at the same time drinking themselves to death. burns outlived boswell little more than a year. boswell was fifty-four years old when he died. greatly as he relished wine, he relished fame still more. he had worked hard for fame, and he had fairly earned it; but in its full flush his intemperance swept him away. there can be little question that his first triumph in the field of letters, his book on corsica brought him far greater pleasure than his "life of johnson," by which his name will live. perhaps the happiest day in his life was when, at the shakespeare jubilee, he entered the amphitheatre in the dress of a corsican chief. "on the front of his cap was embroidered, in gold letters, "_viva la libertà_," and on the side of it was a handsome blue feather and cockade, so that it had an elegant as well as a warlike appearance." "so soon as he came into the room," says the account in the "london magazine," written, no doubt, by himself, "he drew universal attention." the applause that his "life of johnson" brought him was, no doubt, far greater, but then, as i have said, his health was breaking, and his fine spirits were impaired. he who would know boswell at his happiest--when he was, as hume described him, very good humoured, very agreeable, and very mad, must read his volume of letters, and the journals of his tours to corsica and the hebrides. letters between the honourable andrew erskine, and james boswell, esq; london: printed by samuel chandler; for w. flexney, near gray's-inn-gate, holborn. mdcclxiii. advertisement. curiosity is the most prevalent of all our passions; and the curiosity for reading letters, is the most prevalent of all kinds of curiosity. had any man in the three kingdoms found the following letters, directed, sealed, and adorned with postmarks,--provided he could have done it honestly--he would have read every one of them; or, had they been ushered into the world, from mr. flexney's shop, in that manner, they would have been bought up with the greatest avidity. as they really once had all the advantages of concealment, we hope their present more conspicuous form will not tend to diminish their merit. they have made ourselves laugh; we hope they will have the same effect upon other people. letters. [in a memoir of james boswell,[ ] by the rev. charles rogers, a short account is given of the hon. andrew erskine, boswell's correspondent. he was the youngest son of alexander, fifth earl of kellie. he served in the army for some years. after his retirement he settled at edinburgh. "his habits were regular, but he indulged occasionally at cards, and was partial to the game of whist. having sustained a serious loss at his favourite pastime, he became frantic, and threw himself into the forth and perished." burns, writing to his friend thomson, october, , says--"your last letter, my dear thomson, was indeed laden with heavy news. alas, poor erskine! the recollection that he was a coadjutor in your publication has, till now, scared me from writing to you, or turning my thoughts on composing for you." "he was," adds dr. rogers, "of a tall, portly form, and to the last wore gaiters and a flapped vest." by this last description dr. rogers's readers may be pleasantly reminded of an anecdote that is given for the first time, i believe, in his book. "dr. johnson used to laugh at a passage in carte's 'life of the duke of ormond,' where he gravely observed that 'he was always in full dress when he went to court; too many being in the practice of going thither with double lapells.'" as poor erskine "wore to the last his gaiters and a flapped vest," no doubt he had them on when he drowned himself.--ed.] [footnote : "boswelliana: the commonplace book of james boswell." with a memoir and annotations, by the rev. charles rogers, ll.d. london: printed for the grampian club, .] * * * * * letter i. auchinleck, aug. , . dear erskine,--no ceremony, i beseech you. give me your hand. how is my honest captain andrew? how goes it with the elegant gentle lady a----? the lovely sighing lady j----? and how, o how does that glorious luminary lady b---- do? you see i retain my usual volatility. the boswells, you know, came over from normandy, with william the conqueror, and some of us possess the spirit of our ancestors the french. i do for one. a pleasant spirit it is. _vive la bagatelle_, is the maxim. a light heart may bid defiance to fortune. and yet, erskine, i must tell you, that i have been a little pensive of late, amorously pensive, and disposed to read shenstone's pastoral on absence, the tenderness and simplicity of which i greatly admire. a man who is in love is like a man who has got the tooth-ache, he feels most acute pain while nobody pities him. in that situation am i at present: but well do i know that i will not be long so. so much for inconstancy. as this is my first epistle to you, it cannot in decency be a long one. pray write to me soon. your letters, i prophecy, will entertain me not a little; and will besides be extremely serviceable in many important respects. they will supply me with oil to my lamps, grease to my wheels, and blacking to my shoes. they will furnish me with strings to my fiddle, lashes to my whip, lining to my breeches, and buttons to my coat. they will make charming spurs, excellent knee buckles, and inimitable watch-keys. in short, while they last i shall neither want breakfast, dinner, nor supper. i shall keep a couple of horses, and i shall sleep upon a bed of down. i shall be in france this year, and in spain the next; with many other particulars too tedious to mention. you may take me in a metaphorical sense; but i would rather choose to be understood literally. i am your most affectionate friend, james boswell. * * * * * letter ii. kelly, sept. , . hail! mighty boswell! at thy awful name the fainting muse relumes her sinking flame. behold how high the tow'ring blaze aspires, while fancy's waving pinions fan my fires! swells the full song? it swells alone from thee; some spark of thy bright genius kindles me! "but softly, sir," i hear you cry, "this wild bombast is rather dry: i hate your d----n'd insipid song, that sullen stalks in lines so long; come, give us short ones like to butler, or, like our friend auchinleck[ ] the cutler." a poet, sir, whose fame is to support, must ne'er write verses tripping pert and short: who ever saw a judge himself disgrace, by trotting to the bench with hasty pace? i swear, dear sir, you're really in the wrong; to make a line that's good, i say, james, make it long. [footnote : pronounced "affleck."--ed.] you see, sir, i have quite the best of the argument; and indeed i was determined not to give it up, till you acknowledged yourself vanquished; so to verse i go again, tooth and nail. how well you talk of glory and the guards, of fighting heroes, and their great rewards! our eyes behold you glow with martial flame, our ears attend the never-ceasing theme. fast from your tongue the rousing accents flow, and horror darkens on your sable brow! we hear the thunder of the rolling war, and see red vict'ry shouting from her car! you kindly took me up, an awkward cub, and introduced me to the soaping-club;[ ] where ev'ry tuesday eve our ears are blest with genuine humour, and with genuine jest: the voice of mirth ascends the list'ning sky, while, "soap his own beard, every man," you cry. say, who could e'er indulge a yawn or nap, when barclay roars forth snip, and bainbridge snap?[ ] tell me how i your favours may return; with thankfulness and gratitude i burn. i've one advice, oh! take it i implore! search out america's untrodden shore; there seek some vast savannah rude and wild, where europe's sons of slaughter never smil'd, with fiend-like arts, insidious to betray the sooty natives as a lawful prey. at you th' astonish'd savages shall stare, and hail you as a god, and call you fair: your blooming beauty shall unrivall'd shine, and captain andrew's whiteness yield to thine.[ ] [footnote : the soaping-club--a club in edinburgh, the motto of which was, "every man soap his own beard;" or, "every man indulge his own humour." their game was that facetious one, snip, snap, snorum.] [footnote : barclay and bainbridge, two members of this club.] [footnote : "and captain andrew's whiteness, &c." the writers of these letters, instead of being rivals in wit, were rivals in complexion.] in reality, i'm under vast obligations to you. it was you who first made me thoroughly sensible (indeed i very readily believed it) of the excellencies of my own poetry; and about that time, i made two wonderful discoveries, to wit, that you was a sensible man, and that i was a good poet; discoveries which i dare say are yet doubted by some incredulous people. boswell, i shall not praise your letter, because i know you have an aversion at being thought a genius, or a wit. the reluctance with which you always repeat your cub,[ ] and the gravity of countenance which you always assume upon that occasion, are convincing proofs of this assertion. you hate flattery, too, but in spite of your teeth i must tell you, that you are the best poet, and the most humorous letter-writer i know; and that you have a finer complexion, and dance better than any man of my acquaintance. for my part, i actually think you would make an excellent champion at the approaching coronation.[ ] what though malevolent critics may say you are too little, yet you are a briareus in comparison of tydeus the hero of statius's thebais; and if he was not a warrior, then am i, andrew erskine, lieutenant in the st regiment, blind of one eye, hump-backed, and lame in both legs. we all tired so much of the highlands, that we had not been there three weeks before we all came away again. lady b---- is gone a-visiting, and the rest of us are come to kelly. it was most unaccountable in me to leave new-tarbat; for nowhere will you meet with such fine ingredients for poetical description. however, we are all going back again when mr. m---- comes from london; so some time in october you may expect a most cordial invitation. this is all at present (according to the simple but eloquent expression of the vulgar) from your sincere friend, andrew erskine. [footnote : in march, , boswell published "the cub at newmarket: a tale." (dodsley).--ed.] [footnote : george iii. was crowned on september nd, of this year.--ed.] * * * * * letter iii. auchinleck, sept. , . dear captain andrew! poet of renown! whether the chairmen of edina's town you curious draw, and make 'em justly speak, to use a vulgar phrase, _as clean's a leek_; or smart epistles, fables, songs you write, all put together handsome trim and tight; or when your sweetly plaintive muse does sigh, and elegiac strains you happy try; or when in ode sublime your genius soars, which guineas brings to donaldson by scores; accept the thanks of me, as quick as sage, accept sincerest thanks for ev'ry page, for ev'ry page?--for ev'ry single line of your rich letter aided by the nine.[ ] [footnote : the rest of boswell's verses--more than a hundred in number--the reader will thank me for omitting.--ed.] * * * * * you are now so heartily tired, that it would be absolutely barbarous to stun your ears any longer; only give me leave to tell you in one good round sentence, that your prose is admirable, and that i am just now (at three o'clock in the morning) sitting over the poor pale remnant of a once glorious blazing fire, and feasting upon it, till i am all in a _lather_. i cannot stop yet. allow me a few more words. i live here in a remote corner of an old ruinous house, where my ancestors have been very jovial. what a solemn idea rushes on my mind! they are all gone; i must follow. well, and what then? let me shift about to another subject. the best i can think of is a sound sleep. so good night, and believe me, yours, james boswell. * * * * * letter iv. auchinleck, oct. , . dear erskine,--had philip of macedon been saddle-sick with riding up and down the country after his unruly son alexander, and been waiting in extreme pain, till the surgeon of the next village brought him emollient relief, he could not have been more impatient than i am for a return to my last letter. i thought, indeed, that my firing so great a gun, would have produced a speedy and a suitable echo, and i had no doubt of at least being paid the interest of a sum so very large. i now give you fair warning, that if something is not speedily done in this affair, i shall be obliged to take very disagreeable methods. from this way of talking, i begin to fancy myself a schoolmaster; a character next to that of a giant, most terrible to tender minds. don't think to escape the rod. don't think your dignity as a poet will save you from it. i make no question, but what that acrimonious pedagogue george buchanan has often applied it to his pupil, and he you know was a poet and a king into the bargain. i have been reading the rosciad. you see my very studies have tended towards flagellation. upon my word churchill[ ] does scourge with a vengeance; i should not like to come under his discipline. he is certainly a very able writer. he has great power of numbers. [footnote : churchill's "rosciad" had been published in march of this year.--ed.] "in manly tides of verse he rolls along."[ ] [footnote : "in manly tides of sense they roll'd along." --"the rosciad."--ed.] i desire, erskine, once again, that you may write without delay, otherwise, i shall no longer be your affectionate friend, james boswell. * * * * * letter v. kelly, nov. , . dear boswell,--if you could conceive the many twitches of conscience i have felt upon your account, the agitations, the compunctions, the remorses, you would certainly forgive me. however, i was beginning to turn callous against all suggestions of writing to you, when your last letter arrived, which like the day of judgment, made my transgressions stare me full in the face. indolence and unwearied stupidity have been my constant companions this many a day; and that amiable couple, above all things in the world detest letter-writing. besides, i heard you was just going to be married, and as a poet, i durst not approach you without an epithalamium, and an epithalamium was a thing, which at that time i could not compass. it was all in vain, that cupid and hymen, juno and luna, offered their assistance; i had no sort of employment for them. when you and i walked twice round the meadow upon the subject of matrimony, i little thought that my difference in opinion from you, would have brought on your marriage so soon; for i can attribute it to no other cause: from this i learn that contradiction is of use in society; and i shall take care to encourage that humour, or rather spirit, in myself. as this is the first marriage i ever made, i expect great congratulations, especially from you. i have been busy furbishing up some old pieces for donaldson's[ ] second volume: i exceed in quantity, twenty eustace budgels, according to your epistle. pray what is become of the cub? is dodsley to sell you for a shilling, or not? i have written one or two new things, an ode to pity, and an epistle to the great donaldson, which is to be printed: the subject was promising, but i made nothing of it. i must give over poetry, and copy epistles out of that elegant treatise the complete letter-writer. d---- is gone to london, his parting advice to his sister was, to keep the key of the coals herself; so i suppose he intends to keep up his fire, this winter, in parliament, and not to go over the coals with the ministry. [footnote : donaldson, an edinburgh bookseller, was bringing out a collection of original poems, by the rev. mr. blacklock, and other scotch gentlemen. erskine was the editor.--ed.] lady a---- and i set out for new-tarbat to-morrow. could you come? let nothing but wedlock detain you. oh, boswell! the soporific effluvia of a hearty dinner cloud all my faculties. i'm as dull as the tolling in of the eighth-hour bell, or a neighbour in the country, that pays you an annual visit. at this present moment, i'm astonished how anybody can be clever; and your letter in heroic verse seems more amazing to me than if the king of britain was to send an express for me, to dance a hornpipe before him, or the king of prussia was to declare in a manifesto, that i was the occasion of the present war. i detest the invention of writing; and nothing could reconcile me to it, but that i can assure you at this distance, that i am yours sincerely, andrew erskine. there's a genteel conclusion for you. when you come to edinburgh, i'll settle an unintermitting correspondence with you. * * * * * letter vi. edinburgh, nov. , . dear erskine,--much much concern does it give me, to find that you have been in such bad spirits as your last most grievously indicates. i believe we great geniuses are all a little subject to the sorcery of that whimsical demon the spleen, which indeed we cannot complain of, considering what power of enchantment we ourselves possess, by the sweet magic of our flowing numbers. i would recommend to you to read mr. green's[ ] excellent poem upon that subject. he will dispel the clouds and enliven you immediately. or if that should not do, you may have recourse to xenophon's method, which was boiling potatoes, and pelting the cats with them, an infallible receipt to promote risibility. [footnote : matthew green ( - ). author of "the spleen."--ed.] so you too have listened to the report of my marriage, and must forsooth display a pretty vein of jocularity upon the mournful occasion. did you really believe it? if you did, you will never be able to astonish me with any thing else that is wonderful in your creed, for i shall reckon your judgment at least three stanzas worse than formerly. in the name of every thing that is upside down, what could the people mean by marrying me? if they had boiled me into portable soup, or hammered me into horse-shoes, i should not have been greatly surprised. a man who has so deeply pondered on the wonders daily presented to our view, and who has experienced so many vicissitudes of fortune, as i have done, can easily make allowance for stranger things than these. but i own their matrimonial system exceeds my comprehension. happy is it for the world that this affair did not take place. an event so prodigious must have been attended with very alarming consequences. for my own part, i tremble when i think of it. damocles, nero, and richard the third, would have appeared amiable princes in comparison of me. wherever i went i should have carried horror and devastation, sparing neither sex nor age. all, all should have been sacrificed to my relentless cruelty. donaldson is busy printing his second volume. i have mustered up a few verses for him, some old, some new. i will not boast of _them_. but i'll tell you one thing; the volume will be pretty free from typographical errors: i have the honour to correct the proof-sheets. my cub is now with dodsley. i fancy he will soon make his appearance in public. i long to see him in his pall-mall[ ] habit: though i'm afraid he will look a little awkward. write to me often. you shall have the best answers i can give you. i remain, yours, james boswell. [footnote : dodsley's shop was in pall mall.--ed.] * * * * * letter vii. new-tarbat, nov. , . dear boswell,--as we never hear that demosthenes could broil beef-steaks, or cicero poach eggs, we may safely conclude, that these gentlemen understood nothing of cookery. in like manner it may be concluded, that you, james boswell, and i andrew erskine, cannot write serious epistles. this, as mr. tristram[ ] says, i deny; for this letter of mine shall contain the quintessence of solidity; it shall be a piece of boiled beef and cabbage, a roasted goose, and a boiled leg of pork and greens: in one word, it shall contain advice; sage and mature advice. oh! james boswell! take care and don't break your neck; pray don't fracture your skull, and be very cautious in your manner of tumbling down precipices: beware of falling into coal-pits, and don't drown yourself in every pool you meet with. having thus warned you of the most material dangers which your youth and inexperience will be ready to lead you into, i now proceed to others less momentary indeed, but very necessary to be strictly observed. go not near the soaping-club, never mention drury-lane playhouse; be attentive to those pinchbeck buckles which fortune has so graciously given you, of which i am afraid you're hardly fond enough; never wash your face, but above all forswear poetry: from experience i can assure you, and this letter may serve as a proof, that a man may be as dull in prose as in verse; and as dullness is what we aim at, prose is the easiest of the two. oh! my friend! profit by these my instructions; think that you see me studying for your advantage, my reverend locks over-shadowing my paper, my hands trembling, and my tongue hanging out, a figure of esteem, affection and veneration. by heavens! boswell! i love you more--but this, i think, may be more conveniently expressed in rhyme more than a herd of swine a kennel muddy, more than a brilliant belle polemic study, more than fat falstaff lov'd a cup of sack, more than a guilty criminal the rack, more than attorneys love by cheats to thrive, and more than witches to be burnt alive. [footnote : the first two volumes of tristram shandy were published towards the end of .--ed.] i begin to be afraid that we shall not see you here this winter; which will be a great loss to you. if ever you travel into foreign parts, as machiavel used to say, everybody abroad will require a description of new-tarbat[ ] from you. that you may not appear totally ridiculous and absurd, i shall send you some little account of it. imagine then to yourself what thomson would call an interminable plain,[ ] interspersed in a lovely manner with beautiful green hills. the seasons here are only shifted by summer and spring. winter with his fur cap and his cat-skin gloves, was never seen in this charming retreat. the castle is of gothic structure, awful and lofty: there are fifty bed-chambers in it, with halls, saloons, and galleries without number. mr. m----'s father, who was a man of infinite humour, caused a magnificent lake to be made, just before the entry of the house. his diversion was to peep out of his window, and see the people who came to visit him, skipping through it;--for there was no other passage--then he used to put on such huge fires to dry their clothes, that there was no bearing them. he used to declare, that he never thought a man good company till he was half drown'd and half burnt; but if in any part of his life he had narrowly escaped hanging (a thing not uncommon in the highlands) he would perfectly doat upon him, and whenever the story was told him, he was ready to choke himself. but to return. everything here is in the grand and sublime style. but, alas! some envious magician, with his d----d enchantments, has destroyed all these beauties. by his potent art, the house with so many bed-chambers in it, cannot conveniently lodge above a dozen people. the room which i am writing in, just now, is in reality a handsome parlour of twenty feet by sixteen; though in my eyes, and to all outward appearance, it seems a garret of six feet by four. the magnificent lake is a dirty puddle; the lovely plain, a rude wild country cover'd with the most astonishing high black mountains: the inhabitants, the most amiable race under the sun, appear now to be the ugliest, and look as if they were over-run with the itch. their delicate limbs, adorned with the finest silk stockings, are now bare, and very dirty; but to describe all the transformations would take up more paper than lady b---- from whom i had this, would choose to give me. my own metamorphosis is indeed so extraordinary, that i must make you acquainted with it. you know i am really very thick and short, prodigiously talkative and wonderfully impudent. now i am thin and tall, strangely silent, and very bashful. if these things continue, who is safe? even you, boswell, may feel a change. your fair and transparent complexion may turn black and oily; your person little and squat; and who knows but you may eternally rave about the king of great britain's guards;[ ] a species of madness, from which good lord deliver us! [footnote : new-tarbat, a wild seat in the western highlands of scotland, surrounded with mountains.] [footnote : "far smoking o'er the interminable plain." --thomson's "seasons."--spring.--ed.] [footnote : boswell in a letter to his friend temple, dated may st , had thus described himself. "a young fellow whose happiness was always centred in london, ... who had got his mind filled with the most gay ideas--getting into the guards, being about court, enjoying the happiness of the _beau monde_, and the company of men of genius, &c."--ed.] i have often wondered, boswell, that a man of your taste in music, cannot play upon the jew's harp; there are some of us here that touch it very melodiously, i can tell you. corelli's solo of _maggie lauder_, and pergolesi's sonata of _the carle he came o'er the craft_, are excellently adapted to that instrument; let me advise you to learn it. the first cost is but three halfpence, and they last a long time. i have composed the following ode upon it, which exceeds pindar as much as the jew's harp does the organ. ode upon a jew's harp. i. sweet instrument! which fix'd in yellow teeth, so clear so sprightly and so gay is found, whether you breathe along the shore of leith, or lowmond's lofty cliffs thy strains resound; struck by a taper finger's gentle tip, ah softly in our ears thy pleasing murmurs slip! ii. where'er thy lively music's found, all are jumping, dancing round: ev'n trusty william lifts a leg, and capers like sixteen with peg; both old and young confess thy pow'rful sway, they skip like madmen and they frisk away. iii. rous'd by the magic of the charming air, the yawning dogs forego their heavy slumbers; the ladies listen on the narrow stair, and captain andrew straight forgets his numbers. cats and mice give o'er their battling, pewter plates on shelves are rattling; but falling down the noise my lady hears, whose scolding drowns the trump more tuneful than the spheres! having thus, boswell, written you a most entertaining letter, with which you are highly pleased; to your great grief i give over in these or the like words, your affectionate friend, andrew erskine. * * * * * letter viii. edinburgh, dec. , . dear erskine,--notwithstanding of your affecting elegy on the death of two pigs, i am just now returned from eating a most excellent one with the most magnificent donaldson. i wish you would explain to me the reason of my being so very hard-hearted as to discover no manner of reluctance at that innocent animal's being brought to table well roasted. i will confess to you, my friend, that i fed upon it with no small alacrity--neither do i feel any pangs of remorse for having so done. the reason perhaps lies so deep as to elude our keenest penetration;--at the same time give me leave to offer my conjecture, which you may have by a little transmutation of a vulgar adage, in such manner as to obtain at one and the same time (so to speak) not only a strong reason for my alleged inhumanity, but also an apparent pun, and a seeming paradox; all which you have for the small and easy charge of saying, the belly has no bowels. i do assure you the imperial sovereign of pope's head, caledonian dodsley, scottish baskerville, and captain general of collective bards, entertained us most sumptuously; i question much if captain erskine himself ever fared better; although i was the only author in the company, which i own surprised me not a little. donaldson is undoubtedly a gentleman perfectly skilled in the art of insinuation. his dinners are the most eloquent addresses imaginable. for my own part, i am never a sharer in one of his copious repasts, but i feel my heart warm to the landlord, and spontaneously conceive this expressive soliloquy,--upon my word i must give him another hundred lines. now, my dear captain, tell me how is it with you, after reading this? with what feeling are you most strongly possessed? but as this depends a good deal upon the time of the day at which you receive my epistle, i shall make no farther inquiry. thus, sir, have i unbosomed the big exultation which possessed me upon occasion of what some of the fathers would call _splendidum prandium_; englished thus, a splendid dinner. are not you all this time very much astonished, nay, somewhat piqued, that i have as yet made no mention of your last, notwithstanding of the wonderful enchantments which you relate, the sagacious advices which you give, and the ode to a jew's harp, which you add. forgive me, good captain. blame donaldson. write to me whenever you have any thing that you wish to say, and believe me, yours, james boswell. p.s. are not you very proud of your ode to midnight? lord k---- calls it the best poem in the english language. but it will not be long so. for in imitation of it i have written an ode to gluttony, of which take two stanzas. i. hail gluttony! o let me eat immensely at thy awful board, on which to serve the stomach meet, what art and nature can afford. i'll furious cram, devoid of fear, let but the roast and boil'd appear; let me but see a smoking dish, i care not whether fowl or fish; then rush ye floods of ale adown my throat, and in my belly make the victuals float! ii. and yet why trust a greasy cook? or give to meat the time of play? while ev'ry trout gulps down a hook, and poor dumb beasts harsh butchers slay? why seek the dull, sauce-smelling gloom, of the beef-haunted dining room; where d----r gives to every guest with lib'ral hand whate'er is best; while you in vain th' insurance must invoke to give security you shall not choke? * * * * * letter ix. new-tarbat, dec. , . dear boswell, ev'n now intent upon thy ode, i plunge my knife into the beef, which, when a cow--as is the mode-- was _lifted_ by a highland thief. ah! spare him, spare him, circuit lords! ah hang him not in hempen cords; ah save him in his morn of youth from the damp-breathing, dark[ ] tolbooth, lest when condemn'd and hung in clanking chains, his body moulder down white-bleached with winter rains! [footnote : tolbooth prison.] but let not me intermeddle with your province; to parody the ode to midnight, could only be thought of and executed by the mirth-moving, humour-hunting, raillery-raising james boswell. you must send me the rest of your gluttony by the return of the post, even though it should prove the night of the beard-soaping club. did you ever suspect me of believing your marriage? no, i always said from the beginning, there was nothing in it; i can bring twenty witnesses to prove it, who shall be nameless; indeed if you had been married, i don't know but the same gentlemen might have been prevailed upon to vouch for me that i frequently declared my firm persuasion of it; these kind of witnesses have multiplied greatly of late years, to the eternal credit of many a person's surprising sagacity; but if you want to see this subject pursued and treated with accuracy, peruse doctor woodward's treatise of fossils, particularly his remarks upon the touchstone. i am glad to hear you are returned to town, and once more near that seat of learning and genius mr. alexander donaldson's shop. you tell me you are promoted to be his corrector of the press; i wish you also had the office of correcting his children, which they very much want; the eldest son, when i was there, never failed to play at taw all the time, and my queue used frequently to be pulled about; you know, upon account of its length it is very liable to these sort of attacks; i am thinking to cut it off, for i never yet met with a child that could keep his hands from it: and here i can't forbear telling you, that if ever you marry and have children, our acquaintance ceases from that moment, unless you breed them up after the manner of the great scriblerus, and unless they be suckled with soft verse, and weaned with criticism. write me when the volume will be published, and what sort of figure you think it will make, particularly how james boswell and andrew erskine will appear; i know you will mix your opinion with a good deal of partial praise, as you are one of those extraordinary authors that have a love for their own works, and also one of those still more extraordinary ones that can flatter another. i find fault with one or two things in your letters; i could wish you wrote in a smaller hand, and that when you end a sentence in the beginning of a line, you would begin the next sentence in the same line. dear boswell, go to donaldson and tell him he is a most inhuman miscreant, and deserves, as he is a printer, to be pressed to death; then thunder in his ear that he has not sent captain erskine his critical review. lady b---- entreats that you would come here and spend the christmas holidays; she has sent for two highland bards to entertain you, and i have a wash-ball and a stick of pomatum much at your service: we are all, thank god, in general pretty clear of the itch just now, and most of us not near so lousy as we used to be, so i think you may venture. i received your letter ten days after the date, though it only came from edinburgh; i had wrote you one some little time before, directed to the parliament-close, have you got it? that you may never want odes of mine to parody, i enclose you one to fear,[ ] nothing like it you will observe since the time of pindar. [footnote : this ode is not worth reprinting.--ed.] and now, my dear dear boswell, i conclude, having, as i hope for mercy, not one word more to say, which i believe is often the case of many an enormous genius. farewell. yours, &c., andrew erskine. * * * * * letter x. edinburgh, dec. , . dear erskine,--it is a very strange thing, that i james boswell, esq., "who am happily possessed of a facility of manners,"--(to use the very words of mr. professor smith,[ ] which upon honour were addressed to me. i can produce the letter in which they are to be found) i say it is a very strange thing that i should ever be at a loss how to express myself; and yet at this moment of my existence, that is really the case. may lady b---- say unto me, "boswell, i detest thee," if i am not in downright earnest. [footnote : adam smith. boswell had attended his classes on moral philosophy, when a student in the university of glasgow.--ed.] mankind are such a perverse race of beings, that they never fail to lay hold of every circumstance tending to their own praise, while they let slip every circumstance tending to their censure. to illustrate this by a recent example, you see i accurately remember mr. smith's beautiful, i shall even grant you just compliment, but have quite forgot his severe criticism on a sentence so clumsily formed, as to require an _i say_ to keep it together; which i myself candidly think much resembles a pair of ill-mended breeches. having a mind, erskine, to open a sluice of happiness upon you, i must inform you that i have lately got you an immensity of applause from men of the greatest taste. you know i read rather better than any man in britain; so that your works had a very uncommon advantage. i was pleased at the praise which you received. i was vain of having such a correspondent. i thought i did not envy you a bit, and yet, i don't know, i felt somehow, as if i could like to thresh you pretty heartily: however, i have one comfort, in thinking that all this praise would not have availed you a single curl of sir cloudesley shovel's periwig,[ ] had not i generously reported it to you: so that in reality you are obliged to me for it. [footnote : "sir cloudesley shovel's monument has very often given me great offence: instead of the brave, rough english admiral, which was the distinguishing character of that plain, gallant man, he is represented on his tomb by the figure of a beau, dressed in a long periwig, and reposing himself upon velvet cushions under a canopy of state."--the "spectator," no. .--ed.] the second volume of the poems will not be published till january. captain erskine will make a very good figure. boswell a decent one. lady b---- intreats me to come and pass the christmas holidays with her: guess, o guess! what transport i felt at reading that. i did not know how to contain my elevation of spirits. i thought myself one of the greatest geniuses in europe. i thought i could write all sorts of books, and work at all handicraft trades. i imagined that i had fourscore millions of money out at interest, and that i should actually be chosen pope at the next election. i obtest you, my friend, in the warmest spirit of love to return to her ladyship my most sincere thanks, and tell her that when the planets permit us to meet, she herself shall judge how richly i can express my gratitude. although i am a good deal of a don quixote, yet i feel myself averse to so long a journey. believe me, i am as sweetly indolent as any genius in all his majesty's dominions, so that for my own incitement i must propose the following scheme. you captain andrew shall, upon monday the th day of this present month, set out from new-tarbat in mr. m----'s chaise, and meet me at glasgow, that evening. next day shall we both in friendly guise get into the said chaise, and drive with velocity to your present habitation, where i shall remain till the monday sennight; on which day i shall be in like manner accompanied back to glasgow, from thence to make my way as well as i can, to the scottish metropolis. i have told the story of my scheme rather awkwardly; but it will have its advantages; i shall have a couple of days more of your classical company, and somewhat less to pay, which to a poet is no slender consideration. i shall chaise it the whole way. thanks to the man who first invented that comfortable method of journeying. had it not been for that, i dare say both you and i would have circumscribed our travels within a very few miles. for my own part, i think to dress myself in a great-coat and boots, and get astride a horse's back, and be jolted through the mire, perhaps in wind and rain, is a punishment too severe for all the offences which i can charge myself with. indeed i have a mortal antipathy at riding, and that was the true reason for my refusing a regiment of dragoons which the king of prussia offered me at the beginning of this war. i know indeed the marischal duke de belleisle in his political testament,[ ] has endeavoured to persuade the world that it was owing to my having a private amour with a lady of distinction in the austrian court, but that minister was too deeply immersed in state-intrigues, to know much about those of a more tender nature. the tumultuous hurry of business and ambition, left no room in his mind for the delicious delicacy of sentiment and passion, so very essential to a man of gallantry. [footnote : "avez-vous lu le _testament politique du maréchal de belle-isle_? c'est un ex-capucin de rouen, nommé jadis maubert, fripon, espion, escroc, menteur et ivrogne, ayant tous les talens de moinerie, qui a composé cet impertinent ouvrage."--voltaire, nov. , .--ed.] i think, erskine, in this scheme of mine, i am playing a very sure game, for you must either indulge me in every article which i have mentioned, or entertain me with a plentiful dish of well drest apologies. i beg it of you, however, don't put yourself to any inconvenience; indeed i might have saved myself the trouble of making this request, for you are that kind of man that i believe you would not put yourself to an inconvenience to be made a lieutenant-general. pray shall we not see you here this winter at all? you ought to come and eat the fruit of your labours. i remain your most affectionate friend, james boswell. i shall rouse donaldson as you desire. i shall rouse him like a peal of thunder. i wonder what you will all think of this proposal of mine for delivering myself in folio. ten days make a period, as i use to say. they bear some proportion to the whole of life. write instantly. * * * * * letter xi.[ ] [footnote : this letter was occasioned by seeing an ode to tragedy, written by a gentleman of scotland, and dedicated to james boswell, esq., advertised in the edinburgh newspapers. it afterwards appeared that the ode was written by mr. boswell himself.] new-tarbat, dec. , . dear boswell,--an ode to tragedy by a gentleman of scotland, and dedicated to you! had there been only one spark of curiosity in my whole composition, this would have raised it to a flame equal to the general conflagration. may g----d d----n me, as lord peter says,[ ] if the edge of my appetite to know what it can be about, is not as keen as the best razor ever used by a member of the soaping-club. go to donaldson, demand from him two of my franks, and send it me even before the first post: write me, o write me! what sort of man this author is, where he was born, how he was brought up, and with what sort of diet he has been principally fed; tell me his genealogy, like mr. m----; how many miles he has travelled in post-chaises, like colonel r----; tell me what he eats, like a cook; what he drinks, like a wine-merchant; what shoes he wears, like a shoe-maker; in what manner his mother was delivered of him, like a man-midwife; and how his room is furnished, like an upholsterer; but if you happen to find it difficult to utter all this in terms befitting mr. m----, colonel r----, a cook, a wine-merchant, a shoemaker, a man-midwife, and an upholsterer, oh! tell it me all in your own manner, and in your own incomparable style. [footnote : in the "tale of a tub."--ed.] your scheme, boswell, has met with--but the thoughts of this ode-writing gentleman of scotland again come across me,--i must now ask, like the spectator,[ ] is he fat or lean, tall or short, does he use spectacles? what is the length of his walking-stick? has he a landed estate? has he a good coal-work?--lord! lord! what a melancholy thing it is to live twenty miles from a post-town! why am i not in edinburgh? why am i not chained to donaldson's shop? [footnote : "i have observed that a reader seldom peruses a book with pleasure, till he knows whether the writer of it be a black or a fair man, of a mild or choleric disposition, married or a bachelor, with other particulars of the like nature that conduce very much to the right understanding of an author."--"the spectator," no. .--ed.] i received both your letters yesterday, for we send to the post-house but once a week: i need not tell you how i liked them; were i to acquaint you with that, you would consecrate the pen with which they were written, and deify the inkhorn: i think the outside of one of them was adorned with the greatest quantity of good sealing-wax i ever saw, and my brother a---- and lady a----, both of whom have a notable comprehension of these sort of things, agree with me in this my opinion. your ode to gluttony[ ] is altogether excellent; the descriptions are so lively, that mistaking the paper on which they were written, for a piece of bread and butter spread with marmalade, i fairly swallowed the whole composition, and i find my stomach increased three-fold since that time; i declare it to be the most admirable whet in the world, superior to a solan goose, or white wine and bitters; it ought to be hung up in every cook's shop in the three kingdoms, engraved on pillars in all market places, and pasted in all rooms in all taverns. [footnote : he refers to the continuation of this ode, which i have omitted in the present edition.--ed.] you seem to doubt in your first letter, if ever captain erskine was better entertained by the great donaldson, than you was lately; banish that opinion, tell it not in gath; nor publish it in askalon; repeat it not in john's coffee-house, neither whisper it in the abbey of holyrood-house; no, i shall never forget the fowls and oyster sauce which bedecked the board: fat were the fowls, and the oysters of the true pandour or croat kind; then the apple pie with raisins, and the mutton with cauliflower, can never be erased from my remembrance; i may forget my native country, my dear brothers and sisters, my poetry, my art of making love, and even you, o boswell! but these things i can never forget; the impression is too deep, too well imprinted ever to be effaced; i may turn turk or hottentot, i may be hanged for stealing a bag to adorn my hair, i may ravish all sorts of virgins, young and old, i may court the fattest wapping landlady, but these things i can never forget; i may be sick and in prison, i may be deaf, dumb, and may lose my memory, but these things i can never forget. and now, boswell, i am to acquaint you, that your proposal is received with the utmost joy and festivity, and the scheme, if i live till to-morrow fortnight, will be put in execution. the new-tarbat chaise will arrive at glasgow on monday evening the th of december, drove by william. captain andrew's slim personage will slip out, he will enquire for james boswell, esq.; he will be shewn into the room where he is sitting before a large fire, the evening being cold, raptures and poetry will ensue, and every man will soap his own beard; every other article of the proposals will be executed as faithfully as this; but to speak very seriously, you must be true to your appointment, and come with the utmost regularity upon the monday; think of my emotions at græme's, if you should not come; view my melancholy posture; hark! i rave like lady wishfort,[ ] no boswell yet, boswell's a lost thing. i must receive a letter from you before i set out, telling me whether you keep true to your resolution, and pray send me the ode to tragedy: i beg you'll bring me out in your pocket my critical review, which you may desire donaldson to give you; but above all, employ donaldson to get me a copy of fingal,[ ] which tell him i'll pay him for; i long to see it. [footnote : in "the way of the world," by congreve.--ed.] [footnote : the first volume of macpherson's "fingal" was published this winter.--ed.] there are some things lately published in london, which i would be glad to have, particularly a spousal hymn on the marriage of the king and queen, and an elegy on viewing a ruined pile of buildings; see what you can do for me; i know you will not take it ill to be busied a little for that greatest of all poets captain andrew. the sluice of happiness you have let in upon me, has quite overflowed the shallows of my understanding; at this moment i am determined to write more and print more than any man in the kingdom, except the great dr. hill, who writes a folio every month, a quarto every fortnight, an octavo every week, and a duodecimo every day.[ ] hogarth has humourously represented a brawny porter almost sinking to the ground under a huge load of his works. i am too lazy just now to copy out an ode to indolence, which i have lately written; besides, it's fitting i reserve something for you to peruse when we meet, for upon these occasions an exchange of poems ought to be as regular as an exchange of prisoners between two nations at war. believe me, dear boswell, to be yours sincerely, andrew erskine. [footnote : "would you believe, what i know is fact, that dr. hill earned fifteen guineas a week by working for wholesale dealers? he was at once employed on six voluminous works of botany, husbandry, &c., published weekly."--horace walpole, date of jan. , .--ed.] p.s.--pray write me before i set out for glasgow.--the ode to tragedy, by a gentleman of scotland, good now! wonderful! * * * * * letter xii. edinburgh, saturday, dec. , . dear erskine,--if my scheme takes, you must alter it. thursday the th must be the day of our meeting, as i am obliged to return hither on saturday the nd of january. this is really a curious way of employing you; however, you will gain something by it; you will acquire a particular exactness in knowing the days of the month, a science too much neglected in these degenerate days, but a science which was cultivated with a glorious ardour in greece and rome, and was no doubt the cause of their flourishing so much in every respect. i am yours sincerely, james boswell. * * * * * letter xiii. edinburgh, dec. , . dear erskine,--had you but hinted a method of conveyance sooner than by the first post, sooner should the ode to tragedy have saluted your longing eyes. at length it comes! it comes! hark! with what lofty music do the spheres proclaim its triumphal entry into the majestic edifice at tarbat! behold the family gathered around it in a sort of quadrangular figure! heavens! what a picture of curiosity! what a group of eager expectants! they show their teeth, they rub their hands, they kick the floor! but who is this the fire of whose look flames infinitely beyond the rest? it is captain andrew! it is! it is! ye gods! he seizes! he opens! he reads! let us leave him. i can no more. it would stretch the strings too far to proceed. you must know i purposely neglected to send the ode myself, and likewise prevented donaldson from sending it immediately when it was published, in order to give full play to your impatience. i considered what amazing effects it must produce upon captain erskine, to find in one advertisement, an ode to tragedy--a gentleman of scotland--alexander donaldson--and james boswell, esq. how far my conjecture was just, your last letter does most amply testify. the author of the ode to tragedy, is a most excellent man: he is of an ancient family in the west of scotland, upon which he values himself not a little. at his nativity there appeared omens of his future greatness. his parts are bright, and his education has been good. he has travelled in post-chaises, miles without number. he is fond of seeing much of the world. he eats of every good dish, especially apple-pie. he drinks old hock. he has a very fine temper. he is somewhat of an humorist, and a little tinctured with pride. he has a good manly countenance, and he owns himself to be amorous. he has infinite vivacity, yet is observed at times to have a melancholy cast. he is rather fat than lean, rather short than tall, rather young than old. his shoes are neatly made, and he never wears spectacles. the length of his walking-stick is not as yet ascertained; but we hope soon to favour the republic of letters with a solution of this difficulty, as several able mathematicians are employed in its investigation, and for that purpose have posted themselves at different given points in the cannongate, so that when the gentleman saunters down to the abbey of holyrood-house, in order to think on ancient days, on king james the fifth, and on queen mary, they may compute its altitude above the street, according to the rules of geometry. i hope you have received a line from me fixing thursday the th, as the day of our meeting. i exult in the prospect of felicity that is before us. fingal and your critical review shall accompany me. i will not anticipate your pleasure in reading the highland bard; only take my word for it, he will make you feel that you have a soul. i shall remember your other commissions. continue to trust me till you find me negligent. i beg it of you, for once, be a frenchman, and in the character of boswell, kneel, supplicate, worship lady b----. i remain, your affectionate friend, james boswell. * * * * * letter xiv. new-tarbat, dec. , . dear boswell,--swift as pen can scratch, or ink can flow, as floods can rush, or winds can blow, which you'll observe is a very pretty rhyme, i sit down on a chair which has really a very bad bottom, being made of wood, and answer your epistle which i received this moment; it is dated on saturday the th, which was really the th, according to the computation of the best chronologists: this is a blunder which sir isaac newton would never have excused; but i a man no less great, forgive it from my soul; and i here declare, that i will never upbraid you with it in any company or conversation, even though that conversation should turn upon the quickest and most pleasant method of swallowing oysters, when you know i might very naturally introduce it. i confess it is singularly silly in me to turn the page in this manner, and that i should have followed your example, or rather ensample, as some great judges of style usually write it. i see by the newspapers, that fingal is to be published at edinburgh in a few days, pray bring it with you. i will undoubtedly meet you at glasgow on the th day of the month, being exactly that day which precedes christmas, as was ingeniously observed by mr. sheridan in his fourth lecture;[ ] and i hear he is going to publish a whole volume of discoveries all as notable as this, which i imagine will exceed his lectures greatly. [footnote : "course of lectures on elocution," by thomas sheridan, m.a. london, .--ed.] pray now be faithful to this appointment, and so i commit this letter to the guidance of providence, hoping that it will not miscarry, or fail of being duly delivered. believe me yours sincerely, andrew erskine. * * * * * letter xv. new-tarbat, jan. , . dear boswell,--the storms of night descended, the winds rolled along the clouds with all their ghosts, around the rock the dark waves burst, and shewed their flaming bosoms, loud rushed the blast through the leafless oaks, and the voice of the spirit of the mountains was heard in our halls; it was saturday, when lo! at once the postman came, mighty was his striding in the kitchen, and strong was his voice for ale. in short, i have as yet received no letter from you, and great is my wonder and astonishment, even donaldson has not sent me my critical review; would to god he had one rap from fingal's sword of luno. i feel myself at this present moment capable of writing a letter which would delight you, but i am determined not to do it, and this is the severe punishment of your neglect, i withhold the treasures of my wit and humour from you, a perfect golconda mine of diamonds. i have been enjoying since you left me, the most exquisite entertainment, in the perusal of the noble works of ossian, the greatest poet, in my opinion, that ever composed, and who exceeds homer, virgil, and milton. he transports us by the grandeur of his sublime, or by some sudden start of tenderness he melts us into distress: who can read, without the warmest emotions, the pathetic complaints of the venerable old bard, when he laments his blindness, and the death of his friends? but how are we animated when the memory of former years comes rushing on his mind, and the light of the song rises in his soul. it is quite impossible to express my admiration of his poems; at particular passages i felt my whole frame trembling with ecstasy; but if i was to describe all my thoughts, you would think me absolutely mad. the beautiful wildness of his fancy is inexpressibly agreeable to the imagination; for instance, the mournful sound from the untouched harp when a hero is going to fall, or the awful appearances of his ghosts and spirits. notwithstanding all these beauties, we shall still continue pedants, and homer and virgil will be read and quoted, when ossian shall be totally forgot; this, without the gift of prophecy, i can foresee; much could i enlarge upon this subject, but this must not be a long letter. believe me yours sincerely, andrew erskine. * * * * * letter xvi. edinburgh, jan. , . dear erskine,--instead of endeavouring to excuse myself for neglecting so long to write, i shall present you with some original conjectures of my own, upon the way and manner in which you have been affected upon this present occasion. and here i must premise, that in so doing i shall not follow the formal and orderly method of bishop latimer, in his sermons before king edward the sixth; but, on the contrary, shall adopt the easy, desultory style of one whom at present i shall not venture to name, but leave that to some future ingenious commentator on the epistolary correspondence of the hon. andrew erskine and james boswell, esq. either you have been sunk into a frigid state of listless indifference, and gone whistling up and down the room upon a fife, and murmuring at intervals, while you took breath; let him do as he likes, let him please himself; yes, yes, let him soap his own beard. or you have felt the most delicate pangs of afflicted sensibility, and uttered tender tales of woe in softly plaintive numbers. the savage bard returns no humorous line, no tragic ode now sooths my soul to rest; in vain i fly to lady b----'s wine, nor can a hearty supper make me blest. or you have burned, raged, and fried like the thrice-amorous swain in the renowned english translation of voi amante, and perhaps thundered forth all the anathemas which tristram shandy has borrowed from the church of rome, and transferred to poor obadiah. by this time, the storm is blown over. this merry letter has made you grin, and show every expression of laughter. you are now in very good humour, and are in all human probability saying to yourself, my good friend boswell, is a most excellent correspondent. it is true he is indolent, and _dissipated_, as the celebrated parson brown,[ ] of carlisle says, and he frequently is a little negligent: but when he does write, ye gods! how he does write! in short, to sing him his own inimitable song, "there is no better fellow alive." i remain yours sincerely, james boswell. [footnote : dr. john brown, the author of "an estimate of the manners and principles of the times."--ed.] * * * * * letter xvii. new-tarbat, jan. , . dear boswell,--it is a kind of maxim, or rule in life, never to begin a thing without having an eye towards the conclusion; certainly this rule was never better observed than in your last letter, in which indeed i am apt to think you kept the conclusion rather too much in view, or perhaps you forgot the beginning altogether, which is not unfrequently the case with you; but you do these things with so little compunction, that i shall very soon cease to forgive you, and answer you in the same manner. it is to be feared, that the dissolution of our correspondence will immediately follow, or dwindle into half a page of your text hand, which i always looked upon as a detestable invention: if all this that i dread happens, we shall then cease to be reckoned men of letters. i find it recorded in the history of the eastern roman empire, that it was the custom whenever the inhabitants of constantinople mutinied for want of bread, to whip all the bakers through the city, which always appeased the populace; in like manner, boswell, i having dreamt a few nights ago, that i had whipt you severely, find my wrath and resentment very much mollified; not so much indeed i confess, as if i had really had the pleasure of actually correcting you, but however i am pretty well satisfied. you was quite mistaken as to the manner i bore your silence; i only thought it was a little droll. donaldson tells me, that he wants thirty or forty pages to complete his volume; pray don't let him insert any nonsense to fill it up, but try john home[ ] and john r----, who i hear is a very good poet; you may also hint the thing to mr. n----, and to my brother, lord k----, who has some excellent poems by him. [footnote : the author of "douglas."--ed.] since i saw you, i received a letter from mr. d----; it is filled with encomiums upon you: he says there is a great deal of humility in your vanity, a great deal of tallness in your shortness, and a great deal of whiteness in your black complexion. he says there is a great deal of poetry in your prose, and a great deal of prose in your poetry. he says, that as to your late publication, there is a great deal of ode in your dedication, and a great deal of dedication in your ode; it would amaze you to see how d---- keeps up this see-saw, which you'll remark has prodigious wit in it. he says there is a great deal of coat in your waistcoat, and a great deal of waistcoat in your coat; that there is a great deal of liveliness in your stupidity, and a great deal of stupidity in your liveliness; but to write you all he says, would require rather more fire in my grate, than there is at present; and my fingers would undoubtedly be numbed, for there is a great deal of snow in this frost, and a great deal of frost in this snow: in short, upon this occasion he writes like a christian and a poet, and a physician and an orator, and a jew. pray, boswell, tell me particularly in your first letter, how fingal has been received; that book will serve me as a criterion, to discover the taste of the present age. boswell, imitate me in your writing; observe how closely the lines are joined, how near the words are written to one another, and how small the letters are formed; i am praiseworthy in this particular. adieu. yours sincerely, andrew erskine. * * * * * letter xviii. edinburgh, jan. , . dear erskine,--i would not for all the books in donaldson's shop that our correspondence should cease. rather, much rather would i trot a horse in the hottest day in summer, between fort george and aberdeen; rather, much rather would i hold the office of him who every returning noon plays upon the music-bells of the good town of edinburgh;[ ] and rather, much rather would i be condemned to pass the next seven years of my life, as a spiritless student at the college of glasgow. [footnote : "all the people of business at edinburgh, and even the genteel company may be seen standing in crowds every day, from one to two in the afternoon, in the open street.... the company are entertained with a variety of tunes, played upon a set of bells, fixed in a steeple hard by. as these bells are well toned, and the musician, who has a salary from the city for playing upon them with keys, is no bad performer, the entertainment is really agreeable, and very striking to the ears of a stranger."--"humphry clinker," vol. ii., p. .--ed.] let our wit, my friend, continue to shine in a succession of brilliant sparkles. let there be no more distance between each flash of vivacity, but what is necessary for giving time to observe its splendid radiance. i hope i shall never again approach so near the clod of clay. i hope the fire of my genius shall never again be so long in kindling, or so much covered up with the dross of stupidity. i have desired donaldson to cause his correspondent at london, to send a copy of the first volume of his collection to each of the reviews, that is to say, to hamilton[ ] and griffiths, with whose names the slate-blue covers of these awful oracles of criticism are inscribed. [footnote : hamilton was the proprietor of "the critical review." its first editor was smollett. griffiths was the proprietor of "the monthly review." goldsmith worked for him for some time. griffiths was fool enough to venture, with the aid of his wife, to correct goldsmith's compositions.--see forster's "life of goldsmith."--ed.] donaldson has yet about thirty-six pages of the second volume to print. i have given him two hundred lines more. he is a loadstone of prodigious power, and attracts all my poetic needles. the volume will be out next week; the different pieces of which it is composed are, to be sure, not all of equal merit. but is not that the case in every miscellaneous collection, even in that excellent one published by mr. dodsley? the truth is, that a volume printed in a small type exhausts an infinite quantity of _copy_ (to talk technically) so that we must not be over-nice in our choice, nor think every man in our ranks below size, who does not come up to the elevated standard of captain andrew. d----'s encomiums have rendered my humility still prouder; they are indeed superb, and worthy of an opposer of the german war. i suppose they have not lost a bit of beef by their long journey, and i should imagine that the highland air has agreed well with them, and that they have agreed well with the highland air. they occasioned much laughter in my heart, and much heart in my laughter. they have at last given over marrying me; so that i am going about like a horse wanting a halter, ready to be bridled and saddled by the first person who is so very fortunate as to lay hold of me. a simile not to be found in any author ancient or modern. we had a splendid ball at the abbey of holyrood-house, on the queen's birthday, given by colonel graeme. i exhibited my existence in a minuet, and as i was dressed in a full chocolate suit, and wore my most solemn countenance, i looked as you used to tell me, like the fifth act of a deep tragedy. lord k---- danced with miss c----, by the fire of whose eyes, his melodious lordship's heart is at present in a state of combustion. such is the declaration which he makes in loud whispers many a time and oft. our friend h---- s---- is in town this winter. he is a most surprising old fellow. i am told he is some years past sixty; and yet he has all the vivacity and frolic, and whim of the sprightliest youth. he continues to rank all mankind under the general denomination of gilbert. he patrols the streets at midnight as much as ever, and beats with as much vigour the town-guard drum; nor is his affection for the company of blind fiddlers, in the least abated. fingal has been very warmly received at london. a second edition of it is just now come out. the public taste you will allow is good at present: long may it last. long may the voice of the venerable bard be heard with unaffected pleasure. i see your regiment is ordered for england. i hope you will be allowed to recruit, or have leave of absence, as it would be very severe upon you to be moved from your present situation. if you will number the lines in our pages, you will find i have twenty-three, whereas you have only eighteen. i enclose you the sorrowful lamentation of a stabler called hutchison, who, on wednesday last was whipt through this town, for forcing away a young man as a recruit, and beating him unmercifully. the said lamentation you will find is in verse; and although sold for a single penny, is a work of remarkable merit. the exordium is a passionate address to captains all; amongst whom, who can more properly be reckoned than captain andrew? i remain your sincere friend, james boswell. * * * * * letter xix. morpeth, feb. th, . dear boswell,--and lo i am at morpeth, after meeting with every accident that could possibly happen to a man in a post-chaise, overturns, breaking of springs, dropping of wheels, and sticking in roads, though with four horses. we imagine we are to remain in this town some time. upon looking over my poems, in the second volume, i find several errors; i'm afraid you have not corrected the press so violently as you boasted. perhaps, boswell, this will be the worst and the shortest letter i ever wrote to you; i'm writing in an inn, and half-a-dozen people in the room; but when i'm settled in lodgings of my own, expect epistles in the usual style. i think you two or three times have treated me as i treat you now, so i remain your most humble servant, and affectionate friend, andrew erskine. p.s.--never was there such a tame subjected performance as this. * * * * * letter xx. morpeth, feb. , . dear boswell,--i beg you will get a copy of the second volume of the poems, and send me it by the man who brings you this; let it be a neat one, well-bound: pray tell me what people say of the book. your currant-jelly is good, has a delicious flavour, and tastes much of the fruit, as my aunts say. i did not make out all the names in your race-ballad cleverly. i am still in the way i was, when i wrote you last, in a public-house, and pestered with noise: i have not above six ideas at present, and none of them fit for a letter. dear boswell, farewell! pray for my recovery from this lethargy of spirits and sense which has seized me. yours, &c. andrew erskine. * * * * * letter xxi. edinburgh, feb. , . dear erskine,--to see your brother ---- at morpeth, will, i dare say, surprise you as much as it did me, to find him here. in short, nothing will serve him but a sight of the british capital, although he is already much better acquainted with it than either you or i. what has at present instigated him i own i am puzzled to discover: but i solemnly and merrily declare, that i never yet saw anybody so excessively enamoured of london. the effects of this violent passion are deeply impressed upon every feature in his countenance, his nose not excepted, which is absolutely most surprising. his body is tossed and shaken like one afflicted with the hot fit of an ague, or the severest paroxysms of convulsion. then as to his mind, it is altogether distempered. he is perpetually declaiming on the magnificence, the liberty, and the pleasure, which reigns in the imperial british metropolis. he swears, that in that glorious place alone we can enjoy life. he says, there is no breathing beyond st. james's; and he affirms, that the air of that delicious spot is celestial. he says, there is no wit except at the bedford; no military genius but at george's; no wine but at the star and garter; no turbot except at the tilt-yard. he asserts, that there are no clothes made beyond the liberties of westminster; and he firmly holds cheapside to be the sole mart of stockings. it would fill up two-thirds of a quarto volume to enumerate the various extravagant exclamations into which he breaks out. he declares that for his own part, he will never go to church except to st. paul's, nor to a lady's private lodgings, except in the neighbourhood of soho-square. i beg it of you, my friend, be very attentive to him; observe his appearance and behaviour with the greatest accuracy, so that between us we may be able to have a pretty just notion of this wonderful affair, and may faithfully draw up his case to be read before the royal society, and transmitted to posterity in these curious annals the philosophical transactions. i have sent you the second volume, which donaldson begs leave to present you with, in consideration of your being one of those who bear the brunt of the day. he has also done me the same honour. no plain shop copy; no, no, elegantly bound and gilt. adieu, yours sincerely, james boswell. * * * * * letter xxii. morpeth, march , . oh, boswell! if you found yourself in the middle of the firth of forth, and the sea fast up-springing through every leak, after the skipper had remonstrated, in the most warm manner, against proceeding to cross the water; or if, like me, you found yourself in the midst of a sentence, without knowing how to end it, you could not feel more pain than i do at this instant: in short, i have had a very excellent letter of yours in my left waistcoat-pocket this fortnight; is that letter answered? you say: oh! let the reply to this question be buried in the bottom of the red sea, where i hope no future army will ever disturb it; or let it be inserted in the third volume of donaldson's collection, where it will never be found, as the book will never be opened. what would i not do to gain your pardon? i would even swear that black was white; that's to say, i would praise the fairness of your complexion. by that smile which irradiates your countenance, like a gleam of the moon through the black clouds of the south; by the melting of that pomatum which gives your hair a gloss, like the first beaming of a new suit of regimentals on an assembly night, when twenty fiddlers sweat; by the grandeur of your pinchbeck buckles; by the solemnity of your small nose; by the blue expended in washing your shirts; by the rotundity of your bath great-coat; by the well-polished key of your portmanteau; by the tag of your shoe; by the tongue of your buckle; by your tailor's bill; by the last kiss of miss c----; by the first guinea you ever had in your possession; and chiefly by all the nonsense you have just read, let the kneeling captain find favour in your eyes, and then, my ode to goodnature shall be inscribed to you, while your ode to ingratitude (which, i suppose, is finished) shall be burnt. i was, as you imagine, very much surprised to see a---- here; i noted him, according to your direction, with a critical eye; like a gentleman in a line which you may remember i made on the castle-hill, he seemed to have taken the tower of london for his bride; every feature and every limb was changed wonderfully; his nose resembled westminster-bridge; his cheeks were like bloomsbury-square; his high forehead like constitution-hill; his chin like china-row; his tongue and his teeth looked like almack's in pall-mall; his lips like the shakespeare's head; his fists like hockley-in-the-hole; his ears like the opera-house; his eyes like a harlequin entertainment; his stomach was like craven-street; his chest like the trunk-maker's in the corner of st. paul's-church-yard; the calf of his leg like leadenhall-market; his pulse like the green-market in covent-garden; his neck like tyburn; and his gait like newgate; his navel like fleet-street; and his lungs and his bladder were like blowbladder-street: everything about him seemed metamorphosed; he had moulded his hat into the form of the mansion-house; some guineas which he had, looked like the 'change; but it would be tedious to relate every particular; however, i must not let his conversation be forgot, though it was much of a piece with that you so humorously relate: he swore to me he never saw a rag fit for a gentleman to wear, but in rag-fair; he said there was no scolding but at billingsgate; and he avowed there were no bad poets but in grub-street; i could not stand that, i bid him call to remembrance an acquaintance of his who lived in the parliament-close, and also a relation of his who formerly resided in campbell's land; he smiled, and confessed these were really very bad poets, but that he was not convinced for all that; upon this, to put the matter out of all dispute, i offered to lend him the first and second volumes of donaldson's collection. at that very moment the hostler informed him the chaise was ready, and he still remains ignorant where the worst poets in the world are. tell me how our second volume is received; i was much pleased with n----'s lines; how did he get them inserted? i intend writing a criticism upon the volume, and upon your writings in particular, so tremble. dear boswell, farewell, yours most affectionately, andrew erskine. p.s.--i hope you'll write to me soon. * * * * * letter xxiii. edinburgh, march , . dear erskine,--can a man walk up the cowgate after a heavy rain without dirtying his shoes? i might have said the soles of his shoes:--and, indeed, to put the matter beyond dispute, i would yet have you to understand me so; for although nothing is so common as to use a part for the whole; yet if you should be out of humour with a bad dinner, a bad lodging, an ill-dressed shirt, or an ill-printed book, you might be disposed to cavil, and object, that in critical precision of language, (supposing a man to walk slow) he could not be said to have dirtied his shoes, no more than a boarding-school girl, who has cut her finger in paring an apple, could be said to have mangled her carcase. but to proceed; can a man make a pilgrimage to the holy land from the island of great britain, without the aid of navigation? can a man walk in the mall at noon, carrying his breeches upon an enormous long pole, without being laughed at? can a man of acknowledged ignorance and stupidity, write a tragedy superior to hamlet? or a genteel comedy superior to the careless husband?[ ] i need not wait for an answer. no word but no, will do: it is self-evident. no more, my friend, can he who is lost in dissipation, write a letter. i am at present so circumstanced; accept this short line in answer to your last, and write very soon to your affectionate friend, james boswell. [footnote : by colley cibber. "who upon earth has written such perfect comedies (as molière)? for the 'careless husband' is but one."--horace walpole, aug. , .--ed.] * * * * * letter xxiv. new-tarbat, april , . dear boswell,--the sun which rose on wednesday last, with his first beams beheld you set out for auchinleck, but he did not see me arrive in edinburgh; however, he was good-natured enough to lend a little light to the moon, by the help of which, about twelve at night i landed at peter ramsay's: the thoughts of seeing you next day kept up my spirits, during a stage of seventeen miles. william he snored; i called upon you, after being refreshed with soft slumbers, in which my guardian genius did not inform me of your absence: but oh! when the maid told me you was gone, what were my emotions! she beholding me affected in a most supreme degree, tried to administer comfort to me, and plainly told me, that you would be very sorry you had missed me, this delivered in an elegant manner, soothed me prodigiously. i began writing this at graham's in glasgow, but was interrupted by a jowl of salmon; every thing there reminded me of you. i was in the same room you and i were in, you seemed placed before me, your face beamed a black ray upon me. i am now at new-tarbat, once more returned to the scenes of calm retirement, and placid meditation, as mr. samuel johnson says in the idler.[ ] we all wish to have you here, and we all agree in thinking that there is nothing to hinder you to come. [footnote : "i am now, as i could wish every man of wisdom and virtue to be, in the regions of calm content and placid meditation."--"the idler," no. .--ed.] i must beg your pardon seriously for not writing to you, but i was really in such bad spirits, and such ill temper, at that cursed place morpeth, that it was impossible; but i assure you i will make up terribly. i am recruiting again; i believe our regiment won't go abroad this summer. i was glad to see by the london newspapers, that mr. robert dodsley had at last published your cub: mr. h---- showed me a very severe epigram that somebody in london had written upon it. you know it is natural to take a lick at a cub. pray come to us. i cannot all at once come into the way of letter-writing again, so i must conclude, dear boswell, your affectionate friend, andrew erskine. * * * * * letter xxv. auchinleck, april , . dear erskine,--this is a strange world that we live in. things turn out in a very odd manner. every day produces something more wonderful than another. earthquakes, murders, conflagrations, inundations, jubilees, operas, marriages, and pestilence, unite to make mortal men gape and stare. but your last letter and mine being wrote on the same day, astonishes me still more than all these things put together. this is the most unaccountable rhodomontade that i ever uttered. i am really dull at present, and my affectation to be clever, is exceedingly awkward. my manner resembles that of a footman who has got an ensign's commission, or a kept mistress who is made a wife. i have not at any time been more insipid, more muddy, and more standing-water like than i am just now. the country is my aversion. it renders me quite torpid. were you here just now, you would behold your vivacious friend a most stupid exhibition. it is very surprising that the country should affect me so; whether it be that the scenes to be met with there, fall infinitely short of my ideas of pastoral simplicity; or that i have acquired so strong a relish for the variety and hurry of a town life, as to languish in the stillness of retirement; or that the atmosphere is too moist and heavy, i shall not determine. i have now pretty good hopes of getting soon into the guards, that gay scene of life of which i have been so long and so violently enamoured. surely this will cause you to rejoice. i have lately had the pleasure and the pride of receiving a most brilliant epistle from lady b----. it excels captain andrew's letters by many degrees. i have picked as many diamonds out of it, as to make me a complete set of buckles; i have turned so much of it into brocade waistcoats, and so much into a very rich suit of embroidered horse-furniture. i know how unequal i am to the task of answering it; nevertheless present her ladyship with the inclosed. it may amuse her a little. it is better to have two shillings in the pound, than nothing at all. i was really shocked at the lethargy of our correspondence. let it now be renovated with increase of spirit, so that i may not only subscribe myself your sincere friend, but your witty companion, james boswell. * * * * * letter xxvi. new-tarbat, may , . well then, my friend, you leave the bar, resolv'd on drums, on dress, and war, while fancy paints in liveliest hues, swords, sashes, shoulder-knots, reviews, you quit the study of the laws, and show a blade in britain's cause, of length to throw into a trance, the frighten'd kings of spain and france! a hat of fiercest cock is sought, and your cockade's already bought, while on your coat there beams a lace, that might a captain-general grace! for me, who never show admir'd, or very long ago was tir'd, i can with face unmov'd behold, a scarlet suit with glittering gold; and tho' a son of war and strife, detest the listless languid life; then coolly, sir, i say repent, and in derision hold a tent; leave not the sweet poetic band, to scold recruits, and pore on bland,[ ] our military books won't charm ye, not even th' enchanting list o' th' army. trust me, 'twill be a foolish sight, to see you facing to the right; and then, of all your sense bereft, returning back unto the left; alas! what transport can you feel, in turning round on either heel? much sooner would i choose indeed, to see you standing on your head; or with your breeches off to rub foul clothes, and dance within a tub. [footnote : humphrey bland, author of "military discipline," ( ). he served under the duke of marlborough. was present also at the battles of dettingen and fontenoy. became colonel of the second dragoon guards.--ed.] besides, my dear boswell, we find in all history ancient and modern, lawyers are very apt to run away. demosthenes the greek, writer to the signet, who managed the great suit against philip of macedon, fairly scoured off, i think, at the battle of cheronea; and cicero, the roman advocate is universally accused of cowardice. i am not indeed ignorant that some of your ancestors behaved well at flodden;[ ] but as they lost the day, i think the omen but bad, and as they were killed, i think that makes the omen still worse; however, perhaps you don't think so, and i allow that argument to be very convincing, and rather more conclusive, than if you had said, "i don't know that." [footnote : "thomas boswell obtained from james iv., as a signal mark of royal favour, the estate of auchinleck. he was slain at flodden."--"memoir of james boswell," by rev. c. rogers, p. .--ed.] you complain much of the country, and you assign various reasons for disliking it; among others, you imagine the atmosphere too moist and heavy; i agree with you in that opinion, all the black clouds in the sky are continually pressing upon you, for as the proverb says, like draws to like. believe me, i have sometimes taken you at a distance, for the pillar of smoke which used to accompany the israelites out of egypt; it would be impossible to tell how many things i have taken you for at different times; sometimes i have taken you for the witches' cauldron in macbeth; this resemblance was in some degree warranted by your figure and shape; sometimes for an enormous ink-bottle; sometimes for a funeral procession; now and then for a chimney sweeper, and not unfrequently for a black-pudding. for my part, boswell, i must confess i am fond of the country to a degree; things there are not so artificially disguised as in towns, real sentiments are discovered, and the passions play naturally and without restraint. as for example, it was only in the country i could have found out lady j----'s particular attachment to the tune of _appie mac-nab_; in the town, no doubt, she would have pretended a great liking for voi amante; in the town, i never would have seen lady b---- go out armed for fear of the turkey-cock, which is her daily practice here, and leaves room for numberless reflections: she cannot eat turkeys when roasted or boiled; and she dreads them when alive so much, that she displays every forenoon a cudgel to them, fitted by its size to strike terror into a bull, or a butting cow. what can her keeping of turkeys be owing to? assuredly to vanity, which is of such an insinuating nature, that we are apt very often to meet it where we least expect it; i have seen it in an old shoe, in a dirty shirt, in a long nose, a crooked leg, and a red face. so much it seemed good for me to say upon the subject of vanity, supporting by the most irrefragable arguments, the doctrine of solomon. we had a visit from mr. c---- of s---- here this morning; he came in a chaise drawn by four bay horses; i am certain of the number, you may draw what inference you please from this intelligence, i give you only a simple narration of the fact. i am surprised you say nothing of my proposal of your coming here, and still more that you say nothing of your cub. why don't you send me a copy? we were all so much entertained with your letter to lady b----, that i was really seized with a qualm of envy; we regard it as one of those efforts of genius, which are only produced by a fine flow of spirits, a beautiful day, and a good pen. i pray you, boswell, note well this sheet of paper, its size is magnificent: if lady b---- was possessed of such an extent of plain ground, she would undoubtedly throw it into a lawn, and plant it with clumps of trees, she would vary it with fish-ponds, and render it rural with flocks; here, where i am writing, might a cow feed; here might be an arbour; here, perhaps, might you recline at full length; by the edge of this stream might the captain walk, and in this corner, might lady b---- give orders to her shepherds. i am drawn in the most irresistible manner to conclude, by the external impulse of the cloth's being laid, and by the internal impulse of being hungry. believe me, boswell, to be in the most unconscionable manner, your affectionate friend, andrew erskine. p.s.--i send you franks, which return filled with the utmost wit and humour. * * * * * letter xxvii. auchinleck, may , . for military operation[ ] i have a wondrous inclination; ev'n when a boy, with cheerful glee, the red-coats march i used to see; with joy beheld the corporals drill, the men upon the castle-hill; and at the sound of drum and fife, felt an unusual flow of life. besides, my honest friend, you know i am a little of a beau. i'm sure, my friend need not be told, that boswell's hat was edg'd with gold; and that a shining bit of lace, my brownish-colour'd suit did grace; and that mankind my hair might see, powder'd at least two days in three. my pinchbeck buckles are admir'd by all who are with taste inspir'd. trophies of gallic pride appear, the crown to every frenchman dear, and the enchanting fleur de lis, the flower of flowers you must agree; while for variety's sweet sake, and witty charles's tale to wake, the curious artist interweaves a twisted bunch of oaken leaves. tell me, dear erskine, should not i my favourite path of fortune try? our life, my friend, is very short, a little while is all we've for't; and he is blest who can beguile, with what he likes, that little while. [footnote : i have omitted the first eighty lines of this poem.--ed.] my fondness for the guards must appear very strange to you, who have a rooted antipathy at the glare of scarlet. but i must inform you, that there is a city called london, for which i have as violent an affection as the most romantic lover ever had for his mistress. there a man may indeed soap his own beard, and enjoy whatever is to be had in this transitory state of things. every agreeable whim may be freely indulged without censure. i hope, however, you will not impute my living in england, to the same cause for which hamlet was advised to go there; because the people were all as mad as himself. i long much for another of our long conversations on a fine forenoon, after breakfast, while the sun sheds light and gladness around us. believe me, yours sincerely, james boswell. * * * * * letter xxviii. auchinleck, may , . dear erskine,--i should have wondered very much, had i been told of lady j----'s particular attachment to the tune of _appie mac-nab_, two months ago: but i must inform you, that a few days before i left edinburgh, having occasion to look into the advocates' library, i there chanced to turn up an old roman song-book, and, to my great surprise, met with the individual air of _appie mac-nab_, which i discovered to be part of an original patrician cantata on the daughter of the famous appius, set for the _tibiæ sinistræ_. in a manuscript marginal note, it is said to have been composed by tigellius the famous musician, whose death and character horace takes occasion to entertain and instruct us with, in the second satire of his first book. you see, therefore, that lady j----'s taste for italian music, cannot be called in question; and indeed, i think her liking _appie mac-nab_, is a very strong proof of it, as she certainly could not know its original. the roman song-book, a very great curiosity, was brought from rome some hundred years ago, by father macdonald, an old popish priest, who left it as a legacy to the duke of gordon. it is probable, that some musician in the north of scotland, has transcribed the appian cantata from it, and giving its principal air a scottish turn, and adapting proper words to it, has produced the vulgar ballad of _appie mac-nab_. lady b----'s terror for the turkey-cock, diverts me extremely. did they but come to an engagement, how noble must it be! the idea makes a strong impression on my fancy. i shall certainly write something astonishing upon it. this charming weather has reconciled me to the country. it enlivens me exceedingly. i am cheerful and happy. i have been wandering by myself, all this forenoon, through the sweetest place in the world. the sunshine is mild, the breeze is gentle, my mind is peaceful. i am indulging the most agreeable reveries imaginable. i am thinking of the brilliant scenes of happiness, which i shall enjoy as an officer of the guards. how i shall be acquainted with all the grandeur of a court, and all the elegance of dress and diversions; become a favourite of ministers of state, and the adoration of ladies of quality, beauty, and fortune! how many parties of pleasure shall i have in town! how many fine jaunts to the noble seats of dukes, lords, and members of parliament in the country! i am thinking of the perfect knowledge which i shall acquire of men and manners, of the intimacies which i shall have the honour to form with the learned and ingenious in every science, and of the many amusing literary anecdotes which i shall pick up. i am thinking of making the tour of europe, and feasting on the delicious prospects of italy and france; of feeling all the transports of a bard at rome, and writing noble poems on the banks of the tiber. i am thinking of the distinguished honours which i shall receive at every foreign court, and of what infinite service i shall be to all my countrymen upon their travels. i am thinking of returning to england, of getting into the house of commons, of speaking still better than mr. pitt, and of being made principal secretary of state. i am thinking of having a regiment of guards, and of making a glorious stand against an invasion by the spaniards. i am thinking how i shall marry a lady of the highest distinction, with a fortune of a hundred thousand pounds. i am thinking of my flourishing family of children; how my sons shall be men of sense and spirit, and my daughters women of beauty, and every amiable perfection. i am thinking of the prodigious respect which i shall receive, of the splendid books which will be dedicated to me, and the statues which will be erected to my immortal honour. i am thinking that my mind is too delicate, and my feelings too fine for the rough bustle of life; i am therefore thinking that i shall steal silently and unperceived through the world; that i shall pass the winter in london, much in the same way that the spectator describes himself to have done; and in summer, shall live sometimes here at home; sometimes in such a pleasing retirement as mrs. row beautifully paints in her letters moral and entertaining.[ ] i like that book much. i read it when i was very young, and i am persuaded, that it contributed to improve my tender imagination. i am thinking that i shall feel my frame too delicate for the british climate. i am thinking that i shall go and live in one of the most pleasant provincial towns in the south of france, where i shall be blest with constant felicity. this is a scheme to which i could give vast praise, were i near the beginning of my letter; but as that is very far from being the case, i must reserve it for a future epistle. [footnote : "letters, moral and entertaining, in prose and verse," by elizabeth rowe.--ed.] i am glad to find you are so anxious to hear about the cub at newmarket, love me, love my cub. however, i can tell you nothing about him. dodsley has not yet sent me a copy. derrick,[ ] a london author, whom you have heard me mention, has sent me his versifications of the battle of lora, and some of the erse fragments. if you want to see them, let me have some franks. [footnote : "pray, sir," said mr. morgann to johnson, "whether do you reckon derrick or smart the best poet?" johnson at once felt himself roused; and answered, "sir, there is no settling the point of precedency between a louse and a flea." boswell's "life of johnson." date of march th, .--ed.] i shall be at dumfries soon, where i hope to see my friend johnston. we will talk much of old scotch history, and the memory of former years will warm our hearts. we will also talk of captain andrew, with whom we have passed many a pleasant hour. johnston is a very worthy fellow: i may safely say so; for i have lived in intimacy with him more years than the egyptian famine lasted. and now, o most renowned of captains! having fairly written myself out of pen, ink, and paper, i conclude with my usual epithet, of your affectionate friend, james boswell. * * * * * letter xxix. new-tarbat, may , . dear boswell,--your first epistle being of a length which modern letters seldom attain to, surprised me very much; but at the sight of your second, consisting of such an exuberant number of sheets, i was no less amazed than if i had wakened at three o'clock in the morning, and found myself fast clasped in the arms of the empress queen; or if i had found myself at the mouth of the river nile, half-eaten by a crocodile; or if i had found myself ascending the fatal ladder in the grass-market at edinburgh, and mr. alexander donaldson the hangman. to confess a truth, i imagine your funds for letter-writing are quite inexhaustible; and that the fire of your fancy, like the coal at newcastle, will never be burnt out; indeed, i look upon you in the light of an old stocking, in which we have no sooner mended one hole, than out starts another; or i think you are like a fertile woman, who is hardly delivered of one child, before slap she is five months gone with a second. i need not tell you your letters are entertaining; i might as well acquaint king george the third, that he is sovereign of great britain, or gravely disclose to my servant, that his name is william. it is superfluous to inform people of what it is impossible they should not know. you think you have a knack of story-telling, but there you must yield to me, if you hearken attentively to what i am about to disclose, you will be convinced; it is a tale, my dear boswell, which whether we consider the turnings and windings of fortune, or the sadness of the catastrophe, is delightful and improving.--you demand of me, sir, a faithful recital of the events which have distinguished my life. though the remembrance of every misfortune which can depress human nature, must be painful; yet the commands of such a revered friend as james boswell must be obeyed; and oh, sir! if you find any of my actions blamable, impute them to destiny, and if you find any of them commendable, impute them to my good sense. i am about fifty years of age, grief makes me look as if i was fourscore; thirty years ago i was a great deal younger; and about twenty years before that, i was just born; as i find nothing remarkable in my life, before that event, i shall date my history from that period; some omens happened at my birth: mr. oman at leith was married at that time; this was thought very portentous; the very day my mother was brought to bed of me, the cat was delivered of three kittens; but the world was soon bereaved of them by death, and i had not the pleasure of passing my infancy with such amiable companions; this was my first misfortune, and no subsequent one ever touched me more nearly; delightful innocents! methinks, i still see them playing with their tails, and galloping after corks; with what a becoming gravity did they wash their faces! how melodious was their purring! from them i derived any little taste i have for music; i composed an ode upon their death; as it was my first attempt in poetry, i write it for your perusal; you will perceive the marks of genius in the first production of my tender imagination; and you will shed a tear of applause and sorrow, on the remains of those animals, so dear to the premature years of your mourning and lamenting friend. ode on the death of three kittens. strophe. attend, ye watchful cats, attend the ever lamentable strain; for cruel death, most kind to rats, has kill'd the sweetest of the kitten-train. antistrophe. how pleas'd did i survey, your beauteous whiskers as they daily grew, i mark'd your eyes that beam'd so grey, but little thought that nine lives were too few. epode. it was delight to see my lovely kittens three, when after corks through all the room they flew, when oft in gamesome guise they did their tails pursue. when thro' the house, you hardly, hardly, heard a mouse; and every rat lay snug and still, and quiet as a thief in mill; but cursed death has with a blow, laid all my hopes low, low, low, low: had that foul fiend the least compassion known; i should not now lament my beauteous kittens gone. you have often wondered what made me such a miserable spectacle; grief for the death of my kittens, has wrought the most wonderful effects upon me; grief has drawn my teeth, pulled out my hair, hollowed my eyes, bent my back, crooked my legs, and marked my face with the small-pox; but i give over this subject, seeing it will have too great a hold of your tender imagination: i find myself too much agitated with melancholy to proceed any longer in my life to-day; the weather also is extremely bad, and a thousand mournful ideas rush into my mind; i am totally overpowered with them; i will now disburden myself to you, and set down each sad thought as it occurs. i am thinking how i will never get a clean shirt to my back; how my coat will always be out at the elbows; and how i never will get my breeches to stay up. i am thinking how i will be married to a shrew of a wife, who will beat me every evening and morning, and sometimes in the middle of the day. i am thinking what a d----d w---- she will be, and how my children will be most of them hanged, and whipped through towns, and burnt in the hand. i am thinking of what execrable poems i will write; and how i will be thrown into prison for debt; and how i will never get out again; and how nobody will pity me. i am thinking how hungry i will be; and how little i will get to eat; and how i'll long for a piece of roast-beef; and how they'll bring me a rotten turnip. and i am thinking how i will take a consumption, and waste away inch by inch; and how i'll grow very fat and unwieldy, and won't be able to stir out of my chair. and i am thinking how i'll be roasted by the portuguese inquisition; and how i'll be impaled by the turks; and how i'll be eaten by cannibals; and how i'll be drowned on a voyage to the east indies; and how i'll be robbed and murdered by a highwayman; and how i'll lose my senses; and how very mad i'll be; and how my body will be thrown out to dogs to devour; and how i'll be hanged, drawn, and quartered; and how my friend boswell will neglect me; and how i'll be despised by the whole world; and how i will meet with ten thousand misfortunes worse than the loss of my kittens. thus have i, in a brief manner, related a few of the calamities which, in the present disposition of my mind, appear so dreadful; i could have enlarged the catalogue, but your heart is too susceptible of pity, and i will not shock you altogether. you will doubtless remark the great inequality of our fortunes. in your last letter, you was the happiest man i was ever acquainted with; i wish it may last, and that your children may have as much merit as you imagine; i only hope you won't plan a marriage with any of mine, their dispositions will be so unlike, that it must prove unhappy. pray send me derrick's versifications, which though they are undoubtedly very bad, i shall be glad to see, as sometimes people take a pleasure in beholding a man hanged. and now, boswell, i am going to end my letter, which being very short, i know will please you, as you will think you have gained a complete victory over the captain, seeing that you are several sheets a-head of me; but times may alter, and when i resume my adventures, you will find yourself sorely defeated; believe me, yours sincerely, andrew erskine. * * * * * letter xxx. new-tarbat, may , . dear boswell,--it has been said, that few people succeed both in poetry and prose. homer's prose essay on the gun-powder-plot, is reckoned by all critics inferior to the iliad; and warburton's rhyming satire on the methodists is allowed by all to be superior to his prosaical notes on pope's works. let it be mine to unite the excellencies both of prose and verse in my inimitable epistles. from this day, my prose shall have a smack of verse, and my verse have a smack of prose. i'll give you a specimen of both--my servant addresses me in these words, very often-- the roll is butter'd, and the kettle boil'd, your honour's newest coat with grease is soil'd; in your best breeches glares a mighty hole, your wash-ball and pomatum, sir, are stole. your tailor, sir, must payment have, that's plain, he call'd to-day, and said he'd call again. there's prosaic poetry; now for poetic prose--universal genius is a wide and diffused stream that waters the country and makes it agreeable; 'tis true, it cannot receive ships of any burden, therefore it is of no solid advantage, yet is it very amusing. gondolas and painted barges float upon its surface, the country gentleman forms it into ponds, and it is spouted out of the mouths of various statues; it strays through the finest fields, and its banks nourish the most blooming flowers. let me sport with this stream of science, wind along the vale, and glide through the trees, foam down the mountain, and sparkle in the sunny ray; but let me avoid the deep, nor lose myself in the vast profound, and grant that i may never be pent in the bottom of a dreary cave, or be so unfortunate as to stagnate in some unwholesome marsh. limited genius is a pump-well, very useful in all the common occurrences of life, the water drawn from it is of service to the maids in washing their aprons; it boils beef, and it scours the stairs; it is poured into the tea-kettles of the ladies, and into the punch-bowls of the gentlemen. having thus given you, in the most clear and distinct manner, my sentiments of genius, i proceed to give you my opinion of the ancient and modern writers; a subject, you must confess, very aptly and naturally introduced. i am going to be very serious, you will trace a resemblance between me and sir william temple,[ ] or perhaps david hume, esq. [footnote : temple wrote "an essay upon ancient and modern learning."--ed.] a modern writer must content himself with gleaning a few thoughts here and there, and binding them together without order or regularity, that the variety may please; the ancients have reaped the full of the harvest, and killed the noblest of the game: in vain do we beat about the once plenteous fields, the dews are exhaled, no scent remains. how glorious was the fate of the early writers![ ] born in the infancy of letters; their task was to reject thoughts more than to seek after them, and to select out of a number, the most shining, the most striking, and the most susceptible of ornament. the poet saw in his walks every pleasing object of nature undescribed; his heart danced with the gale, and his spirits shone with the invigorating sun, his works breathed nothing but rapture and enthusiasm. love then spoke with its genuine voice, the breast was melted down with woe, the whole soul was dissolved into pity with its tender complaints; free from the conceits and quibbles which, since that time, have rendered the very name of it ridiculous; real passion heaved the sigh; real passion uttered the most prevailing language. music too reigned in its full force; that soft deluding art, whose pathetic strains so gently steal into our very souls, and involve us in the sweetest confusion; or whose animating strains fire us even to madness: how has the shore of greece echoed with the wildest sounds; the delicious warblings of the lyre charmed and astonished every ear. the blaze of rhetoric then burst forth; the ancients sought not by false thoughts, and glittering diction, to captivate the ear, but by manly and energetic modes of expression, to rule the heart and sway the passions. [footnote : "the most ancient poets are considered as the best ... whether the first writers took possession of the most striking objects for description, and the most probable occurrences for fiction, and left nothing to those that followed them but transcription of the same events, and new combinations of the same images."--"rasselas," chapter x.--ed.] there, boswell, there are periods for you. did you not imagine that you was reading "the rambler" of mr. samuel johnson; or that mr. thomas sheridan[ ] himself was resounding the praises of the ancients, and his own art? i shall now finish this letter without the least blaze of rhetoric, and with no very manly or energetic mode of expression, assure you, that i am, yours sincerely, andrew erskine. [footnote : thomas sheridan, the father of r.b. sheridan, was about this time lecturing on oratory. "he knows that i laugh at his oratory," johnson once said to boswell.--ed.] * * * * * letter xxxi. auchinleck, june , . at length, o erskine! lady b---- and the turkey-cock are sung in strains sublime. i have finished an ode. receive it with reverence.[ ] it is one of the greatest productions of the human mind. just that sort of composition which we form an awful and ravishing conception of, in those divine moments, when the soul (to use a bold metaphor) is in full blow, and soaring fancy reaches its utmost heights. could it but be really personified--it would be like saul of old, taller than any of the people, and were it to be guilty of a capital crime, it could not enjoy one of the greatest privileges of a british subject, to be tried by its peers. [footnote : the ode is not worth reprinting.--ed.] i am sure that my ode is great. mr. james bruce the gardener, my faithful counsellor and very excellent companion, declares it is quite to his mind. he stood by me while i took my portrait of the cock, from a large one which struts upon the green. i shall be in edinburgh in a few days; for which reason, i remain your affectionate friend, james boswell. * * * * * letter xxxii. new-tarbat, june , . dear boswell,--the first idea of our correspondence was not yours; for, many months before you addressed me, i wrote you the following letter at fort george, where you may remember our acquaintance commenced. you'll observe that some of the stanzas[ ] are parodies on gray's elegy in a church-yard, i use the liberty to mark them. i stood too much in awe of you, to send it when it was written, and i am too much at my ease now, to be withheld any longer from presenting you with it. i am, sir, with the greatest respect and esteem, your most obedient, and most humble servant, andrew erskine. [footnote : these stanzas are nearly as bad as boswell's ode, and, like it, are not worth reprinting.--ed.] * * * * * letter xxxiii. auchinleck, june , . dear erskine,--at this delightful season of the year, when everything is cheerful and gay, when the groves are all rich with leaves, the gardens with flowers, and the orchards with blossoms, one would think it almost impossible to be unhappy; yet such is my hard fate at present, that instead of relishing the beautiful appearance of nature, instead of participating the universal joy, i rather look upon it with aversion, as it exhibits a strong contrast to the cloudy darkness of my mind, and so gives me a more dismal view of my own situation. fancy, capricious fancy will allow me to see nothing but shade. how strange is it to think, that i who lately abounded in bliss, should now be the slave of black melancholy! how unaccountable does it appear to the reasoning mind that this change should be produced without any visible cause. however, since i have been seized with _the pale cast of thought_, i know not how, i comfort myself, that i shall get free of it as whimsically. you must excuse this piece of serious sententiousness; for it has relieved me; and you may look upon it as much the same with coughing before one begins to sing, or deliver anything in public, in order that the voice may be as clear as possible. the death of your kittens, my dear erskine! affected me very much. i could wish that you would form it into a tragedy, as the story is extremely pathetic, and could not fail greatly to interest the tender passions. if you have any doubts as to the propriety of their being three in number, i beg it of you to reflect that the immortal shakespeare has introduced three daughters into his tragedy of king lear, which has often drawn tears from the eyes of multitudes. the same author has likewise begun his tragedy of macbeth with three witches; and mr. alexander donaldson has resolved, that his collection of original poems by scotch gentlemen, shall consist of three volumes, and no more. i don't know, indeed, but your affecting tale might better suit the intention of an opera, especially when we consider the musical genius of the feline race: were a sufficient number of these animals put under the tuition of proper masters, nobody can tell what an astonishing chorus might be produced. if this proposal shall be embraced, i make no doubt of its being the wonder of all europe, and i remain, yours, as usual, james boswell. * * * * * letter xxxiv. new-tarbat, june , . and are you gloomy! oh james boswell! has your flow of spirits evaporated, and left nothing but the black dregs of melancholy behind? has the smile of cheerfulness left your countenance? and is the laugh of gaiety no more? oh woeful condition! oh wretched friend! but in this situation you are dear to me; for lately my disposition was exactly similar to yours. no conversation pleased me; no books could fix my attention; i could write no letters, and i despised my own poems. tell me how you was affected; could you speak any? could you fix your thoughts upon anything but the dreary way you was in? and would not the sight of me have made you very miserable? i have lately had the epidemical distemper; i don't mean poverty, but that cold which they call the influenza, and which made its first appearance in london;[ ] whether it came to scotland in the wagon, or travelled with a companion in a post-chaise, is quite uncertain. [footnote : "the time is wonderfully sickly; nothing but sore-throats, colds, and fevers." horace walpole, in a letter to george montagu, april , .--ed.] derrick's versifications are infamously bad; what think you of the reviewers commending such an execrable performance? i have a fancy to write an ironical criticism upon it, and praise all the worst lines, which you shall send to derrick, as the real sentiments of a gentleman of your acquaintance on reading his work. for want of something else to entertain you, i begin my criticism immediately.--to versify poetical prose has been found a very difficult task. dr. young and mr. langhorne, in their paraphrases upon the bible (which lord bolingbroke tells us, is an excellent book) have succeeded but indifferently: i therefore took up mr. samuel derrick's versifications from fingal, with little expectation of being entertained; but let no man judge of a book till at least he reads the title page; for lo! mr. samuel derrick has adorned his with a very apt and uncommon quotation, from a good old poet called virgil. i am much pleased with the candour so conspicuous in the short advertisement to the public, in which mr. derrick seems very willing to run snacks in reputation with mr. macpherson, which will greatly rejoice that gentleman, who cannot justly boast of so extensive a fame as mr. samuel derrick. the dedication is very elegant, though, i am apt to think, the author has neither praised lord pomfret nor himself enough; two worthy people, who, in my opinion, deserve it. but at last, we come to the poems themselves: and here i might indulge myself in warm and indiscriminate applause; but let it be my ambition to trace mr. derrick step by step through his wonderful work; let me pry both into the kitchen and dining-room of his genius, to use the comparison of the great mr. boyle. the first lines, or the exordium of the battle of lora, are calmly sublime, and refined with simplicity. in the eighth line, our author gives the epithet of posting to the wind, which is very beautiful: however, to make it natural, it ought to be applied, in poetical justice, to that wind which wafts a packet-boat. i had almost forgot, the sixth line says, "the voice of songs, a tuneful voice i hear." now, i should be glad to know, whether these same songs be a man or a woman. lines and . "in secret round they glanc'd their kindled eyes, their indignation spoke in bursting sighs." it seems to me improbable, that a pair of kindled eyes could glance in secret; and i cannot think that sighs are the language of indignation. lines , , . "so on the settled sea blue mists arise, in vapory volumes darkening to the skies, they glitter in the sun." these mists that glitter and are dark at the same time, are very extraordinary, and the contrast is lovely and new. line th begins--"his post is terror."--this is a post, that, i believe, none of our members of parliament would accept. lines , , "an hundred steeds he gives that own the rein, never a swifter race devour'd the plain." devoured the plain! if this is not sublime, then am i no critic; however, its lucky for the landed interest, that the breed of those horses is lost; they might do very well, i confess, in the highlands of scotland; but a dozen of them turned loose near salisbury would be inconceivably hurtful. i'm tired of this stuff; if you think it worth the while you may end it and send it to derrick; but let your part be better than mine, or it won't do. "grief for thy loss drank all my vitals dry"--i laughed heartily at that line. in this letter i have bestowed my dulness[ ] freely upon you; you have had my wit, and you must take my stupidity into the bargain; as when we go to the market, we purchase bones as well as beef; and when we marry an heiress, we are obliged to take the woman as well as the money; and when we buy donaldson's collection, we pay as dear for the poems of mr. lauchlan macpherson, as we do for those written by the incomparable captain andrew. [footnote : "if i were as tedious as a king, i could find it in my heart to bestow it all of your worship."--"much ado about nothing." act iii., scene .--ed.] you are in edinburgh, i imagine, by this time, if the information of mr. alexander donaldson may be depended upon. i shall be in town one night soon on my way to kelly, for the h----s of d---- threaten an invasion upon this peaceful abode. farewell. yours sincerely, andrew erskine. * * * * * letter xxxv. edinburgh, june , . dear erskine,--you have upon many occasions made rather too free with my person, upon which i have often told you that i principally value myself. i feel a strong inclination to retaliate. i have great opportunity, and i will not resist it. your figure, erskine, is amazingly uncouth. the length of your body bears no manner of proportion to its breadth, and far less does its breadth bear to its length. if we consider you one way, you are the tallest, and if we consider you another way, you are the thickest man alive. the crookedness of your back is terrible; but it is nothing in comparison of the frightful distortions of your countenance. what monsters have you been the cause of bringing into the world! not only the wives of sergeants and corporals of the st regiment, but the unhappy women in every town where you was quartered, by looking at you have conceived in horror. natural defects should be spared; but i must not omit the large holes in your ears, and the deep marks of the iron on your hands. i hope you will allow these to be artificial. nature nails no man's ears to the pillory. nature burns no man in the hand. as i have a very sincere friendship for you, i cannot help giving you my best advice with regard to your future schemes of life. i would beseech you to lay aside all your chimerical projects, which have made you so absurd. you know very well, when you went upon the stage at kingston in jamaica, how shamefully you exposed yourself, and what disgrace and vexation you brought upon all your friends. you must remember what sort of treatment you met with, when you went and offered yourself to be one of the fathers of the inquisition at macerata, in the room of mr. archibald bower;[ ] a project which could enter into the head of no man who was not utterly destitute of common sense. [footnote : the author of the "history of the popes." he had been a professor in the university of macerata, and a counsellor of the inquisition. he became a protestant, and died in england.--ed.] you tell me, that your intention at present is, to take orders in the church of england; and you hope i will approve of your plan: but i must tell you honestly, that this is a most ridiculous hair-brained conceit. before you can be qualified for the smallest living, you must study nine years at oxford; you must eat at a moderate computation, threescore of fat beeves, and upwards of two hundred sheep; you must consume a thousand stone of bread, and swallow ninety hogsheads of porter. you flatter yourself with being highly promoted, because you are an earl's brother, and a man of genius. but, my dear friend, i beg it of you to consider, how little these advantages have already availed you. the army was as good a scene for you to rise in as the church can be; and yet you are only a lieutenant in a very young regiment. i seriously think, that your most rational scheme should be, to turn inn-keeper upon some of the great roads: you might have an elegant sign painted of apollo and the muses, and entertainment for men and horses, by the honourable andrew erskine, would be something very unusual, and could not fail to bring numbers of people to your house. you would by this means have a life of most pleasing indolence, and would never want a variety of company, as you would constantly dine and sup with your guests. men of fashion would be glad to receive you as their equal; and men of no fashion would be proud to sit at table with one who had any pretension to nobility. i hope the honest concern which i shew for your real welfare, will convince you how much i am, my dear sir, your most affectionate friend, james boswell. * * * * * letter xxxvi. kelly, july , . dear boswell,--vanity has, in all former ages, been reckoned the characteristic of poets; in our time, i think they are more particularly distinguished by modesty; i have carefully perused their works, and i have never once found them throwing out either thought, sentiment, or reflection of their own; convincing proof of their humility; they seem all to allow that the ancients, and some few of the earlier moderns, were much better writers than themselves; therefore they beg, borrow, and steal from them, without the smallest mercy or hesitation. in some things, however, they are quite original; their margins and prices are larger than any ever known before; and they advertise their pieces much oftener in the newspapers than any of their predecessors. you compliment me highly on my elegies, and tell me that i have even dared to be original now and then; and you ask me very seriously, how i come to be so well acquainted with the tender passion of love.--ah, sir, how deceitful are appearances! under a forbidding aspect and uncouth form, i conceal the soul of an oroondates, a soul that thrills with the most sensible emotions at the sight of beauty. love easily finds access where the mind is naturally inclined to melancholy; we foster the pleasing delusion, it grows up with our frame, and becomes a part of our being; long have i laboured under the influence of that passion; long vented my grief in unavailing sighs. besides, your thin meagre man is always the most violent lover; a thousand delusions enter his paper-skull, which the man of guts never dreams of. in vain does cupid shoot his arrows at the plump existence, who is entrenched in a solid wall of fat: they are buried like shrimps in melted butter; as eggs are preserved by mutton-tallow, from rottenness and putrefaction, so he, by his grease, is preserved from love. pleased with his pipe, he sits and smokes in his elbow-chair; totally unknown to him is the ardent passion that actuates the sentimental soul: alas! unhappy man! he never indulged in the pleasing reverie which inspires the spindle-shanked lover, as he strays through nodding forest by gliding stream; if he marries, he chooses a companion fat as himself; they lie together, and most musical is their snore, they melt like two pounds of butter in one plate in a sunshiny-day. pray, boswell, remember me kindly to honest johnston. let me know if his trees are growing well, at his paternal estate of grange; if he is as fond of melvil's memoirs[ ] as he used to be; and if he continues to stretch himself in the sun upon the mountains near edinburgh. i ever am, yours most affectionately, andrew erskine. [footnote : sir james melville. born , died . his "memoirs" were published in .--ed.] * * * * * letter xxxvii. kelly, july , . dear boswell,--nothing happened during my journey; i arrived in aberdeen on thursday last; the town is really neater, cleaner, and better than you would imagine; but the country around is dismal; long gloomy moors, and the extended ocean, are the only prospects that present themselves; the whole region seems as if made in direct opposition to descriptive poetry. you meet here with none of the lengthened meads, sunny vales and dashing streams, that brighten in the raptured poet's eye; however, as i believe you have been here, i shall trouble you with no farther descriptions. never was parting more tender than that of mine with george robertson the postilion, and the kelly chaise at dundee water-side; we formed as dolorous a trio as then existed upon the face of this valley of tears. oh george! oh! erskine! were the cries that echoed across the waves, and along the mountains. tears trickled down the rugged boatman's face, an unpaid freight he thought no harder case; the seals no longer sported in the sea, while ev'ry bell rung mournful in dundee, huge ploughmen wept, and stranger still, 'tis said, so strong is sympathy, that asses bray'd. farewell, lovely george, i roared out, and oh! if you should happen to be dry, for such is the nature of sorrow, take this shilling, and spend it in the sugared ale, or the wind-expelling dram: with sweet reluctance he put forth his milk-white hand, cold with clammy sweat, and with a faltering voice, feebly thanked me. oh! i shall never forget my emotions when he drove from me, and the chaise lessened in my view; now it whirled sublime along the mountain's edge; now, i scarcely saw the head of george nodding in the vale. thus, on the summit of a craggy cliff, which high overlooks the resounding waves, jean, susan, or nell, sees in a boat her lovely sailor, who has been torn from her arms by a cruel press-gang; now it climbs the highest seas; now it is buried between two billows, and vanishes from her sight. weep not, sweet maid, he shall return loaded with honours; a gold watch shall grace each fob, a pair of silver buckles shall shine resplendent upon his shoes, and a silk handkerchief shall be tied around his neck, which soon shall cover thy snowy bosom. when the chaise was totally lost, and my breast was distracted with a thousand different passions; all of a sudden i broke out into the following soliloquy.--surely, surely mortal man is a chaise: now trailing through the heavy sand of indolence, anon jolted to death upon the rough road of discontent; and shortly after sunk in the deep rut of low spirits; now galloping on the post-road of expectation, and immediately after, trotting on the stony one of disappointment; but the days of our driving soon cease, our shafts break, our leather rots, and we tumble into a hole. adieu, yours, andrew erskine. * * * * * letter xxxviii. kelly, july , . dear boswell,--i imagined, that by ceasing to write to you for some time, i should be able to lay up a stock of materials, enough to astonish you, and that, like a river damm'd up, when let loose, i should flow on with unusual rapidity; or like a man, who has not beat his wife for a fortnight, i should cudgel you with my wit for hours together; but i find the contrary of all this is the case; i resemble a person long absent from his native country, of which he has formed a thousand endearing ideas, and to which he at last returns; but alas! he beholds with sorrowful eyes, everything changed for the worse; the town where he was born, which used to have two snows[ ] and three sloops trading to all parts of the known world, is not now master of two fishing-boats; the steeple of the church, where he used to sleep in his youth, is rent with lightning; and the girl on whom he had placed his early affections, has had three bastard children, and is just going to be delivered of a fourth; or i resemble a man who has had a fine waistcoat lying long in the very bottom of a chest, which he is determined shall be put on at the hunter's ball; but woe's me, the lace is tarnished, and the moths have devoured it in a melancholy manner; these few similies may serve to shew, that this letter has little chance of being a good one; yet they don't make the affair certain. prince ferdinand beat the french at minden; sheridan, in his lectures, sometimes spoke sense; and john home wrote one good play.[ ] i have read lord kames's elements,[ ] and agree very heartily with the opinion of the critical reviewers; however, i could often have wished, that his lordship had been less obscure, or that i had had more penetration; he praises the mourning bride excessively, which, nevertheless, i can not help thinking a very indifferent play; the plot wild and improbable, and the language infinitely too high and swelling.[ ] it is curious to see the opinions of the reviewers concerning you and me; they take you for a poor distressed gentleman, writing for bread, and me for a very impudent irishman; whereas you are heir to a thousand a year, and i am one of the most bashful scotchmen that ever appeared! i confess, indeed, my bashfulness does not appear in my works, for them i print in the most impudent manner; being exceeded in that respect by nobody but james boswell, esq. yours, &c., andrew erskine. [footnote : a snow (low-german, snau; high-german, schnau) is a small vessel with beaked or snout-like bows, according to wedgewood. but more probably it takes its name from the triangular shape of its sails.--schnauzegel, a trysail.--ed.] [footnote : "as we sat over our tea, mr. home's tragedy of douglas was mentioned. i put dr. johnson in mind that once, in a coffee-house at oxford, he called to old mr. sheridan, 'how came you, sir, to give home a gold medal for writing that foolish play?'" boswell's "tour to the hebrides." date of october , .--ed.] [footnote : "the elements of criticism," by henry home, lord kames. "sir," said johnson, "this book is a pretty essay and deserves to be held in some estimation though much of it is chimerical!" boswell's "life of johnson." date of may , .--ed.] [footnote : "in this play there is more bustle than sentiment; the plot is busy and intricate, and the events take hold on the attention; but, except a very few passages, we are rather amused with noise, and perplexed with stratagem, than entertained with any true delineation of natural characters."--johnson's "lives of the poets."--ed.] * * * * * letter xxxix. kames, october , . dear erskine,--in my own name, and in the name of lord kames, i desire to see you here immediately. i have been reading the "elements of criticism." you and the reviewers have pronounced enough of serious panegyric on that book. in my opinion, it has the good properties of all the four elements. it has the solidity of earth, the pureness of air, the glow of fire, and the clearness of water. the language is excellent, and sometimes rises to so noble a pitch, that i exclaim, in imitation of zanga in the revenge,[ ] "i like this roaring of the elements." [footnote : "the revenge," a tragedy, by edward young, author of "night thoughts."--ed.] if this does not bring you, nothing will; and so, sir, i continue, yours as usual, james boswell. * * * * * letter xl. kelly, october , . dear boswell,--how shall i begin? what species of apology shall i make? the truth is, i really could not write, my spirits have been depressed so unaccountably. i have had whole mountains of lead pressing me down: you would have thought that five dutchmen had been riding on my back, ever since i saw you; or that i had been covered with ten thousand folios of controversial divinity; you would have imagined that i was crammed in the most dense part of a plumb-pudding, or steeped in a hogshead of thick english port. heavens! is it possible, that a man of some fame for joking, possessed of no unlaughable talent in punning, and endued with no contemptible degree of liveliness in letter-writing, should all of a sudden have become more impenetrably stupid than a hottentot legislator, or a moderator of the general assembly of the kirk of scotland. by that smile which enlivens your black countenance, like a farthing candle in a dark cellar, i perceive i am pardoned; indeed i expected no less; for, i believe, if a sword was to run you through the body, or a rope was to hang you, you would forget and forgive: you are at kames just now, very happy, i suppose; your letter seems to come from a man in excellent spirits; i am very unequal at present to the task of writing an answer to it, but i was resolved to delay no longer, lest you should think i neglected you wilfully; a thought, i'm sure, you never shall have occasion to entertain of me, though the mist of dulness should for ever obscure and envelope my fancy and imagination. i cannot think of coming to kames, yet i am sufficiently thankful for the invitation; my lowness would have a very bad effect in a cheerful society; it would be like a dead march in the midst of a hornpipe, or a mournful elegy in a collection of epigrams. farewell. yours, &c., andrew erskine. * * * * * letter xli. parliament-close, nov. , . dear erskine,--all i have now to say, is to inform you, that i shall set out for london on monday next, and to beg that you may not leave edinburgh before that time. my letters have often been carried to you over rising mountains and rolling seas. this pursues a simpler track, and under the tuition of a cadie,[ ] is transmitted from the parliament-close to the canongate. thus it is with human affairs; all is fluctuating, all is changing. believe me, yours, &c. james boswell. [footnote : "there is at edinburgh a society or corporation of errand-boys, called 'cawdies,' who ply in the streets at night with paper lanthorns, and are very serviceable in carrying messages."--"humphry clinker," vol. ii., p. .--ed.] * * * * * letter xlii. london, nov. , . dear erskine,--what sort of a letter shall i now write to you? shall i cram it from top to bottom with tables of compound interest? with anecdotes of queen anne's wars? with excerpts from robertson's history? or with long stories translated from olaus wormius?[ ] [footnote : a distinguished danish historian and antiquary, "known in the history of anatomy by the bones of the skull named after him _ossa wormiana_."--ed.] to pass four-and-twenty hours agreeably was still my favourite plan. i think at present that the mere contemplation of this amazing bustle of existence, is enough to make my four-and-twenty go merrily round. i went last night to covent-garden; and saw woodward play captain bobadil;[ ] he is a very lively performer; but a little extravagant: i was too late for getting into drury-lane, where garrick played king lear. that inimitable actor is in as full glory as ever; like genuine wine, he improves by age, and possesses the steady and continued admiration even of the inconstant english.[ ] [footnote : in ben jonson's "every man in his humour." this was thought to be woodward's masterpiece.--ed.] [footnote : this is scarcely correct. garrick's popularity was, at this time, falling off, and his theatre did not fill. "the profits of the following season," says davies, "fell very short to those of the preceding years." at the close of the season he went abroad, and was away for nearly two years. in rogers's "table talk," it is recorded--"before his going abroad, garrick's attraction had much decreased; sir w.w. pepys said that the pit was often almost empty. but, on his return to england, people were mad about seeing him." his popularity did not wane a second time.--ed.] i don't know what to say to you about myself: if i can get into the guards, it will please me much; if not, i can't help it. perhaps you may hear of my turning templar, and perhaps ranger of some of his majesty's parks. it is not impossible but i may catch a little true poetic inspiration, and have my works splendidly printed at strawberry-hill, under the benign influence of the honourable horace walpole.[ ] you and i, erskine, are, to be sure, somewhat vain. we have some reason too. the reviewers gave great applause to your odes to indolence and impudence; and they called my poems "agreeable light pieces," which was the very character i wished for. had they said less, i should not have been satisfied; and had they said more, i should have thought it a burlesque. [footnote : walpole always expressed the greatest contempt for boswell. in one of his letters he says that "he is the ape of most of johnson's faults, without a grain of his sense." in another letter he writes about "a jackanapes who has lately made a noise here, one boswell, by anecdotes of dr. johnson." improbable though it was that boswell should catch a little true poetic inspiration, it was still more improbable that he should ever have a single one of his works printed at the strawberry press.--ed.] what a fine animated prospect of life now spreads before me! be assured, that my genius will be highly improved, and please yourself with the hopes of receiving letters still more entertaining. i ever am, your affectionate friend, james boswell. the journal of a tour to corsica. introduction. the following sketch of the corsican war of independence may, perhaps, enable the reader better to follow boswell in his narrative, and in his description of paoli's character. i have founded it chiefly on boswell's own account, though i have, at the same time consulted other authorities. as an historical writer, in theory at least, he would scarcely satisfy the exact school of historians that has sprung up since his day. "i confess i am not," he says in his second chapter, "for humouring an inordinate avidity for positive evidence." he is speaking, however, about the origin of nations, and not about the wars of corsica, which he describes at some length. from about the beginning of the fourteenth century corsica had belonged to the republic of genoa. the islanders had proved restive under the yoke of their hard masters, and more than once had risen in revolt. the government of the republic was, indeed, the worst of despotisms. a succession of infamous governors--men who came to corsica poor, and, after their two years of office, returned to genoa rich--had cruelly oppressed the people. by their ill-gotten wealth, and by their interest in the senate, they were able on their return to secure themselves against any inquiry into their conduct. the foreign trade of the islanders was almost ruined by a law which appointed genoa as the sole port to which their products could be exported. the corsicans, like many other mountaineers, had always been too much given up to private feuds. but it was charged against their genoese masters, that, in their dread of union among their subjects, they themselves fomented dissentions. it was asserted in a petition presented to the king of france in , that, under the last sixteen governors, no less than , corsicans had died by the hands of the assassin. in the legal proceedings that followed on these deeds of bloodshed, the genoese judges found their profit. condemnation was often followed by confiscation of the criminal's estates; acquittal had often been preceded by a heavy bribe to the judge. multitudes were condemned to the galleys on frivolous charges in the hope that they would purchase their freedom at a high price. the law was even worse than the judges. a man could be condemned to the galleys or to death on secret information, without being once confronted with his accusers, without undergoing any examination, without the observance of any formality of any kind in the sentence that was passed on him. the judge could either acquit the greatest criminal, or condemn a man of stainless character "_ex informata conscientia_, on the information of his own conscience, of which he was not obliged to give any account." he could at any time stop the course of justice, "by saying '_non procedatur_, let there be no process;' which could easily be cloaked under the pretence of some defect in point of form." when this atrocious law was at last abolished, montesquieu wrote, "on a vu souvent des peuples demander des priviléges; ici le souverain accorde le droit de toutes les nations." no wonder that horace walpole exclaimed more than twenty years before boswell's book was published, "i hate the genoese; they make a commonwealth the most devilish of all tyrannies!" in the people rose once more against their rulers. it was the case of wat tyler over again. a tax-gatherer demanded a small sum--it was but about fivepence--of a poor old woman. small as it was, she had not wherewithal to pay. he abused her, and seized some of her furniture. she raised an outcry. her neighbours came flocking in and took her part. the tax-gatherer used threats, and was answered with a volley of stones. troops were sent to support him in the execution of his office, and the people, in their turn, flew to their weapons. the revolt spread, and soon the whole island was in arms. the genoese, as vassals of the empire, sought the aid of their sovereign lord, the emperor charles the sixth, who sent a strong body of troops to the island. the corsicans were unable to resist, and "laid down their arms, upon condition that a treaty should be made between them and the genoese, having for guarantee the emperor." hostages were sent by the islanders, to whom the republic was inclined to show but scant respect. in fact, the emperor's consent to their execution had been almost obtained, when the prince of wirtemberg, the commander of the imperial forces in corsica, sent an express to vienna, "with a very strong letter, representing how much the honour of cæsar would suffer, should he consent to the death of those who had surrendered themselves upon the faith of his sacred protection." the great prince eugene also spoke out, and for this time, cæsar's honour--at all events, all that was left of it--was saved. the suspension of hostilities was but short; for neither was the cruelty of the genoese, nor the hatred of the corsicans easily confined within the limits of a treaty. "there is not," writes boswell, "a corsican child who can procure a little gun-powder, but he immediately sets fire to it, huzzas at the explosion, and, as if he had blown up the enemy, calls out, 'ecco i genovesi; there go the genoese!'" in , the whole island once more was in the flames of an insurrection. giafferi and giacinto paoli, the father of the famous pascal paoli, were chosen as leaders. the genoese hired swiss mercenaries. they thought that against soldiers, brought up amidst the alps, as these had been, the mountains of corsica would provide no shelter for freedom. but the swiss "soon saw that they had made a bad bargain, and that they gave the genoese too much blood for their money." when at lucerne we gaze at the noble monument set up by switzerland in memory of her sons who were massacred in paris, it is well at times to remember how the swiss lion was at the hire of the very jackals of the world. genoa next published an indemnity to all her assassins and outlaws, on condition that they should fight for the republic, in corsica. "the robbers and assassins of genoa," writes boswell, "are no inconsiderable proportion of her people. these wretches flocked together from all quarters, and were formed into twelve companies." the corsican chiefs called a general assembly, in which "on donna la corse à la vierge marie, qui ne parut pas accepter cette couronne."[ ] they were not, however, to be left long without a king, for the following year one of the strangest adventurers whom the world has ever seen made a bid for the crown. he promised the islanders the support of the great powers, and, with their aid, he undertook, if he were made king, to clear corsica of her enemies. men whose fortunes are well-nigh desperate, are of easy faith, and the conditions of this poor german baron were accepted. [footnote : voltaire, "précis du siècle de louis xv.," chapter xl.] his name was theodore. he was baron neuhof, in the county of la marc, in westphalia. horace walpole, who had seen him, describes him as "a comely, middle-sized man, very reserved, and affecting much dignity." boswell says that "he was a man of abilities and address." he had served in the french army, and, later on, had travelled through spain, italy, england, and holland, ever in search of some new adventure. he had passed over to tunis, and, under pretence of conquering corsica for that power, had obtained a supply of money and arms. in a ship of ten guns furnished by the bey, but carrying the english flag, which theodore had the impudence to raise, he sailed to leghorn. there he sold the ship, and despatched his offers to the corsican leaders. he quickly passed over to the island. this was in the spring of . "he was a man of a very stately appearance, and the turkish dress which he wore, added to the dignity of his mien.... he had his guards, and his officers of state. he conferred titles of honour, and he struck money, both of silver and copper. there was such a curiosity over all europe to have king theodore's coins, that his silver coins were sold at four zechins each; and when the genuine ones were exhausted, imitations of them were made at naples, and, like the imitations of antiques, were bought up at a high price, and carefully preserved in the cabinets of the virtuosi." he boasted of the immense treasures he had brought with him, and, as a proof, he scattered among the people fifty sequins in small coins of a debased or worn out currency. "il donna des souliers de bon cuir, magnificence ignorée en corse." he blockaded the seaport towns that were in the occupation of the genoese. "he used to be sometimes at one siege, sometimes at another, standing with a telescope in his hand, as if he spied the assistance which he said he expected" from his allies, the other monarchs of europe. couriers, who had been despatched by himself, were constantly arriving from leghorn, bringing him despatches, as he pretended, from the great powers. the genoese set a price on his head. he replied in a manifesto, with all the calmness and dignity of an injured monarch. at the end of eight months, he "perceived that the people began to cool in their affections towards him, and he therefore wisely determined to leave them for a little, and try his fortune again upon the continent." he went to amsterdam, where he was thrown into prison for debt. but even in prison he made fresh dupes. he induced some merchants, particularly jews, to pay his debts, and to furnish him with a ship, arms, and provisions. he undertook in return, that they, and they alone, should carry on the whole foreign trade of corsica. when he reached the island he did not venture to land; but contented himself with disembarking his stores, and with putting to death the supercargo, "that he might not have any trouble from demands being made upon him." in the end he retired to london. "i believe i told you that king theodore is here," wrote horace walpole in , to sir horace mann, our envoy at florence. "i am to drink coffee with him to-morrow at lady schaub's." the rest of the story of this adventurer is so strange that, though it scarcely bears on corsica, i shall venture to continue it. in the summer of the next year walpole writes to his friend, "i believe i told you that one of your sovereigns, and an intimate friend of yours, king theodore, is in the king's bench prison." the unfortunate monarch languished there for some years. walpole, with a kindliness which was natural to him, raised a subscription for his majesty. he advocated his cause in a paper in "the world," with the motto _date obolum belisario_. but he wrote to his former correspondent, "his majesty's character is so bad, that it only raised fifty pounds; and though that was so much above his desert, it was so much below his expectation, that he sent a solicitor to threaten the printer with a prosecution for having taken so much liberty with his name--take notice, too, that he had accepted the money! dodsley, you may believe, laughed at the lawyer; but that does not lessen the dirty knavery.... i have done with countenancing kings." after he had remained in prison more than six years, "he took the benefit of the act of insolvency, and went to the old bailey for that purpose: in order to it, the person applying gives up all his effects to his creditors: his majesty was asked what effects he had? he replied 'nothing but the kingdom of corsica;' and it was actually registered for the benefit of his creditors. as soon as theodore was at liberty, he took a chair and went to the portuguese minister, but did not find him at home; not having sixpence to pay, he prevailed on the chairmen to carry him to a tailor he knew in soho, whom he prevailed upon to harbour him; but he fell sick the next day, and died in three more." walpole set up a stone in st. ann's churchyard, soho, in memory of his majesty, with the following inscription:-- near this place is interred theodore, king of corsica; who died in this parish, dec. , , immediately after leaving the king's bench prison, by the benefit of the act of insolvency: in consequence of which, he registered his kingdom of corsica for the use of his creditors. the grave, great teacher, to a level brings, heroes and beggars, galley-slaves and kings. but theodore this moral learn'd, ere dead; fate pour'd its lessons on his living head, bestow'd a kingdom and denied him bread. disappointed though they were in their king, the corsicans nevertheless carried on the war with spirit. they would, no doubt, have soon freed the whole island, had not the french come to the help of their oppressors. it was in vain that the islanders sent a memorial to the king of france. "if," said their spokesman to louis xv., "your sovereign commands force us to yield to genoa, well then, let us drink this bitter cup to the health of the most christian king, and die." the king and the emperor acting together drew up articles of peace which seemed fair enough; but, as a preliminary, the corsicans were to be disarmed. to this they refused to yield. their leaders "published a spirited manifesto to their countrymen, concluding it with the noble sentiment of judas maccabeus: 'melius est mori in bello quam videre mala gentis nostrae. it is better for us to die in battle than to behold the calamities of our people.'" the french dispatched an expedition to the assistance of the genoese which utterly failed. the following year ( ) a more formidable expedition was sent under an able commander, the marquis de maillebois. he divided his forces into two bodies. marching through the heart of the country each army carried devastation in its path. "he cut down the standing corn," writes boswell, "the vines, the olives, set fire to the villages, and spread terror and desolation in every quarter. he hanged numbers of monks and others who were keenest in the revolt, and at the same time published, wherever he went, his terms of capitulation." in a few weeks, all but the wildest parts of the island were reduced. by the end of the next year there was not a single patriot left in arms. in broke out the war of the austrian succession, and the french troops, which were needed elsewhere, were recalled. once more the island rose; even young boys took the field. the genoese were driven into the fortified towns. the corsican leader gaffori was besieging the castle of corte, when the defenders, making a sudden sally, seized his infant son, whom his nurse had thoughtlessly carried too near the walls. "the general," says boswell, in language which strikes us as most odd, though, to the men of his time, it sounded perhaps natural enough, "showed a decent concern at this unhappy accident, which struck a damp into the whole army. the genoese," he goes on to say, "thought they could have gaffori upon their own terms, since they were possessed of so dear a pledge. when he advanced to make some cannon play, they held up his son, directly over that part of the wall against which his artillery was levelled. the corsicans stopped, and began to draw back; but gaffori, with the resolution of a roman, stood at their head, and ordered them to continue the fire." the child escaped and lived to tell boswell this curious story. in , england "not, as if from herself, but as complying with the request of her ally, the king of sardinia," sent a squadron of ships to the assistance of the corsicans. they came before bastia on november th--three days, as it is worth while noticing, after the town of carlisle had surrendered to the forces of the young pretender. "there was but little wind blowing, and the men of war had to be towed up by the long boats. the fortress of bastia let fly first, and made a terrible fire, particularly against the commodore's ship, whose flag was beat down three times, and her main and mizen masts broke. the commodore being exasperated immediately ordered the castle to be cannonaded and bombarded, which was continued near two hours with extraordinary fury, when part of the wall was seen to tumble down."[ ] the place surrendered in a few days to the corsicans. in the following year the patriots sent envoys to the english ambassador at turin with proposals that corsica should put herself entirely under the protection of great britain. no definite answer was given. in some english troops were landed in the island, but on the conclusion of the peace of aix-la-chapelle they were withdrawn, and the corsicans and genoese were again left to fight out their own battles. [footnote : "the gentleman's magazine," vol. xv., p. .] five years later ( ) gaffori, who had long held the office of sole general of the island, was carried off by assassination. "the murderers," says boswell, "were set on by the republic. at least, it is a fact that some of these wretches have still a miserable pension to support them, in the territory of genoa." his place was filled by pascal paoli, the son of the old corsican leader, who ever since the french invasion had lived with his boy in retirement at naples. when the young man was sent for by his countrymen, his old father, "hoary and gray with years, fell on his neck and kissed him, gave him his blessing, and with a broken feeble voice, encouraged him in the undertaking on which he was entering: 'my son,' said he, 'i may, possibly, never see you more; but in my mind i shall ever be present with you. your design is a great and a noble one; and i doubt not, but god will bless you in it.'" paoli's task was full of difficulties. in "the affairs of corsica, he found the utmost disorder and confusion. there was no subordination, no discipline, no money, hardly any arms and ammunition; and, what was worse than all, little union among the people. he immediately began to remedy these defects. his persuasion and example had wonderful force. in a short time he drove the genoese to the remotest corners of the island.... he, in a manner, new-modelled the government upon the soundest principles of democratical rule, which was always his favourite idea." he carried a law by which assassination was made capital on whatever pretence it had been committed. he set about establishing schools in every village, and he founded a university at corte. boswell writing to temple in says, "i have received an elegant letter from the university of corte, and also an extract of an oration pronounced this year at the opening of the university, in which oration i am celebrated in a manner which does me the greatest honour." but the jealousy of france was again excited, and again she sent troops to the island. this was in , nine years after paoli had received the supreme command. rousseau, full of indignation at this monstrous proceeding, thus expressed himself in a letter to a friend, "il faut avouer que vos françois, sont un peuple bien servile, bien vendu à la tyrannie, bien cruel, et bien acharné sur les malheureux. s'ils savoient un homme libre à l'autre bout du monde, je crois qu'ils iroient pour le seul plaisir de l'exterminer. it must be owned that your countrymen, the french, are a very servile nation, wholly sold to tyranny, exceedingly cruel and relentless in persecuting the unhappy. if they knew of a free man at the other end of the world i believe they would go thither for the mere pleasure of extirpating him." the french did not act on the offensive. they merely garrisoned certain towns, and professed to limit their occupation to the space of four years. it was in the second year of their occupation ( ) that boswell visited the island. at the end of the four years the republic of genoa ceded corsica to the crown of france. in the cession there was a pretence of a reservation with which it is needless to trouble the reader. "genoa," writes voltaire, "made a good bargain, and france made a better." "il restait à savoir," he added, "si les hommes ont le droit de vendre d'autres hommes, mais c'est une question qu'on n'examina jamais dans aucun traité." negociations were opened with paoli, but there was no common ground between the free chief of a free people and the despot who wished to enslave them. paoli might have looked for high honours and rewards had he consented to enter the french service. he had the far greater and purer glory of resisting a king of france for nearly a whole year. no foreign power came to his aid. "a few englishmen alone," wrote voltaire, "full of love for that liberty which he upheld, sent him some money and arms." his troops were badly armed. their muskets were not even furnished with bayonets. their courage went some way to make up for their want of proper weapons. in one battle they piled up in front of them a rampart of their dead, and behind this bloody pile they loaded their pieces before they began their retreat. but against the disciplined forces that france could bring, all resistance was in vain. "poor brave paoli!" wrote horace walpole, "but he is not disgraced. we, that have sat still and seen him overwhelmed, must answer it to history. nay, the mediterranean will taunt us in the very next war." walpole wrote this letter but two months before the birth of buonaparte. had england, who has joined in many a worthless quarrel, struck in for the corsicans, what a change might have been made in the history of the world! if buonaparte had never been a citizen of france the name of napoleon might be unknown. paoli escaped in an english ship, and settled in england. walpole met him one day at court. "i could not believe it," he wrote, "when i was told who he was.... nobody sure ever had an air so little foreign!... the simplicity of his whole appearance had not given me the slightest suspicion of anything remarkable in him." paoli remained in england, an honoured guest, for thirty years. in mirabeau moved, in the national assembly, the recall of all the corsican patriots. paoli went to paris, where "he was received with enthusiastic veneration. the assembly and the royal family contended which should show him most distinction." the king made him lieutenant-general and military commandant in corsica. "he used the powers entrusted to him with great wisdom and moderation." the rapid changes that swept over france did not leave him untouched. he was denounced in the convention and "was summoned to attend for the purpose of standing on his defence. he declined the journey on account of his age." a large part of his countrymen stood by him, and in an assembly appointed him general-in-chief, and president of the council of government. the convention sent an expedition to arrest him. buonaparte happened at the time to be in corsica, on leave of absence from his regiment. he and paoli had been on friendly terms, indeed they were distantly related, but buonaparte did not hesitate for a moment which side to take. he commanded the french troops in an attack on his native town. paoli's party proved the stronger, and napoleon buonaparte and his brother lucien were banished. the corsicans sought the aid of the english who, in the year , landed, five regiments strong, in the island. a deputation went to london to offer the crown of corsica to the king of great britain. the offer was accepted, but contrary to the hopes and the expectations of the islanders, not paoli, but sir gilbert eliot was made viceroy. the great patriot then found that he could best serve his country by leaving it. for about two years corsica remained part of the british empire; but in the english were forced to abandon it. paoli returned to england, where he passed the rest of his years. he died in at the age of eighty-two. his monument is in westminster abbey. an account of corsica, the journal of a tour to that island; and memoirs of pascal paoli. by james boswell, esq; illustrated with a new and accurate map of corsica. non enim propter gloriam, divitias aut honores pugnamus, sed propter libertatem solummodo, quam nemo bonus nisi simul cum vita amittit. lit. comit. et baron. scotiae ad pap. a.d. . glasgow, printed by robert and andrew foulis for edward and charles dilly in the poultry, london; mdcclxviii. dedication to pascal paoli, general of the corsicans. sir,--dedications are for most part the offerings of interested servility, or the effusions of partial zeal; enumerating the virtues of men in whom no virtues can be found, or predicting greatness to those who afterwards pass their days in unambitious indolence, and die leaving no memorial of their existence, but a dedication, in which all their merit is confessedly future, and which time has turned into a silent reproach. he who has any experience of mankind, will be cautious to whom he dedicates. publickly to bestow praise on merit of which the publick is not sensible, or to raise flattering expectations which are never fulfilled, must sink the character of an authour, and make him appear a cringing parasite, or a fond enthusiast. i am under no apprehensions of that nature, when i inscribe this book to pascal paoli. your virtues, sir, are universally acknowledged; they dignify the pages which i venture to present to you; and it is my singular felicity that my book is the voucher of its dedication. in thus addressing you, my intention is not to attempt your panegyrick. that may in some measure be collected from my imperfect labours. but i wish to express to the world, the admiration and gratitude with which you have inspired me. this, sir, is all the return that i can make for the many favours which you have deigned to confer upon me. i intreat you to receive it as a testimony of my disposition. i regret that i have neither power nor interest to enable me to render any essential service to you and to the brave corsicans. i can only assure you of the most fervent wishes of a private gentleman. i have the honour to be, with all respect and affection, sir, your ever devoted obliged humble servant james boswell. auchinleck, ayrshire, october,[ ] . [footnote : boswell's birthday. the preface to the third edition also bears the date of his birthday.--ed.] preface. no apology shall be made for presenting the world with an account of corsica. it has been for some time expected from me; and i own that the ardour of publick curiosity has both encouraged and intimidated me. on my return from visiting corsica, i found people wherever i went, desirous to hear what i could tell them concerning that island and its inhabitants. unwilling to repeat my tale to every company, i thought it best to promise a book which should speak for me. but i would not take upon me to do this till i consulted with the general of the nation. i therefore informed him of my design. his answer is perhaps too flattering for me to publish: but i must beg leave to give it as the licence and sanction of this work. paoli was pleased to write to me thus; "nothing can be more generous than your design to publish the observations which you have made upon corsica. you have seen its natural situation, you have been able to study the manners of its inhabitants, and to see intimately the maxims of their government, of which you know the constitution. this people with an enthusiasm of gratitude, will unite their applause with that of undeceived europe." * * * * * it is amazing that an island so considerable, and in which such noble things have been doing, should be so imperfectly known. even the succession of chiefs has been unperceived; and because we have read of paoli being at the head of the corsicans many years back, and paoli still appears at their head, the command has been supposed all this time in the person of the same man. hence all our newspapers have confounded the gallant pascal paoli in the vigour of manhood, with the venerable chief his deceased father, giacinto paoli. nay the same errour has found its way into the page of the historian; for dr. smollet when mentioning paoli at the siege of furiani a few years ago, says he was then past fourscore. i would in the first place return my most humble thanks to pascal paoli, for the various communications with which he has been pleased to favour me; and as i have related his remarkable sayings, i declare upon honour, that i have neither added nor diminished; nay so scrupulous have i been, that i would not make the smallest variation even when my friends thought it would be an improvement. i know with how much pleasure we read what is perfectly authentick. count rivarola[ ] was so good as to return me full and distinct answers to a variety of queries which i sent him with regard to many particulars concerning corsica. i am much indebted to him for this, and particularly so, from the obliging manner in which he did it. [footnote : the sardinian consul in corsica. see page .--ed.] the reverend mr. burnaby, chaplain to the british factory at leghorn, made a tour to corsica in , at the same time with the honourable and reverend mr. hervey, now bishop of cloyne.[ ] mr. burnaby was absent from leghorn when i was there, so i had not the pleasure of being personally known to him. but he with great politeness of his own accord, sent me a copy of the journal which he made of what he observed in corsica. i had the satisfaction to find that we agreed in every thing which both of us had considered. but i found in his journal, observations on several things which i had omitted; and several things which i had remarked, i found set in a clearer light. as mr. burnaby was so obliging as to allow me to make what use i pleased of his journal, i have freely interwoven it into my work. [footnote : the son of pope's lord hervey. he succeeded in to the earldom of bristol.--ed.] i acknowledge my obligations to my esteemed friend john dick esquire, his britannick majesty's consul at leghorn, to signor gian quilico casa bianca, to the learned greek physician signor stefanopoli, to colonel buttafoco,[ ] and to the abbé rostini. these gentlemen have all contributed their aid in erecting my little monument to liberty. [footnote : colonel buttafoco was one of rousseau's correspondents. at the time of the french revolution he was elected deputy from corsica to the national assembly. he was most violently attacked by napoleon buonaparte in a letter dated "from my closet at milleli, rd january, year ." the letter thus begins:--"from bonifacio to cape corso, from ajaccio to bastia, there is one chorus of imprecations against you." the writer goes on to say, "your countrymen, to whom you are an object of horror, will enlighten france as to your character. the wealth, the pensions, the fruits of your treasons, will be taken from you.... o lameth! o robespierre! o petion! o volney! o mirabeau! o barnave! o bailly! o la fayette! this is the man who dares to seat himself by your side!"--scott's "life of napoleon buonaparte," vol. ix., appendix i.--ed.] i am also to thank an ingenious gentleman who has favoured me with the translations of seneca's epigrams. i made application for this favour, in the "london chronicle;" and to the honour of literature, i found her votaries very liberal. several translations were sent, of which i took the liberty to prefer those which had the signature of patricius, and which were improved by another ingenious correspondent under the signature of plebeius. by a subsequent application i begged that patricius would let me know to whom i was obliged for what i considered as a great ornament to my book. he has complied with my request; and i beg leave in this publick manner, to acknowledge that i am indebted for those translations to thomas day esquire,[ ] of berkshire, a gentleman whose situation in life is genteel, and his fortune affluent. i must add that although his verses have not only the fire of youth, but the maturity and correctness of age, mr. day is no more than nineteen. [footnote : this is, i believe the author of "sandford and merton," who was born in , and was nineteen years old at the date of the dedication of boswell's work. his father had died when day was a year old, and had left him a fortune of £ , a year.--ed.] nor can i omit to express my sense of the candour and politeness with which sir james steuart received the remark which i have ventured to make in opposition to a passage concerning the corsicans, in his "inquiry into the principles of political oeconomy." i have submitted my book to the revisal of several gentlemen who honour me with their regard, and i am sensible how much it is improved by their corrections. it is therefore my duty to return thanks to the reverend mr. wyvill rectour of black notely in essex, and to my old and most intimate friend the reverend mr. temple[ ] rectour of mamhead in devonshire. i am also obliged to my lord monboddo for many judicious remarks, which his thorough acquaintance with ancient learning enabled him to make. but i am principally indebted to the indulgence and friendly attention of my lord hailes, who under the name of sir david dalrymple,[ ] has been long known to the world as an able antiquarian, and an elegant and humourous essayist; to whom the world has no fault but that he does not give them more of his own writings, when they value them so highly.[ ] [footnote : see "letters of james boswell addressed to the rev. w.j. temple."--bentley, london, .--ed.] [footnote : it is the custom in scotland to give the judges of the court of session the title of lords by the names of their estates. thus mr. burnett is lord monboddo, and sir david dalrymple is lord hailes.] [footnote : "johnson this evening drank a bumper to sir david dalrymple, 'as a man of worth, a scholar, and a wit. i have,' said he, 'never heard of him, except from you; but let him know my opinion of him: for as he does not show himself much in the world, he should have the praise of the few who hear of him.'"--boswell's "johnson." date of july , .--ed.] i would however have it understood, that although i received the corrections of my friends with deference, i have not always agreed with them. an authour should be glad to hear every candid remark. but i look upon a man as unworthy to write, who has not force of mind to determine for himself. i mention this, that the judgement of the friends i have named may not be considered as connected with every passage in this book. writing a book i have found to be like building a house. a man forms a plan and collects materials. he thinks he has enough to raise a large and stately edifice; but after he has arranged, compacted and polished, his work turns out to be a very small performance. the authour, however, like the builder, knows how much labour his work has cost him; and therefore estimates it at a much higher rate than other people think it deserves. i have endeavoured to avoid an ostentatious display of learning. by the idle and the frivolous indeed, any appearance of learning is called pedantry. but as i do not write for such readers, i pay no regard to their censures. those by whom i wish to be judged, will i hope, approve of my adding dignity to corsica, by shewing its consideration among the ancients, and will not be displeased to find my page sometimes embellished with a seasonable quotation from the classicks. the translations are ascribed to their proper authours. what are not so ascribed are my own. it may be necessary to say something in defence of my orthography. of late it has become the fashion to render our language more neat and trim by leaving out k after c, and u in the last syllable of words which used to end in our. the illustrious mr. samuel johnson, who has alone[ ] executed in england what was the task of whole academies in other countries, has been careful in his dictionary to preserve the k as a mark of saxon original. he has for most part, too, been careful to preserve the u, but he has also omitted it in several words. i have retained the k, and have taken upon me to follow a general rule with regard to words ending in our. wherever a word originally latin has been transmitted to us through the medium of the french, i have written it with the characteristical u. an attention to this may appear trivial. but i own i am one of those who are curious in the formation of language in its various modes; and therefore wish that the affinity of english with other tongues may not be forgotten. if this work should at any future period be reprinted, i hope that care will be taken of my orthography.[ ] [footnote : "adams.--but, sir, how can you do this in three years? johnson.--sir, i have no doubt that i can do it in three years. adams.--but the french academy, which consists of forty members, took forty years to compile their dictionary. johnson.--sir, thus it is. this is the proportion. let me see; forty times forty is sixteen hundred. as three to sixteen hundred, so is the proportion of an englishman to a frenchman."--boswell's "johnson." date of .--ed.] [footnote : i have not dared to disregard boswell's request. his orthography is retained.--ed.] he who publishes a book, affecting not to be an authour, and professing an indifference for literary fame, may possibly impose upon many people such an idea of his consequence as he wishes may be received. for my part, i should be proud to be known as an authour; and i have an ardent ambition for literary fame; for of all possessions i should imagine literary fame to be the most valuable. a man who has been able to furnish a book which has been approved by the world, has established himself as a respectable character in distant society, without any danger of having that character lessened by the observation of his weaknesses. to preserve an uniform dignity among those who see us every day, is hardly possible; and to aim at it must put us under the fetters of a perpetual restraint. the authour of an approved book may allow his natural disposition an easy play, and yet indulge the pride of superiour genius when he considers that by those who know him only as an authour, he never ceases to be respected. such an authour when in his hours of gloom and discontent, may have the consolation to think that his writings are at that very time giving pleasure to numbers; and such an authour may cherish the hope of being remembered after death, which has been a great object to the noblest minds in all ages.[ ] [footnote : "the rational pride of an author may be offended, rather than flattered, by vague, indiscriminate praise; but he cannot, he should not, be indifferent to the fair testimonies of private and public esteem. even his moral sympathy may be gratified by the idea, that now, in the present hour, he is imparting some degree of amusement or knowledge to his friends in a distant land; that one day his mind will be familiar to the grand-children of those who are yet unborn."--"memoirs of my life and writings," by edward gibbon, vol. i., p. . "do thou teach me not only to foresee but to enjoy, nay even to feed on future praise. comfort me by the solemn assurance, that when the little parlour in which i sit at this moment shall be reduced to a worse-furnished box, i shall be read with honour by those who never knew nor saw me, and whom i shall neither know nor see."--"tom jones," book xiii., chap. i. quoted by gibbon, or his editor.--ed.] whether i may merit any portion of literary fame, the publick will judge. whatever my ambition may be, i trust that my confidence is not too great, nor my hopes too sanguine. preface to the third edition. i now beg leave to present the world with a more correct edition of my account of corsica. i return my sincere thanks to those who have taken the trouble to point out several faults, with a spirit of candid criticism. i hope they will not be offended that in one or two places i have preserved my own reading, contrary to their opinion; as i never would own that i am wrong, till i am convinced that it is so. my orthography i have sufficiently explained; and although some pleasantry has been shewn, i have not met with one argument against it. * * * * * while i have a proper sense of my obligations to those who have treated me with candour, i do not forget that there have been others who have chosen to treat me in an illiberal manner. the resentment of some has evidently arisen from the grateful admiration which i have expressed of mr. samuel johnson. over such, it is a triumph to me to assure them, that i never cease to think of mr. johnson with the same warmth of affection, and the same dignity of veneration. the resentment of others it is more difficult to explain. for what should make men attack one who never offended them, who has done his best to entertain them, and who is engaged in the most generous cause? but i am told by those who have gone before me in literature, that the attacks of such should rather flatter me, than give me displeasure. to those who have imagined themselves very witty in sneering at me for being a christian, i would recommend the serious study of theology, and i hope they will attain to the same comfort that i have, in the belief of a revelation by which a saviour is proclamed to the world, and "life and immortality are clearly brought to light." i am now to return thanks to my lord lyttelton, for being so good as to allow me to enrich my book with one of his lordship's letters to me.[ ] i was indeed most anxious that it should be published; as it contains an eulogium on pascal paoli, equal to anything that i have found in the writings of antiquity. nor can i deny that i was very desirous to shew the world that this worthy and respectable nobleman, to whom genius, learning and virtue owe so much, can amidst all his literary honours be pleased with what i have been able to write. [footnote : i have not thought it needful to reprint this letter.--ed.] may i be permitted to say that the success of this book has exceeded my warmest hopes. when i first ventured to send it into the world, i fairly owned an ardent desire for literary fame. i have obtained my desire: and whatever clouds may overcast my days, i can now walk here among the rocks and woods of my ancestors, with an agreeable consciousness that i have done something worthy. auchinleck, ayrshire, october, . the journal of a tour to corsica; and memoirs of pascal paoli. olim meminisse juvabit. virg. the journal of a tour to corsica. having resolved to pass some years[ ] abroad, for my instruction and entertainment, i conceived a design of visiting the island of corsica. i wished for something more than just the common course of what is called the tour of europe; and corsica occurred to me as a place which no body else had seen, and where i should find what was to be seen no where else, a people actually fighting for liberty, and forming themselves from a poor inconsiderable oppressed nation, into a flourishing and independent state. [footnote : boswell had left england, on august th, , for the university of utrecht, whither his father had sent him to study civil law. on his return to scotland, he was to put on the gown as a member of the faculty of advocates. "honest man!" he writes of his father to his friend temple, "he is now very happy; it is amazing to think how much he has had at heart my pursuing the road of civil life." boswell had once hoped to enter the guards. a few days later on he wrote: "my father has allowed me £ a quarter; that is not a great allowance, but with economy i may live very well upon it, for holland is a cheap country. however i am determined not to be straightened, nor to encourage the least narrowness of disposition as to saving money, but will draw upon my father for any sums i find necessary." he did not give many months to his legal studies at utrecht. in the following year he set out on his travels. he went through germany and switzerland to italy. it was in the autumn of that he visited corsica. he returned to england through france, and arrived in london in february, .] when i got into switzerland, i went to see m. rousseau. he was then living in romantick retirement, from whence, perhaps, it had been better for him never to have descended. while he was at a distance, his singular eloquence filled our minds with high ideas of the wild philosopher. when he came into the walks of men, we know alas! how much these ideas suffered.[ ] [footnote : rousseau came to england in january, . he had not been here long before he quarrelled with hume, who had been to him so true a friend.--ed.] he entertained me very courteously; for i was recommended to him by my honoured friend the earl marischal,[ ] with whom i had the happiness of travelling through a part of germany. i had heard that m. rousseau had some correspondence with the corsicans, and had been desired to assist them in forming their laws.[ ] i told him my scheme of going to visit them, after i had compleated my tour of italy; and i insisted that he should give me a letter of introduction. he immediately agreed to do so, whenever i should acquaint him of my time of going thither; for he saw that my enthusiasm for the brave islanders was as warm as his own. [footnote : george, tenth earl marischal. he had taken part in the jacobite rising of . later on he held high office in the prussian service. in his attainder was reversed, but he continued to live abroad. in one of his letters to madame de boufflers he says, in speaking of rousseau, "je lui avais fait un projet; mais en le disant un château en espagne, d'aller habiter une maison toute meublée que j'ai en ecosse; d'engager le bon david hume de vivre avec nous."--"hume's private correspondence," page .--ed.] [footnote : see page .] i accordingly wrote to him from rome, in april , that i had fixed the month of september for my corsican expedition, and therefore begged of him to send me the letter of introduction, which if he refused, i should certainly go without it, and probably be hanged as a spy. so let him answer for the consequences. the wild philosopher was a man of his word; and on my arrival at florence in august i received the following letter. "a monsieur, monsieur boswell, &c. "a motiers le may, . "la crise orageuse ou je me trouve, monsieur, depuis votre depart d'ici, m'a oté le tems de repondre à votre premiére lettre, et me laisse à peine celui de repondre en peu de mots à la seconde. pour m'en tenir à ce qui presse pour le moment, savoir la recommendation que vous desirez en corse; puisque vous avez le desir de visiter ces braves insulaires, vous pourrez vous informer à bastia, de m. buttafoco capitaine au regiment royal italien; il a sa maison à vescovado, ou il se tient assez souvent. c'est un très galant homme, qui a des connoissances et de l'esprit; il suffira de lui montrer cette lettre, et je suis sur qu'il vous recevra bien, et contribuera à vous faire voir l'isle et ses habitans avec satisfaction. si vous ne trouvez pas m. buttafoco, et que vous vouliez aller tout droit à m. pascal de paoli general de la nation, vous pouvez egalement lui montrer cette lettre, et je suis sur, connoissant la noblesse de son caractére, que vous serez très-content de son accueil: vous pourrez lui dire même que vous étes aimé de mylord mareschal d'ecosse, et que mylord mareschal est un des plus zelés partizans de la nation corse. au reste vouz n'avez besoin d'autre recommendation près de ces messieurs que votre propre mérite, la nation corse etant naturellement si accueillante et si hospitaliére, que tous les etrangers y sont bien venus et caressés. * * * * * "bons et heureux voyages, santé, gaieté et promt retour. je vous embrasse, monsieur, de tout mon coeur." "j.j. rousseau." "to mr. boswell, &c. "motiers, the may . "the stormy crisis in which i have found myself since your departure from this, has not allowed me any leisure to answer your first letter, and hardly allows me leisure to reply in a few words to your second. to confine myself to what is immediately pressing, the recommendation which you ask for corsica; since you have a desire to visit those brave islanders, you may enquire at bastia for m. buttafoco, captain of the royal italian regiment; his house is at vescovado, where he resides pretty often. he is a very worthy man, and has both knowledge and genius; it will be sufficient to shew him this letter, and i am sure he will receive you well, and will contribute to let you see the island and its inhabitants with satisfaction. if you do not find m. buttafoco, and will go directly to m. pascal paoli general of the nation, you may in the same manner shew him this letter, and as i know the nobleness of his character, i am sure you will be very well pleased at your reception. you may even tell him that you are liked by my lord marischal of scotland, and that my lord marischal is one of the most zealous partisans of the corsican nation. you need no other recommendation to these gentlemen but your own merit, the corsicans being naturally so courteous and hospitable, that all strangers who come among them, are made welcome and caressed. * * * * * "i wish you agreeable and fortunate travels, health, gaiety, and a speedy return. i embrace you sir with all my heart "john james rousseau." furnished with these credentials, i was impatient to be with the illustrious chief. the charms of sweet siena detained me longer than they should have done. i required the hardy air of corsica to brace me, after the delights of tuscany. i recollect with astonishment how little the real state of corsica was known, even by those who had good access to know it. an officer of rank in the british navy, who had been in several ports of the island, told me that i run the risque of my life in going among these barbarians; for, that his surgeon's mate went ashore to take the diversion of shooting, and every moment was alarmed by some of the natives, who started from the bushes with loaded guns, and if he had not been protected by corsican guides, would have certainly blown out his brains. nay at leghorn, which is within a day's sailing of corsica, and has a constant intercourse with it, i found people who dissuaded me from going thither, because it might be dangerous. i was however under no apprehension in going to corsica. count rivarola the sardinian consul, who is himself a corsican, assuring me that the island was then in a very civilized state; and besides, that in the rudest times no corsican would ever attack a stranger. the count was so good as to give me most obliging letters to many people in the island. i had now been in several foreign countries. i had found that i was able to accommodate myself to my fellow-creatures of different languages and sentiments. i did not fear that it would be a difficult task for me to make myself easy with the plain and generous corsicans. the only danger i saw was, that i might be taken by some of the barbary corsairs, and have a tryal of slavery among the turks at algiers.[ ] i spoke of it to commodore harrison, who commanded the british squadron in the mediterranean, and was then lying with his ship the centurion in the bay of leghorn. he assured me, that if the turks did take me, they should not keep me long; but in order to prevent it, he was so good as to grant me a very ample and particular passport; and as it could be of no use if i did not meet the corsairs, he said very pleasantly when he gave it me, "i hope, sir, it shall be of no use to you." [footnote : in the "gentleman's magazine" for (vol. xx., p. ), we read, "the phoenix, captain carberry, of bristol, was taken on christmas eve by an algerine corsair off the rock of lisbon, on pretence that his pass was not good, and ordered for algiers with an officer and six other turks; but in the passage captain carberry with three english sailors and a boy recovered the vessel, after flinging the turkish officer and two other turks overboard, and brought it with the turkish sailors prisoners to bristol." in the same year the english consul at algiers wrote to say that some algerine corsairs had taken five english vessels because their passes were not good. the consul had complained to the dey, "who said that he would give such orders that nothing of this sort should happen again, and then swore by his prophet that if any one controverted those orders he would take his head." the dey had also seized a packet-boat of the british crown. commodore keppel was sent to demand restitution. the dey replied, "we are disposed to give full satisfaction to the king and the british nation for anything that may happen amiss hereafter; but as to what is past, if they have had any cause to complain, they must think no more of it, and bury it in oblivion." the packet-boat, he maintained, had not a proper algerine pass, and therefore had been lawfully seized. by a treaty made with the dey in the following year, the commodore "settled all differences by waiving the restitution of the money and effects taken from on board the packet-boat on condition that his majesty's packet-boats shall never be obliged to carry algerine passports," &c. whatever protection the english vessels may have had the turkish corsairs continued to plunder the ships of most other nations. in the "gentleman's magazine" for , (vol. lv., p. ) we read, "the algerines still continue their piracies in the mediterranean. they even extend their captures to the atlantic ocean, and have struck the american traders with terror."--ed.] before i left leghorn, i could observe, that my tour was looked upon by the italian politicians in a very serious light, as if truly i had a commission from my court, to negociate a treaty with the corsicans. the more i disclaimed any such thing, the more they persevered in affirming it; and i was considered as a very close young man. i therefore just allowed them to make a minister of me, till time should undeceive them.[ ] [footnote : compare scribe's comedy of "_le diplomate_."--ed.] i sailed from leghorn in a tuscan vessel, which was going over to capo corso for wine. i preferred this to a vessel going to bastia, because, as i did not know how the french general was affected towards the corsicans, i was afraid that he might not permit me to go forward to paoli. i therefore resolved to land on the territories of the nation, and after i had been with the illustrious chief, to pay my respects to the french if i should find it safe. though from leghorn to corsica is usually but one day's sailing, there was so dead a calm that it took us two days. the first day was the most tedious. however there were two or three corsicans aboard, and one of them played on the citra, which amused me a good deal. at sun-set all the people in the ship sung the ave maria, with great devotion and some melody. it was pleasing to enter into the spirit of their religion, and hear them offering up their evening orisons. the second day we became better acquainted, and more lively and chearful. the worthy corsicans thought it was proper to give a moral lesson to a young traveller just come from italy. they told me that in their country i should be treated with the greatest hospitality; but if i attempted to debauch any of their women, i might lay my account with instant death. i employed myself several hours in rowing, which gave me great spirits. i relished fully my approach to the island, which had acquired an unusual grandeur in my imagination. as long as i can remember any thing, i have heard of "the malecontents of corsica, with paoli at their head." it was a curious thought that i was just going to see them. about seven o'clock at night, we landed safely in the harbour of centuri. i learnt that signor giaccomini of this place, to whom i was recommended by count rivarola, was just dead. he had made a handsome fortune in the east indies; and having had a remarkable warmth in the cause of liberty during his whole life, he shewed it in the strongest manner in his last will. he bequeathed a considerable sum of money, and some pieces of ordinance, to the nation. he also left it in charge to his heir, to live in corsica, and be firm in the patriotick interest; and if ever the island should again be reduced under the power of the genoese, he ordered him to retire with all his effects to leghorn. upon these conditions only could his heir enjoy his estate. i was directed to the house of signor giaccomini's cousin, signor antonio antonetti at morsiglia, about a mile up the country. the prospect of the mountains covered with vines and olives, was extremely agreeable; and the odour of the myrtle and other aromatick shrubs and flowers that grew all around me, was very refreshing. as i walked along, i often saw corsican peasants come suddenly out from the covert; and as they were all armed, i saw how the frightened imagination of the surgeon's mate had raised up so many assassins. even the man who carried my baggage was armed, and had i been timorous might have alarmed me. but he and i were very good company to each other. as it grew dusky, i repeated to myself these lines from a fine passage in ariosto. "e pur per selve oscure e calli obliqui insieme van senza, sospetto aversi." ariost. canto i. "together through dark woods and winding ways they walk, nor on their hearts suspicion preys." i delivered signor antonetti the letter for his deceased cousin. he read it, and received me with unaffected cordiality, making an apology for my frugal entertainment, but assuring me of a hearty welcome. his true kindly hospitality was also shewn in taking care of my servant, an honest swiss, who loved to eat and drink well.[ ] [footnote : like master, like man.--ed.] i had formed a strange notion that i should see every thing in corsica totally different from what i had seen in any other country.[ ] i was therefore much surprised to find signor antonetti's house quite an italian one, with very good furniture, prints, and copies of some of the famous pictures. in particular, i was struck to find here a small copy from raphael, of st. michael and the dragon. there was no necessity for its being well done. to see the thing at all was what surprised me. [footnote : see appendix b for a curious custom described by boswell.--ed.] signor antonetti gave me an excellent light repast, and a very good bed. he spoke with great strength of the patriotick cause, and with great veneration of the general. i was quite easy, and liked much the opening of my corsican tour. the next day, being sunday, it rained very hard; and i must observe that the corsicans with all their resolution, are afraid of bad weather, to a degree of effeminacy. i got indeed a drole but a just enough account of this, from one of them. "sir," said he, "if you were as poor as a corsican, and had but one coat, so as that after being wet, you could not put on dry cloaths, you would be afraid too."[ ] signor antonetti would not allow me to set out while it rained, for, said he, "quando si trova fuori, patienza; ma di andare fuori è cattivo. if a man finds himself abroad, there is no help for it. but to go deliberately out, is too much." [footnote : a friend of mine, driving last september from tunis to utica, was overtaken by a storm of rain. the driver at once got down from the box and seated himself on the ground under the carriage. by way of excuse he said that he had but one coat.--ed.] when the day grew a little better, i accompanied signor antonetti and his family, to hear mass in the parish church, a very pretty little building, about half a quarter of a mile off. signor antonetti's parish priest was to preach to us, at which i was much pleased, being very curious to hear a corsican sermon. our priest did very well. his text was in the psalms. "descendunt ad infernum viventes. they go down alive into the pit." after endeavouring to move our passions with a description of the horrours of hell, he told us "saint catherine of siena wished to be laid on the mouth of this dreadful pit, that she might stop it up, so as no more unhappy souls should fall into it. i confess, my brethren, i have not the zeal of holy saint catherine. but i do what i can; i warn you how to avoid it." he then gave us some good practical advices and concluded. the weather being now cleared up, i took leave of the worthy gentleman to whom i had been a guest. he gave me a letter to signor damiano tomasi padre del commune at pino, the next village. i got a man with an ass to carry my baggage. but such a road i never saw. it was absolutely scrambling along the face of a rock overhanging the sea, upon a path sometimes not above a foot broad. i thought the ass rather retarded me; so i prevailed with the man to take my portmanteau and other things on his back. had i formed my opinion of corsica from what i saw this morning, i might have been in as bad humour with it, as seneca was, whose reflections in prose are not inferiour to his epigrams. "quid tam nudum inveniri potest, quid tam abruptum undique quam hoc saxum? quid ad copias respicienti jejunius? quid ad homines immansuetius? quid ad ipsum loci situm horridius? plures tamen hîc peregrini quam cives consistunt? usque eò ergo commutatio ipsa locorum gravis non est, ut hic quoque locus a patria quosdam abduxerit.[ ] what can be found so bare, what so rugged all around as this rock? what more barren of provisions? what more rude as to its inhabitants? what in the very situation of the place more horrible? what in climate more intemperate? yet there are more foreigners than natives here. so far then is a change of place from being disagreeable, that even this place hath brought some people away from their country." [footnote : seneca de consolatione.] at pino i was surprised to find myself met by some brisk young fellows drest like english sailors, and speaking english tolerably well. they had been often with cargoes of wine at leghorn, where they had picked up what they knew of our language, and taken clothes in part of payment for some of their merchandise. i was cordially entertained at signor tomasi's. throughout all corsica, except in garrison towns, there is hardly an inn. i met with a single one, about eight miles from corte. before i was accustomed to the corsican hospitality, i sometimes forgot myself, and imagining i was in a publick house, called for what i wanted, with the tone which one uses in calling to the waiters at a tavern. i did so at pino, asking for a variety of things at once; when signora tomasi, perceiving my mistake, looked in my face and smiled, saying with much calmness and good-nature, "una cosa dopo un altra, signore. one thing after another, sir." in writing this journal, i shall not tire my readers with relating the occurrences of each particular day. it will be much more agreeable to them, to have a free and continued account of what i saw or heard, most worthy of observation. for some time, i had very curious travelling, mostly on foot, and attended by a couple of stout women, who carried my baggage upon their heads. every time that i prepared to set out from a village, i could not help laughing, to see the good people eager to have my equipage in order, and roaring out, "le donne, le donne. the women, the women." i had full leisure and the best opportunities to observe every thing, in my progress through the island. i was lodged sometimes in private houses, sometimes in convents, being always well recommended from place to place. the first convent in which i lay, was at canari. it appeared a little odd at first. but i soon learnt to repair to my dormitory as naturally as if i had been a friar for seven years. the convents were small decent buildings, suited to the sober ideas of their pious inhabitants. the religious who devoutly endeavour to "walk with god," are often treated with raillery by those whom pleasure or business prevents from thinking of future and more exalted objects. a little experience of the serenity and peace of mind to be found in convents, would be of use to temper the fire of men of the world. at patrimonio i found the seat of a provincial magistracy. the chief judge was there, and entertained me very well. upon my arrival, the captain of the guard came out, and demanded who i was? i replied "inglese english." he looked at me seriously, and then said in a tone between regret and upbraiding, "inglese, c'erano i nostri amici; ma non le sono più. the english. they were once our friends; but they are so no more." i felt for my country, and was abashed before this honest soldier. at oletta i visited count nicholas rivarola, brother to my friend at leghorn. he received me with great kindness, and did every thing in his power to make me easy. i found here a corsican who thought better of the british than the captain of the guard at patrimonio. he talked of our bombarding san fiorenzo,[ ] in favour of the patriots, and willingly gave me his horse for the afternoon, which he said he would not have done to a man of any other nation. [footnote : in . see introduction. page .--ed.] when i came to morato, i had the pleasure of being made acquainted with signor barbaggi, who is married to the niece of paoli. i found him to be a sensible, intelligent, well-bred man. the mint of corsica was in his house. i got specimens of their different kinds of money in silver and copper, and was told that they hoped in a year or two, to strike some gold coins. signor barbaggi's house was repairing, so i was lodged in the convent. but in the morning returned to breakfast, and had chocolate; and at dinner we had no less than twelve well-drest dishes, served on dresden china, with a desert, different sorts of wine and a liqueur, all the produce of corsica. signor barbaggi was frequently repeating to me, that the corsicans inhabited a rude uncultivated country, and that they lived like spartans. i begged leave to ask him in what country he could show me greater luxury than i had seen in his house; and i said i should certainly tell wherever i went, what tables the corsicans kept, notwithstanding their pretensions to poverty and temperance. a good deal of pleasantry passed upon this. his lady was a genteel woman, and appeared to be agreeable, though very reserved. from morato to corte, i travelled through a wild mountainous rocky country, diversified with some large valleys. i got little beasts for me and my servant, sometimes horses, but oftener mules or asses. we had no bridles, but cords fixed round their necks, with which we managed them as well as we could. at corte i waited upon the supreme council, to one of whom, signor boccociampe, i had a letter from signor barbaggi. i was very politely received, and was conducted to the franciscan convent, where i got the apartment of paoli, who was then some days' journey beyond the mountains, holding a court of syndicato[ ] at a village called sollacarò. [footnote : "the syndicatori make a tour through the different provinces, as our judges in britain go the circuits. they hear complaints against the different magistrates."--boswell's "account of corsica," p. .--ed.] as the general resided for some time in this convent, the fathers made a better appearance than any i saw in the island. i was principally attended by the priour, a resolute divine, who had formerly been in the army, and by padre giulio, a man of much address, who still favours me with his correspondence. these fathers have a good vineyard and an excellent garden. they have between and bee-hives in long wooden cases or trunks of trees, with a covering of the bark of the cork tree. when they want honey, they burn a little juniper wood, the smoak of which makes the bees retire. they then take an iron instrument with a sharp-edged crook at one end of it, and bring out the greatest part of the honey-comb, leaving only a little for the bees, who work the case full again. by taking the honey in this way, they never kill a bee. they seemed much at their ease, living in peace and plenty. i often joked them with the text which is applied to their order, "nihil habentes et omnia possidentes. having nothing, and yet possessing all things." i went to the choir with them. the service was conducted with propriety, and padre giulio played on the organ. on the great altar of their church is a tabernacle carved in wood by a religious. it is a piece of exquisite workmanship. a genoese gentleman offered to give them one in silver for it; but they would not make the exchange. these fathers have no library worth mentioning; but their convent is large and well built. i looked about with great attention, to see if i could find any inscriptions; but the only one i found was upon a certain useful edifice. "sine necessitate huc non intrate, quia necessaria sumus." a studied, rhiming, latin conceit marked upon such a place was truly ludicrous. i chose to stop a while at corte, to repose myself after my fatigues, and to see every thing about the capital of corsica. the morning after my arrival here, three french deserters desired to speak with me. the foolish fellows had taken it into their heads, that i was come to raise recruits for scotland, and so they begged to have the honour of going along with me; i suppose with intention to have the honour of running off from me, as they had done from their own regiments. i received many civilities at corte from signor boccociampe, and from signor massesi the great chancellor, whose son signor luigi a young gentleman of much vivacity, and natural politeness, was so good as to attend me constantly as my conductour. i used to call him my governour. i liked him much, for as he had never been out of the island, his ideas were entirely corsican. such of the members of the supreme council as were in residence during my stay at corte, i found to be solid and sagacious, men of penetration and ability, well calculated to assist the general in forming his political plans, and in turning to the best advantage, the violence and enterprise of the people. the university was not then sitting, so i could only see the rooms, which were shewn me by the abbé valentini, procuratour of the university. the professours were all absent except one capuchin father whom i visited at his convent. it is a tolerable building, with a pretty large collection of books. there is in the church here a tabernacle carved in wood, in the manner of that at the franciscans', but much inferiour to it. i went up to the castle of corte. the commandant very civilly shewed me every part of it. as i wished to see all things in corsica, i desired to see even the unhappy criminals.[ ] there were then three in the castle, a man for the murder of his wife, a married lady who had hired one of her servants to strangle a woman of whom she was jealous, and the servant who had actually perpetrated this barbarous action. they were brought out from their cells, that i might talk with them. the murderer of his wife had a stupid hardened appearance, and told me he did it at the instigation of the devil. the servant was a poor despicable wretch. he had at first accused his mistress, but was afterwards prevailed with to deny his accusation, upon which he was put to the torture,[ ] by having lighted matches held between his fingers. this made him return to what he had formerly said, so as to be a strong evidence against his mistress. his hands were so miserably scorched, that he was a piteous object. i asked him why he had committed such a crime, he said, "perche era senza spirito. because i was without understanding." the lady seemed of a bold and resolute spirit. she spoke to me with great firmness, and denied her guilt, saying with a contemptuous smile, as she pointed to her servant, "they can force that creature to say what they please." [footnote : boswell was too fond of seeing criminals and hangmen. he was frequently present at executions. in his "life of johnson" he records, under date of june rd, , "i visited johnson in the morning, after having been present at the shocking sight of fifteen men executed before newgate." he once persuaded sir joshua reynolds to accompany him, and they recognised among the sufferers a former servant of mrs. thrale's. he describes mr. akerman, the keeper of newgate, as his esteemed friend. according to mr. croker, he defended his taste in a paper he wrote for the "london magazine," "as a natural and irresistible impulse."--ed.] [footnote : so far as i have been able to ascertain, this passage, this great blot on paoli and the corsican patriots, excited no attention in england. but the inquisition was still at its hateful work in many countries, and men's minds were used to cruelties. torture was still employed in capital cases to force confession even in holland and france.--ed.] the hangman of corsica was a great curiosity. being held in the utmost detestation, he durst not live like another inhabitant of the island. he was obliged to take refuge in the castle, and there he was kept in a little corner turret, where he had just room for a miserable bed, and a little bit of fire to dress such victuals for himself as were sufficient to keep him alive, for nobody would have any intercourse with him, but all turned their backs upon him. i went up and looked at him. and a more dirty rueful spectacle i never beheld. he seemed sensible of his situation, and held down his head like an abhorred outcast. it was a long time before they could get a hangman in corsica, so that the punishment of the gallows was hardly known, all their criminals being shot.[ ] at last this creature whom i saw, who is a sicilian, came with a message to paoli. the general who has a wonderful talent for physiognomy, on seeing the man, said immediately to some of the people about him, "ecco il boia. behold our hangman." he gave orders to ask the man if he would accept of the office, and his answer was, "my grandfather was a hangman, my father was a hangman. i have been a hangman myself, and am willing to continue so." he was therefore immediately put into office, and the ignominious death dispensed by his hands, had more effect than twenty executions by fire arms. [footnote : "their dignities, and a' that," are, it seems, to be found even among executioners. the man who shoots scorns the man who hangs. it would be an interesting inquiry how the headsman ranks.--ed.] it is remarkable that no corsican would upon any account consent to be hangman. not the greatest criminals, who might have had their lives upon that condition. even the wretch, who for a paultry hire, had strangled a woman, would rather submit to death, than do the same action, as the executioner of the law.[ ] [footnote : see, however, page .--ed.] when i had seen every thing about corte, i prepared for my journey over the mountains, that i might be with paoli. the night before i set out, i recollected that i had forgotten to get a passport, which, in the present situation of corsica, is still a necessary precaution. after supper therefore the priour walked with me to corte, to the house of the great chancellor, who ordered the passport to be made out immediately, and while his secretary was writing it, entertained me by reading to me some of the minutes of the general consulta. when the passport was finished, and ready to have the seal put to it, i was much pleased with a beautiful, simple incident. the chancellor desired a little boy who was playing in the room by us, to run to his mother, and bring the great seal of the kingdom. i thought myself sitting in the house of a cincinnatus. next morning i set out in very good order, having excellent mules, and active clever corsican guides. the worthy fathers of the convent who treated me in the kindest manner while i was their guest, would also give me some provisions for my journey; so they put up a gourd of their best wine, and some delicious pomegranates. my corsican guides appeared so hearty, that i often got down and walked along with them, doing just what i saw them do. when we grew hungry, we threw stones among the thick branches of the chestnut trees which over-shadowed us, and in that manner we brought down a shower of chestnuts with which we filled our pockets, and went on eating them with great relish; and when this made us thirsty, we lay down by the side of the first brook, put our mouths to the stream, and drank sufficiently. it was just being for a little while, one of the "prisca gens mortalium, the primitive race of men," who ran about in the woods eating acorns and drinking water. while i stopped to refresh my mules at a little village, the inhabitants came crouding about me as an ambassadour going to their general. when they were informed of my country, a strong black fellow among them said, "inglese! sono barbari; non credono in dio grande. english! they are barbarians; they don't believe in the great god." i told him, "excuse me sir. we do believe in god, and in jesus christ too." "um," said he, "e nel papa? and in the pope?" "no." "e perche? and why?" this was a puzzling question in these circumstances; for there was a great audience to the controversy. i thought i would try a method of my own, and very gravely replied, "perche siamo troppo lontani. because we are too far off."[ ] a very new argument against the universal infallibility of the pope. it took however; for my opponent mused a while, and then said, "troppo lontano! la sicilia è tanto lontana che l'inghilterra; e in sicilia si credono nel papa. too far off! why sicily is as far off as england. yet in sicily they believe in the pope." "o," said i "noi siamo dieci volte più lontani che la sicilia! we are ten times farther off than sicily." "aha!" said he; and seemed quite satisfied. in this manner i got off very well. i question much whether any of the learned reasonings of our protestant divines would have had so good an effect. [footnote : according to macaulay ("essays," vol. i., p. ), "wit was utterly wanting to boswell."--ed.] my journey over the mountains was very entertaining. i past some immense ridges and vast woods. i was in great health and spirits, and fully able to enter into the ideas of the brave rude men whom i found in all quarters. at bastelica where there is a stately spirited race of people, i had a large company to attend me in the convent. i liked to see their natural frankness and ease;[ ] for why should men be afraid of their own species? they just came in making an easy bow, placed themselves round the room where i was sitting, rested themselves on their muskets, and immediately entered into conversation with me. they talked very feelingly of the miseries that their country had endured, and complained that they were still but in a state of poverty. i happened at that time to have an unusual flow of spirits; and as one who finds himself amongst utter strangers in a distant country has no timidity, i harangued the men of bastelica with great fluency. i expatiated on the bravery of the corsicans, by which they had purchased liberty, the most valuable of all possessions, and rendered themselves glorious over all europe. their poverty, i told them, might be remedied by a proper cultivation of their island, and by engaging a little in commerce. but i bid them remember, that they were much happier in their present state than in a state of refinement and vice, and that therefore they should beware of luxury.[ ] [footnote : "for my part i like very well to hear honest goldsmith talk away carelessly." boswell, as reported by himself. "life of johnson." date of april , .--ed.] [footnote : "i give admirable dinners, and good claret; and the moment i go abroad again, i set up my chariot."--boswell, in a letter to temple, may , .--ed.] what i said had the good fortune to touch them, and several of them repeated the same sentiments much better than i could do. they all expressed their strong attachment to paoli, and called out in one voice that they were all at his command. i could with pleasure have passed a long time here. at ornano i saw the ruins of the seat where the great sampiero[ ] had his residence. they were a droll enough society of monks in the convent at ornano. when i told them that i was an englishman, "aye, aye," said one of them, "as was well observed by a reverend bishop, when talking of your pretended reformation, 'angli olim angeli nunc diaboli. the english, formerly angels now devils.'" i looked upon this as an honest effusion of spiritual zeal. the fathers took good care of me in temporals. [footnote : sampiero had been the leader of a revolt which broke out in . he was assassinated three years later.--ed.] when i at last came within sight of sollacarò, where paoli was, i could not help being under considerable anxiety. my ideas of him had been greatly heightened by the conversations i had held with all sorts of people in the island, they having represented him to me as something above humanity. i had the strongest desire to see so exalted a character; but i feared that i should be unable to give a proper account why i had presumed to trouble him with a visit, and that i should sink to nothing before him. i almost wished yet to go back without seeing him.[ ] these workings of sensibility employed my mind till i rode through the village and came up to the house where he was lodged. [footnote : compare boswell's introduction to johnson.--ed.] leaving my servant with my guides, i past through the guards, and was met by some of the general's people, who conducted me into an antichamber, where were several gentlemen in waiting. signor boccociampe had notified my arrival, and i was shewn into paoli's room. i found him alone, and was struck with his appearance. he is tall, strong, and well made; of a fair complexion, a sensible, free, and open countenance, and a manly and noble carriage. he was then in his fortieth year. he was drest in green and gold. he used to wear the common corsican habit, but on the arrival of the french he thought a little external elegance might be of use to make the government appear in a more respectable light. he asked me what were my commands for him. i presented him a letter from count rivarola, and when he had read it, i shewed him my letter from rousseau. he was polite, but very reserved. i had stood in the presence of many a prince, but i never had such a trial as in the presence of paoli. i have already said that he is a great physiognomist. in consequence of his being in continual danger from treachery and assassination, he has formed a habit of studiously observing every new face. for ten minutes we walked backwards and forwards through the room, hardly saying a word, while he looked at me, with a steadfast, keen and penetrating eye, as if he searched my very soul. this interview was for a while very severe upon me. i was much relieved when his reserve wore off, and he began to speak more. i then ventured to address him with this compliment to the corsicans. "sir, i am upon my travels, and have lately visited rome. i am come from seeing the ruins of one brave and free people; i now see the rise of another." he received my compliment very graciously; but observed that the corsicans had no chance of being like the romans, a great conquering nation, who should extend its empire over half the globe. their situation, and the modern political systems, rendered this impossible. "but," said he, "corsica may be a very happy country." he expressed a high admiration of m. rousseau, whom signor buttafoco had invited to corsica, to aid the nation in forming its laws. it seems m. de voltaire had reported, in his rallying manner, that the invitation was merely a trick which he had put upon rousseau. paoli told me that when he understood this, he himself wrote to rousseau, enforcing the invitation. of this affair i shall give a full account in an after part of my journal.[ ] [footnote : see page .--ed.] some of the nobles who attended him came into the room, and in a little we were told that dinner was served up. the general did me the honour to place me next him. he had a table of fifteen or sixteen covers, having always a good many of the principal men of the island with him. he had an italian cook who had been long in france; but he chose to have a few plain substantial dishes, avoiding every kind of luxury, and drinking no foreign wine. i felt myself under some constraint in such a circle of heroes. the general talked a great deal on history and on literature. i soon perceived that he was a fine classical scholar, that his mind was enriched with a variety of knowledge, and that his conversation at meals was instructive and entertaining. before dinner he had spoken french. he now spoke italian, in which he is very eloquent. we retired to another room to drink coffee. my timidity wore off. i no longer anxiously thought of myself; my whole attention was employed in listening to the illustrious commander of a nation. he recommended me to the care of the abbé rostini, who had lived many years in france. signor colonna, the lord of the manor here being from home, his house was assigned for me to live in. i was left by myself till near supper time, when i returned to the general, whose conversation improved upon me, as did the society of those about him, with whom i gradually formed an acquaintance. every day i felt myself happier. particular marks of attention were shewn me as a subject of great britain, the report of which went over to italy, and confirmed the conjectures that i was really an envoy. in the morning i had my chocolate served up upon a silver salver adorned with the arms of corsica. i dined and supped constantly with the general. i was visited by all the nobility, and whenever i chose to make a little tour, i was attended by a party of guards. i begged of the general not to treat me with so much ceremony; but he insisted upon it. one day when i rode out i was mounted on paoli's own horse, with rich furniture of crimson velvet, with broad gold lace, and had my guards marching along with me.[ ] i allowed myself to indulge a momentary pride in this parade, as i was curious to experience what could really be the pleasure of state and distinction with which mankind are so strangely intoxicated. [footnote : "then took haman the apparel and the horse, and arrayed mordecai, and brought him on horseback through the street of the city, and proclaimed before him, 'thus shall it be done unto the man whom the king delighteth to honour.'"--book of esther, c. vi., v. .--ed.] when i returned to the continent after all this greatness, i used to joke with my acquaintance, and tell them that i could not bear to live with them, for they did not treat me with a proper respect. my time passed here in the most agreeable manner. i enjoyed a sort of luxury of noble sentiment. paoli became more affable with me. i made myself known to him.[ ] i forgot the great distance between us, and had every day some hours of private conversation with him. [footnote : "finding him (johnson) in a placid humour, and wishing to avail myself of the opportunity which i fortunately had of consulting a sage, to hear whose wisdom, i conceived, in the ardour of youthful imagination, that men filled with a noble enthusiasm for intellectual improvement would gladly have resorted from distant lands, i opened my mind to him ingenuously, and gave him a little sketch of my life, to which he was pleased to listen with great attention."--boswell's "johnson." date of june , .--ed.] from my first setting out on this tour, i wrote down every night what i had observed during the day, throwing together a great deal, that i might afterwards make a selection at leisure. of these particulars, the most valuable to my readers, as well as to myself, must surely be the memoirs and remarkable sayings of paoli, which i am proud to record. talking of the corsican war, "sir," said he, "if the event prove happy, we shall be called great defenders of liberty. if the event shall prove unhappy, we shall be called unfortunate rebels." the french objected to him that the corsican nation had no regular troops. "we would not have them," said paoli. "we should then have the bravery of this and the other regiment. at present every single man is as a regiment himself. should the corsicans be formed into regular troops, we should lose that personal bravery which has produced such actions among us, as in another country would have rendered famous even a marischal."[ ] [footnote : see page .--ed.] i asked him how he could possibly have a soul so superiour to interest. "it is not superiour," said he; "my interest is to gain a name. i know well that he who does good to his country will gain that: and i expect it. yet could i render this people happy, i would be content to be forgotten. i have an unspeakable pride. 'una superbia indicibile.' the approbation of my own heart is enough." he said he would have great pleasure in seeing the world, and enjoying the society of the learned, and the accomplished in every country. i asked him how with these dispositions he could bear to be confined to an island yet in a rude uncivilised state; and instead of participating attick evenings, "noctes coenaeque deûm," be in a continual course of care and of danger. he replied in one line of virgil, "vincet amor patriae laudumque immensa cupido." this uttered with the fine open italian pronunciation, and the graceful dignity of his manner, was very noble. i wished to have a statue of him taken at that moment. i asked him if he understood english. he immediately began and spoke it, which he did tolerably well. when at naples he had known several irish gentlemen who were officers in that service. having a great facility in acquiring languages, he learnt english from them. but as he had been now ten years without ever speaking it, he spoke very slow. one could see that he was possessed of the words, but for want of what i may call mechanical practice, he had a difficulty in expressing himself. i was diverted with his english library. it consisted of-- some broken volumes of the "spectatour" and "tatler." pope's "essay on man." "gulliver's travels." a "history of france," in old english. and "barclay's apology for the quakers." i promised to send him some english books.[ ] [footnote : i have sent him the works of harrington, of sidney, of addison, of trenchard, of gordon, and of other writers in favour of liberty. i have also sent him some of our best books of morality and entertainment, in particular the works of mr. samuel johnson, with a compleat set of the "spectatour," "tatler," and "guardian;" and to the university of corte, i have sent a few of the greek and roman classicks, of the beautiful editions of the messieurs foulis at glasgow.[a]] [footnote a: the fate of one of these books was curious. dr. moore (the author of "edward," and the father of sir john moore) visited berne somewhere about the year (he gives no dates). he went to examine the public library of that town. "i happened," he says, "to open the glasgow edition of homer, which i saw here; on a blank page of which was an address in latin to the corsican general, paoli, signed james boswell. this very elegant book had been sent, i suppose, as a present from mr. boswell to his friend, the general; and, when that unfortunate chief was obliged to abandon his country, fell, with other of his effects, into the hands of the swiss officer in the french service, who made a present of the homer to this library."--"a view of society and manners in france," &c., by john moore, m.d., vol. i., p. .--ed.] he convinced me how well he understood our language; for i took the liberty to shew him a memorial which i had drawn up on the advantages to great britain from an alliance with corsica, and he translated this memorial into italian with the greatest facility. he has since given me more proofs of his knowledge of our tongue by his answers to the letters which i have had the honour to write to him in english, and in particular by a very judicious and ingenious criticism on some of swift's works. he was well acquainted with the history of britain. he had read many of the parliamentary debates, and had even seen a number of the "north briton."[ ] he shewed a considerable knowledge of this country, and often introduced anecdotes and drew comparisons and allusions from britain. [footnote : john wilkes began the publication of the "north briton" in june, .--ed.] he said his great object was to form the corsicans in such a manner that they might have a firm constitution, and might be able to subsist without him. "our state," said he, "is young, and still requires the leading strings. i am desirous that the corsicans should be taught to walk of themselves. therefore when they come to me to ask whom they should chuse for their padre del commune, or other magistrate, i tell them, 'you know better than i do the able and honest men among your neighbours. consider the consequence of your choice, not only to yourselves in particular, but to the island in general.' in this manner i accustom them to feel their own importance as members of the state." after representing the severe and melancholy state of oppression under which corsica had so long groaned, he said, "we are now to our country like the prophet elishah stretched over the dead child of the shunamite, eye to eye, nose to nose, mouth to mouth. it begins to recover warmth, and to revive. i hope it shall yet regain full health and vigour." i said that things would make a rapid progress, and that we should soon see all the arts and sciences flourish in corsica. "patience, sir," said he. "if you saw a man who had fought a hard battle, who was much wounded, who was beaten to the ground, and who with difficulty could lift himself up, it would not be reasonable to ask him to get his hair well drest, and to put on embroidered clothes. corsica has fought a hard battle, has been much wounded, has been beaten to the ground, and with difficulty can lift herself up. the arts and sciences are like dress and ornament. you cannot expect them from us for some time. but come back twenty or thirty years hence, and we'll shew you arts and sciences, and concerts and assemblies, and fine ladies, and we'll make you fall in love among us, sir." he smiled a good deal, when i told him that i was much surprised to find him so amiable, accomplished, and polite; for although i knew i was to see a great man, i expected to find a rude character, an attila king of the goths, or a luitprand[ ], king of the lombards. [footnote : liutprand. see gibbon's "decline and fall," chap. xlix.--ed.] i observed that although he had often a placid smile upon his countenance, he hardly ever laughed. whether loud laughter in general society be a sign of weakness or rusticity, i cannot say; but i have remarked that real great men, and men of finished behaviour, seldom fall into it. the variety, and i may say versatility, of the mind of this great man is amazing. one day when i came in to pay my respects to him before dinner, i found him in much agitation, with a circle of his nobles around him, and a corsican standing before him like a criminal before his judge. paoli immediately turned to me, "i am glad you are come, sir. you protestants talk much against our doctrine of transubstantiation. behold here the miracle of transubstantiation, a corsican transubstantiated into a genoese. that unworthy man who now stands before me is a corsican, who has been long a lieutenant under the genoese, in capo corso. andrew doria and all their greatest heroes could not be more violent for the republick than he has been, and all against his country." then turning to the man, "sir," said he, "corsica makes it a rule to pardon the most unworthy of her children, when they surrender themselves, even when they are forced to do so, as is your case. you have now escaped. but take care. i shall have a strict eye upon you; and if ever you make the least attempt to return to your traiterous practices, you know i can be avenged of you." he spoke this with the fierceness of a lion, and from the awful darkness of his brow, one could see that his thoughts of vengeance were terrible. yet when it was over, he all at once resumed his usual appearance, called out "andiamo, come along;" went to dinner, and was as chearful and gay as if nothing had happened. his notions of morality are high and refined, such as become the father of a nation. were he a libertine, his influence would soon vanish; for men will never trust the important concerns of society to one they know will do what is hurtful to society for his own pleasures. he told me that his father had brought him up with great strictness, and that he had very seldom deviated from the paths of virtue. that this was not from a defect of feeling and passion, but that his mind being filled with important objects, his passions were employed in more noble pursuits than those of licentious pleasure. i saw from paoli's example the great art of preserving young men of spirit from the contagion of vice, in which there is often a species of sentiment, ingenuity and enterprise nearly allied to virtuous qualities. shew a young man that there is more real spirit in virtue than in vice, and you have a surer hold of him, during his years of impetuosity and passion, than by convincing his judgement of all the rectitude of ethicks. one day at dinner, he gave us the principal arguments for the being and attributes of god. to hear these arguments repeated with graceful energy by the illustrious paoli in the midst of his heroick nobles, was admirable. i never felt my mind more elevated. i took occasion to mention the king of prussia's infidel writings, and in particular his epistle to marischal keith.[ ] paoli, who often talks with admiration of the greatness of that monarch, instead of uttering any direct censure of what he saw to be wrong in so distinguished a hero, paused a little, and then said with a grave and most expressive look, "c'est une belle consolation pour un vieux general mourant, 'en peu de tems vous ne serez plus.' it is fine consolation for an old general when dying, 'in a little while you shall be no more.'" [footnote : the younger brother of the earl marischal (see p. ). he took part in the rebellion of , although he was but seventeen years old. he next served for ten years in the irish brigade in the spanish army. he then entered the russian service, and fought against the turks. he was sent to england as russian ambassador. when he came to court he was required to speak by an interpreter when he had an audience of the king, and to appear in russian dress. he next entered the prussian service as field-marshal. he was killed in the battle of hochkirchen, in .--ed.] he observed that the epicurean philosophy had produced but one exalted character, whereas stoicism had been the seminary of great men. what he now said put me in mind of these noble lines of lucan. hi mores, haec duri immota catonis secta fuit, servare modum finemque tenere, naturamque sequi, patriaeque impendere vitam, nec sibi sed toti genitum se credere mundo. lucan. pharsal. lib. ii. l. . these were the stricter manners of the man, and this the stubborn course in which they ran; the golden mean unchanging to pursue, constant to keep the purpos'd end in view; religiously to follow nature's laws, and die with pleasure in his country's cause. to think he was not for himself design'd, but born to be of use to all mankind. --rowe. when he was asked if he would quit the island of which he had undertaken the protection, supposing a foreign power should create him a marischal, and make him governour of a province; he replied, "i hope they will believe i am more honest, or more ambitious; for," said he, "to accept of the highest offices under a foreign power would be to serve." "to have been a colonel, a general or a marischal," said he, "would have been sufficient for my table, for my taste in dress, for the beauty whom my rank would have entitled me to attend. but it would not have been sufficient for this spirit, for this imagination." putting his hand upon his bosom. he reasoned one day in the midst of his nobles whether the commander of a nation should be married or not. "if he is married," said he, "there is a risk that he may be distracted by private affairs, and swayed too much by a concern for his family. if he is unmarried, there is a risk that not having the tender attachments of a wife and children, he may sacrifice all to his own ambition." when i said he ought to marry and have a son to succeed him, "sir," said he, "what security can i have that my son will think and act as i do? what sort of a son had cicero, and what had marcus aurelius?" he said to me one day when we were alone, "i never will marry. i have not the conjugal virtues. nothing would tempt me to marry, but a woman who should bring me an immense dowry, with which i might assist my country." but he spoke much in praise of marriage, as an institution which the experience of ages had found to be the best calculated for the happiness of individuals, and for the good of society. had he been a private gentleman, he probably would have married, and i am sure would have made as good a husband and father as he does a supreme magistrate and a general. but his arduous and critical situation would not allow him to enjoy domestick felicity. he is wedded to his country, and the corsicans are his children. he often talked to me of marriage, told me licentious pleasures were delusive and transient, that i should never be truly happy till i was married, and that he hoped to have a letter from me soon after my return home, acquainting him that i had followed his advice, and was convinced from experience that he was in the right. with such an engaging condescension did this great man behave to me. if i could but paint his manner, all my readers would be charmed with him. he has a mind fitted for philosophical speculations as well as for affairs of state. one evening at supper, he entertained us for some time with some curious reveries and conjectures as to the nature of the intelligence of beasts, with regard to which, he observed human knowledge was as yet very imperfect. he in particular seemed fond of inquiring into the language of the brute creation. he observed that beasts fully communicate their ideas to each other, and that some of them, such as dogs, can form several articulate sounds. in different ages there have been people who pretended to understand the language of birds and beasts. perhaps, said paoli, in a thousand years we may know this as well as we know things which appeared much more difficult to be known. i have often since this conversation indulged myself in such reveries. if it were not liable to ridicule, i would say that an acquaintance with the language of beasts would be a most agreeable acquisition to man, as it would enlarge the circle of his social intercourse. on my return to britain i was disappointed to find nothing upon this subject in doctour gregory's[ ] comparative view of the state and faculties of man with those of the animal world, which was then just published. my disappointment however was in a good measure made up by a picture of society, drawn by that ingenious and worthy authour, which may be well applied to the corsicans. "there is a certain period in the progress of society in which mankind appear to the greatest advantage. in this period, they have the bodily powers, and all the animal functions remaining in full vigour. they are bold, active, steady, ardent in the love of liberty and their native country. their manners are simple, their social affections warm, and though they are greatly influenced by the ties of blood, yet they are generous and hospitable to strangers. religion is universally regarded among them, though disguised by a variety of superstitions."[ ] [footnote : john gregory, m.d., born , professor of the practice of physic in edinburgh. "it is stated that no less than sixteen members of this family have held british professorships, chiefly in the scotch universities."--chalmers' "biog. dict.," p. .--ed.] [footnote : preface to "comparative view," p. .] paoli was very desirous that i should study the character of the corsicans. "go among them," said he, "the more you talk with them, you will do me the greater pleasure. forget the meanness of their apparel. hear their sentiments. you will find honour, and sense, and abilities among these poor men." his heart grew big when he spoke of his countrymen. his own great qualities appeared to unusual advantage, while he described the virtues of those for whose happiness his whole life was employed. "if," said he, "i should lead into the field an army of corsicans against an army double their number, let me speak a few words to the corsicans, to remind them of the honour of their country and of their brave forefathers, i do not say that they would conquer, but i am sure that not a man of them would give way. the corsicans," said he, "have a steady resolution that would amaze you. i wish you could see one of them die. it is a proverb among the genoese, 'i corsi meritano la furca e la sanno soffrire. the corsicans deserve the gallows, and they fear not to meet it.' there is a real compliment to us in this saying." he told me, that in corsica, "criminals are put to death four and twenty hours after sentence is pronounced against them. this," said he, "may not be over catholick, but it is humane." he went on, and gave me several instances of the corsican spirit. "a sergeant," said he, "who fell in one of our desperate actions, when just a dying, wrote to me thus. 'i salute you. take care of my aged father. in two hours i shall be with the rest who have bravely died for their country.'" a corsican gentleman who had been taken prisoner by the genoese, was thrown into a dark dungeon, where he was chained to the ground. while he was in this dismal situation, the genoese sent a message to him, that if he would accept of a commission in their service, he might have it. "no," said he. "were i to accept of your offer, it would be with a determined purpose to take the first opportunity of returning to the service of my country. but i will not accept of it. for i would not have my countrymen even suspect that i could be one moment unfaithful." and he remained in his dungeon. paoli went on: "i defy rome, sparta or thebes to shew me thirty years of such patriotism as corsica can boast. though the affection between relations is exceedingly strong in the corsicans, they will give up their nearest relations for the good of their country, and sacrifice such as have deserted to the genoese." he gave me a noble instance of a corsican's feeling and greatness of mind. "a criminal," said he, "was condemned to die. his nephew came to me with a lady of distinction, that she might solicit his pardon. the nephew's anxiety made him think that the lady did not speak with sufficient force and earnestness. he therefore advanced, and addressed himself to me, 'sir, is it proper for me to speak?' as if he felt that it was unlawful to make such an application. i bid him go on. 'sir,' said he, with the deepest concern, 'may i beg the life of my uncle? if it is granted, his relations will make a gift to the state of a thousand zechins. we will furnish fifty soldiers in pay during the siege of furiani. we will agree that my uncle shall be banished, and will engage that he shall never return to the island.' i knew the nephew to be a man of worth, and i answered him: 'you are acquainted with the circumstances of this case. such is my confidence in you, that if you will say that giving your uncle a pardon would be just, useful or honourable for corsica, i promise you it shall be granted.' he turned about, burst into tears, and left me, saying, 'non vorrei vendere l'onore della patria per mille zechini. i would not have the honour of our country sold for a thousand zechins.' and his uncle suffered." although the general was one of the constituent members of the court of syndicato,[ ] he seldom took his chair. he remained in his own apartment; and if any of those whose suits were determined by the syndicato were not pleased with the sentence, they had an audience of paoli, who never failed to convince them that justice had been done them. this appeared to me a necessary indulgence in the infancy of government. the corsicans having been so long in a state of anarchy, could not all at once submit their minds to the regular authority of justice. they would submit implicitly to paoli, because they love and venerate him. but such a submission is in reality being governed by their passions. they submit to one for whom they have a personal regard. they cannot be said to be perfectly civilized till they submit to the determinations of their magistrates as officers of the state, entrusted with the administration of justice. by convincing them that the magistrates judge with abilities and uprightness, paoli accustoms the corsicans to have that salutary confidence in their rulers, which is necessary for securing respect and stability to the government. [footnote : see page .--ed.] after having said much in praise of the corsicans, "come," said he, "you shall have a proof of what i tell you. there is a crowd in the next room, waiting for admittance to me. i will call in the first i see, and you shall hear him." he who chanced to present himself, was a venerable old man. the general shook him by the hand, and bid him good day, with an easy kindness that gave the aged peasant full encouragement to talk to his excellency with freedom. paoli bid him not mind me, but say on. the old man then told him that there had been an unlucky tumult in the village where he lived, and that two of his sons were killed. that looking upon this as a heavy misfortune, but without malice on the part of those who deprived him of his sons, he was willing to have allowed it to pass without enquiry. but his wife anxious for revenge, had made an application to have them apprehended and punished. that he gave his excellency this trouble to intreat that the greatest care might be taken, lest in the heat of enmity among his neighbours, any body should be punished as guilty of the blood of his sons, who was really innocent of it. there was something so generous in this sentiment, while at the same time the old man seemed full of grief for the loss of his children, that it touched my heart in the most sensible manner. paoli looked at me with complacency and a kind of amiable triumph on the behaviour of the old man, who had a flow of words and a vivacity of gesture which fully justified what petrus cyrnaeus[ ] hath said of the corsican eloquence; "diceres omnes esse bonos causidicos. you would say they are all good pleaders." [footnote : see preface, page viii.--ed.] i found paoli had reason to wish that i should talk much with his countrymen, as it gave me a higher opinion both of him and of them. thuanus[ ] has justly said, "sunt mobilia corsorum ingenia. the dispositions of the corsicans are changeable." yet after ten years, their attachment to paoli is as strong as at the first. nay, they have an enthusiastick admiration of him. "questo grand' uomo mandato per dio a liberare la patria. this great man whom god hath sent to free our country," was the manner in which they expressed themselves to me concerning him. [footnote : jacques-auguste de thou (or, as he called himself in latin, jacobus augustus thuanus), born in paris . author of "historia sui temporis," in books.--ed.] those who attended on paoli were all men of sense and abilities in their different departments. some of them had been in foreign service. one of them, signor suzzoni, had been long in germany. he spoke german to me, and recalled to my mind, the happy days which i have past among that plain, honest, brave people, who of all nations in the world, receive strangers with the greatest cordiality.[ ] signor gian quilico casa bianca, of the most ancient corsican nobility, was much my friend. he instructed me fully with regard to the corsican government. he had even the patience to sit by me while i wrote down an account of it, which from conversations with paoli, i afterwards enlarged and improved. i received many civilities from the abbé rostini, a man of literature, and distinguished no less for the excellency of his heart. his saying of paoli deserves to be remembered. "nous ne craignons pas que notre general nous trompe ni qu'il se laisse tromper. we are not afraid that our general will deceive us, nor that he will let himself be deceived." [footnote : they must have wonderfully improved since the days of erasmus. "advenientem nemo salutat, ne videantur ambire hospitem.... ubi diu inclamaveris, tandem aliquis per fenestellam æstuarii (nam in his degunt fere usque ad solstitium æstivum) profert caput, non aliter quam e testa prospicit testudo. is rogandus est an liceat illic diversari. si non renuit, intelligis dari locum," &c.--"erasmi colloquia. diversoria."--ed.] i also received civilities from father guelfucci of the order of servites,[ ] a man whose talents and virtues, united with a singular decency and sweetness of manners, have raised him to the honourable station of secretary to the general. indeed all the gentlemen here behaved to me in the most obliging manner. we walked, rode, and went a-shooting together. [footnote : servites, or servants of the blessed virgin, a religious order, first instituted in tuscany in .--ed.] the peasants and soldiers were all frank, open, lively and bold, with a certain roughness of manner which agrees well with their character, and is far from being displeasing. the general gave me an admirable instance of their plain and natural solid good sense. a young french marquis, very rich and very vain, came over to corsica. he had a sovereign contempt for the barbarous inhabitants, and strutted[ ] about (andava a passo misurato) with prodigious airs of consequence. the corsicans beheld him with a smile of ridicule, and said, "let him alone, he is young." [footnote : "you see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, wha struts, and stares, and a' that." --burns.--ed.] the corsican peasants and soldiers are very fond of baiting cattle with the large mountain dogs. this keeps up a ferocity among them which totally extinguishes fear. i have seen a corsican in the very heat of a baiting, run in, drive off the dogs, seize the half-frantick animal by the horns, and lead it away. the common people did not seem much given to diversions. i observed some of them in the great hall of the house of colonna where i was lodged, amusing themselves with playing at a sort of draughts in a very curious manner. they drew upon the floor with chalk, a sufficient number of squares, chalking one all over, and leaving one open, alternately; and instead of black men and white, they had bits of stone and bits of wood. it was an admirable burlesque on gaming. the chief satisfaction of these islanders when not engaged in war or in hunting, seemed to be that of lying at their ease in the open air, recounting tales of the bravery of their countrymen, and singing songs in honour of the corsicans, and against the genoese. even in the night they will continue this pastime in the open air, unless rain forces them to retire into their houses. the ambasciadore inglese, the english ambassadour, as the good peasants and soldiers used to call me, became a great favourite among them. i got a corsican dress made, in which i walked about with an air of true satisfaction. the general did me the honour to present me with his own pistols, made in the island, all of corsican wood and iron, and of excellent workmanship. i had every other accoutrement. i even got one of the shells which had often sounded the alarm to liberty. i preserve them all with great care. the corsican peasants and soldiers were quite free and easy with me. numbers of them used to come and see me of a morning, and just go out and in as they pleased.[ ] i did every thing in my power to make them fond of the british, and bid them hope for an alliance with us. they asked me a thousand questions about my country, all which i chearfully answered as well as i could. [footnote : one is reminded of gulliver in lilliput. "i took all possible methods to cultivate this favourable disposition. the natives came, by degrees, to be less apprehensive of any danger from me. i would sometimes lie down, and let five or six of them dance on my hand."--ed.] one day they would needs hear me play upon my german flute. to have told my honest natural visitants, really gentlemen i play very ill, and put on such airs as we do in our genteel companies, would have been highly ridiculous. i therefore immediately complied with their request. i gave them one or two italian airs, and then some of our beautiful old scots tunes, gilderoy, the lass of patie's mill, corn riggs are bonny. the pathetick simplicity and pastoral gaiety of the scots musick, will always please those who have the genuine feelings of nature. the corsicans were charmed with the specimens i gave them, though i may now say that they were very indifferently performed. my good friends insisted also to have an english song from me. i endeavoured to please them in this too, and was very lucky in that which occurred to me. i sung them "hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men."[ ] i translated it into italian for them, and never did i see men so delighted with a song as the corsicans were with hearts of oak. "cuore di querco," cried they, "bravo inglese." it was quite a joyous riot. i fancied myself to be a recruiting sea-officer. i fancied all my chorus of corsicans aboard the british fleet. [footnote : a song written by garrick.--ed.] paoli talked very highly on preserving the independency of corsica. "we may," said he, "have foreign powers for our friends; but they must be 'amici fuori di casa. friends at arm's length.' we may make an alliance, but we will not submit ourselves to the dominion of the greatest nation in europe. this people who have done so much for liberty, would be hewn in pieces man by man, rather than allow corsica to be sunk into the territories of another country. some years ago, when a false rumour was spread that i had a design to yield up corsica to the emperour, a corsican came to me, and addressed me in great agitation. 'what! shall the blood of so many heroes, who have sacrificed their lives for the freedom of corsica, serve only to tinge the purple of a foreign prince!'" i mentioned to him the scheme of an alliance between great britain and corsica. paoli with politeness and dignity waved the subject, by saying, "the less assistance we have from allies, the greater our glory." he seemed hurt by our treatment of his country. he mentioned the severe proclamation at the last peace, in which the brave islanders were called the rebels of corsica. he said with a conscious pride and proper feeling, "rebels! i did not expect that from great britain." he however showed his great respect for the british nation, and i could see he wished much to be in friendship with us. when i asked him what i could possibly do in return for all his goodness to me. he replied, "solamente disingannate il suo corte. only undeceive your court. tell them what you have seen here. they will be curious to ask you. a man come from corsica will be like a man come from the antipodes." i expressed such hopes as a man of sensibility would in my situation naturally form. he saw at least one briton devoted to his cause. i threw out many flattering ideas of future political events, imaged the british and the corsicans strictly united both in commerce and in war, and described the blunt kindness and admiration with which the hearty, generous common people of england would treat the brave corsicans. i insensibly got the better of his reserve upon this head. my flow of gay ideas relaxed his severity, and brightened up his humour. "do you remember," said he, "the little people in asia who were in danger of being oppressed by the great king of assyria,[ ] till they addressed themselves to the romans. and the romans, with the noble spirit of a great and free nation, stood forth, and would not suffer the great king to destroy the little people, but made an alliance with them?" [footnote : when paoli makes the romans have dealings with the great king of assyria, we may well say, as mrs. shandy said of socrates, "he had been dead a hundred years ago."--ed.] he made no observations upon this beautiful piece of history. it was easy to see his allusion to his own nation and ours. when the general related this piece of history to me, i was negligent enough not to ask him what little people he meant. as the story made a strong impression upon me, upon my return to britain i searched a variety of books to try if i could find it, but in vain. i therefore took the liberty in one of my letters to paoli, to beg he would let me know it. he told me the little people was the jews, that the story was related by several ancient authours, but that i would find it told with most precision and energy in the eighth chapter of the first book of the maccabees. the first book of the maccabees, though not received into the protestant canon, is allowed by all the learned to be an authentick history. i have read paoli's favourite story with much satisfaction, and, as in several circumstances, it very well applies to great britain and corsica, is told with great eloquence, and furnishes a fine model for an alliance, i shall make no apology for transcribing the most interesting verses. "now judas had heard of the fame of the romans, that they were mighty and valiant men, and such as would lovingly accept all that joined themselves unto them, and make a league of amity with all that came unto them. "and that they were men of great valour. it was told him also of their wars and noble acts which they had done amongst the galatians, and how they had conquered them, and brought them under tribute. "and what they had done in the country of spain, for the winning of the mines of the silver and gold which are there. "and that by their policy and patience they had conquered all the place, though it were very far from them. "it was told him besides, how they destroyed and brought under their dominion, all other kingdoms and isles that at any time resisted them. "but with their friends, and such as relied upon them, they kept amity: and that they had conquered kingdoms both far and near, insomuch as all that heard of their name were afraid of them: "also, that whom they would help to a kingdom, those reign; and whom again they would, they displace: finally, that they were greatly exalted: "moreover, how they had made for themselves a senate-house, wherein three hundred and twenty men sat in council dayly, consulting alway for the people, to the end that they might be well ordered. "in consideration of these things judas chose eupolemus the son of john the son of accos, and jason the son of eleazar, and sent them to rome, to make a league of amity and confederacy with them, "and to entreat them that they would take the yoke from them, for they saw that the kingdom of the grecians did oppress israel with servitude. "they went therefore to rome, which was a very great journey, and came into the senate, where they spake, and said, "judas maccabeus, with his brethren, and the people of the jews, have sent us unto you, to make a confederacy and peace with you, and that we might be registered your confederates and friends. "so that matter pleased the romans well. "and this is the copy of the epistle which the senate wrote back again, in tables of brass, and sent to jerusalem, that there they might have by them a memorial of peace and confederacy. "good success be to the romans, and to the people of the jews, by sea and by land for ever. the sword also, and enemy be far from them. "if there come first any war upon the romans, or any of their confederates, throughout all their dominions. "the people of the jews shall help them, as the time shall be appointed, with all their heart. "neither shall they give any thing unto them that make war upon them, or aid them with victuals, weapons, money or ships, as it hath seemed good unto the romans, but they shall keep their covenant, without taking anything therefore. "in the same manner also, if war come first upon the nation of the jews, the romans shall help them with all their heart, according as the time shall be appointed them. "neither shall victuals be given to them that take part against them, or weapons, or money, or ships, as it hath seemed good to the romans; but they shall keep their covenants, and that without deceit. "according to these articles did the romans make a covenant with the people of the jews. "howbeit, if hereafter the one party or the other, shall think meet to add or diminish any thing they may do it at their pleasures, and whatsoever they shall add or take away, shall be ratified. "and, as touching the evils that demetrius doth to the jews, we have written unto him, saying, wherefore hast thou made thy yoke heavy upon our friends and confederates the jews? "if therefore they complain any more against thee, we will do them justice, and fight with thee by sea and by land." i will venture to ask whether the romans appear, in any one instance of their history, more truly great than they do here. paoli said, "if a man would preserve the generous glow of patriotism, he must not reason too much. mareschal saxe reasoned; and carried the arms of france into the heart of germany, his own country.[ ] i act from sentiment, not from reasonings." [footnote : "ce fier saxon, qu'on croit né parmi nous." --voltaire, "poëme de fontenoi."--ed.] "virtuous sentiments and habits," said he, "are beyond philosophical reasonings, which are not so strong, and are continually varying. if all the professours in europe were formed into one society, it would no doubt be a society very respectable, and we should there be entertained with the best moral lessons. yet i believe i should find more real virtue in a society of good peasants in some little village in the heart of your island. it might be said of these two societies, as was said of demosthenes and themistocles, 'illius dicta, hujus facta magis valebant. the one was powerful in words, but the other in deeds.'" this kind of conversation led me to tell him how much i had suffered from anxious speculations. with a mind naturally inclined to melancholy, and a keen desire of inquiry, i had intensely applied myself to metaphysical researches, and reasoned beyond my depth, on such subjects as it is not given to man to know. i told him i had rendered my mind a camera obscura, that in the very heat of youth i felt the "non est tanti," the "omnia vanitas" of one who has exhausted all the sweets of his being, and is weary with dull repetition. i told him that i had almost become for ever incapable of taking a part in active life. "all this," said paoli, "is melancholy. i have also studied metaphysicks. i know the arguments for fate and free-will, for the materiality and immateriality of the soul, and even the subtile arguments for and against the existence of matter. 'ma lasciamo queste dispute ai oziosi. but let us leave these disputes to the idle. io tengo sempre fermo un gran pensiero. i hold always firm one great object. i never feel a moment of despondency.'"[ ] [footnote : "do not hope wholly to reason away your troubles; do not feed them with attention, and they will die imperceptibly away. fix your thoughts upon your business, fill your intervals with company, and sunshine will again break in upon your mind."--johnson to boswell, march , .--ed.] the contemplation of such a character really existing, was of more service to me than all i had been able to draw from books, from conversation, or from the exertions of my own mind. i had often enough formed the idea of a man continually such as i could conceive in my best moments. but this idea appeared like the ideas we are taught in the schools to form of things which may exist, but do not; of seas of milk, and ships of amber. but i saw my highest idea realised in paoli. it was impossible for me, speculate as i pleased, to have a little opinion of human nature in him. one morning i remember, i came in upon him without ceremony, while he was dressing. i was glad to have an opportunity of seeing him in those teasing moments, when according to the duke de rochefoucault, no man is a hero to his valet de chambre. the lively nobleman who has a malicious pleasure in endeavouring to divest human nature of its dignity, by exhibiting partial views, and exaggerating faults, would have owned that paoli was every moment of his life a hero. paoli told me that from his earliest years, he had in view the important station which he now holds; so that his sentiments must ever have been great. i asked him how one of such elevated thoughts could submit with any degree of patience, to the unmeaning ceremonies and poor discourse of genteel society, which he certainly was obliged to do while an officer at naples. "o," said he, "i managed it very easily. ero connosciuto per una testa singolare, i was known to be a singular man. i talked and joked, and was merry; but i never sat down to play; i went and came as i pleased. the mirth i like is what is easy and unaffected. je ne puis souffrir long temps les diseurs de bons mots. i cannot endure long the sayers of good things." how much superiour is this great man's idea of agreeable conversation to that of professed wits, who are continually straining for smart remarks, and lively repartees. they put themselves to much pain in order to please, and yet please less than if they would just appear as they naturally feel themselves. a company of professed wits has always appeared to me, like a company of artificers employed in some very nice and difficult work, which they are under a necessity of performing. though calm and fully master of himself, paoli is animated with an extraordinary degree of vivacity. except when indisposed or greatly fatigued, he never sits down but at meals. he is perpetually in motion, walking briskly backwards and forwards. mr. samuel johnson, whose comprehensive and vigorous understanding, has by long observation, attained to a perfect knowledge of human nature, when treating of biography has this reflection. "there are many invisible circumstances which, whether we read as enquiries after natural or moral knowledge; whether we intend to enlarge our science, or increase our virtue, are more important than publick occurrences. thus sallust the great master of nature, has not forgotten in his account of catiline, to remark, that 'his walk was now quick, and again slow,' as an indication of a mind revolving something with violent commotion."[ ] ever mindful of the wisdom of the "rambler," i have accustomed myself to mark the small peculiarities of character. paoli's being perpetually in motion, nay his being so agitated that, as the same sallust also says of catiline, "neque vigiliis, neque quietibus sedari poterat. he could not be quieted either by watching or by repose," are indications of his being as active and indefatigable as catiline, but from a very different cause. the conspiratour from schemes of ruin and destruction to rome; the patriot from schemes of liberty and felicity to corsica. [footnote : "rambler," number .] paoli told me that the vivacity of his mind was such, that he could not study above ten minutes at a time. "la testa mi rompa. my head is like to break," said he. "i can never write my lively ideas with my own hand. in writing, they escape from my mind. i call the abbé guelfucci, allons presto, pigliate li pensieri. come quickly, take my thoughts; and he writes them." paoli has a memory like that of themistocles; for i was assured that he knows the names of almost all the people in the island, their characters, and their connections. his memory as a man of learning, is no less uncommon. he has the best part of the classicks by heart, and he has a happy talent in applying them with propriety, which is rarely to be found. this talent is not always to be reckoned pedantry. the instances in which paoli is shewn to display it, are a proof to the contrary. i have heard paoli recount the revolutions of one of the ancient states, with an energy and a rapidity which shewed him to be master of the subject, to be perfectly acquainted with every spring and movement of the various events. i have heard him give what the french call, "une catalogue raisonnée" of the most distinguished men in antiquity. his characters of them were concise, nervous and just. i regret that the fire with which he spoke upon such occasions, so dazzled me that i could not recollect his sayings so as to write them down when i retired from his presence.[ ] [footnote : "i recollect with admiration an animating blaze of eloquence, which roused every intellectual power in me to the highest pitch, but must have dazzled me so much, that my memory could not preserve the substance of his discourse."--boswell's "johnson." date of july , .--ed.] he just lives in the times of antiquity. he said to me, "a young man who would form his mind to glory, must not read modern memoirs; mà plutarcho, mà tito livio; but plutarch and titus livius." i have seen him fall into a sort of reverie, and break out into sallies of the grandest and noblest enthusiasm. i recollect two instances of this. "what a thought? that thousands owe their happiness to you!" and throwing himself into an attitude, as if he saw the lofty mountain of fame before him. "there is my object (pointing to the summit); if i fall, i fall at least there (pointing a good way up) magnis tamen excidit ausis." i ventured to reason like a libertine, that i might be confirmed in virtuous principles by so illustrious a preceptour.[ ] i made light of moral feelings. i argued that conscience was vague and uncertain; that there was hardly any vice but what men might be found who have been guilty of it without remorse. "but," said he, "there is no man who has not a horrour at some vice. different vices and different virtues have the strongest impression on different men! mà il virtù in astratto è il nutrimento dei nostri cuori. but virtue in the abstract, is the food of our hearts." [footnote : compare boswell's discussion with johnson on may th, .--ed.] talking of providence, he said to me with that earnestness with which a man speaks who is anxious to be believed: "i tell you on the word of an honest man, it is impossible for me not to be persuaded that god interposes to give freedom to corsica. a people oppressed like the corsicans, are certainly worthy of divine assistance. when we were in the most desperate circumstances, i never lost courage, trusting as i did in providence." i ventured to object: "but why has not providence interposed sooner?" he replied with a noble, serious and devout air, "because his ways are unsearchable. i adore him for what he hath done. i revere him in what he hath not done." i gave paoli the character of my revered friend mr. samuel johnson. i have often regreted that illustrious men such as humanity produces a few times in the revolution of many ages, should not see each other; and when such arise in the same age, though at the distance of half the globe, i have been astonished how they could forbear to meet. "as steel sharpneth steel, so doth a man the countenance of his friend," says the wise monarch. what an idea may we not form of an interview between such a scholar and philosopher as mr. johnson, and such a legislatour and general as paoli![ ] [footnote : "on the evening of october , , i presented dr. johnson to general paoli. i had greatly wished that two men, for whom i had the highest esteem, should meet. they met with a manly ease, mutually conscious of their own abilities, and of the abilities of each other."--boswell's "johnson."--ed.] i repeated to paoli several of mr. johnson's sayings, so remarkable for strong sense and original humour. i now recollect these two. when i told mr. johnson that a certain authour affected in conversation to maintain, that there was no distinction between virtue and vice, he said, "why sir, if the fellow does not think as he speaks, he is lying; and i see not what honour he can propose to himself from having the character of a lyar. but if he does really think that there is no distinction between virtue and vice, why sir, when he leaves our houses let us count our spoons."[ ] [footnote : see boswell's "johnson." date of july th, .--ed.] of modern infidels and innovatours, he said, "sir, these are all vain men, and will gratify themselves at any expence. truth will not afford sufficient food to their vanity; so they have betaken themselves to errour. truth sir, is a cow which will yield such people no more milk, and so they are gone to milk the bull."[ ] [footnote : see boswell's "johnson." date of july th, .--ed.] i felt an elation of mind to see paoli delighted with the sayings of mr. johnson, and to hear him translate them with italian energy to the corsican heroes. i repeated mr. johnson's sayings as nearly as i could, in his own peculiar forcible language,[ ] for which, prejudiced or little criticks have taken upon them to find fault with him. he is above making any answer to them, but i have found a sufficient answer in a general remark in one of his excellent papers. "difference of thoughts will produce difference of language. he that thinks with more extent than another, will want words of larger meaning."[ ] [footnote : "lord pembroke said once to me at wilton, with a happy pleasantry and some truth, that dr. johnson's sayings would not appear so extraordinary were it not for his _bow-wow-way_."--boswell's "journal of a tour to the hebrides," page .--ed.] [footnote : "idler," number .] i hope to be pardoned for this digression, wherein i pay a just tribute of veneration and gratitude to one from whose writings and conversation i have received instructions of which i experience the value in every scene of my life. during paoli's administration there have been few laws made in corsica. he mentioned one which he has found very efficacious in curbing that vindictive spirit of the corsicans, of which i have said a good deal in a former part of this work. there was among the corsicans a most dreadful species of revenge, called "vendetta trasversa, collateral revenge," which petrus cyrnaeus candidly acknowledges. it was this. if a man had received an injury, and could not find a proper opportunity to be revenged on his enemy personally, he revenged himself on one of his enemy's relations. so barbarous a practice, was the source of innumerable assassinations. paoli knowing that the point of honour was every thing to the corsicans, opposed it to the progress of the blackest of crimes, fortified by long habits. he made a law, by which it was provided, that this collateral revenge should not only be punished with death, as ordinary murther, but the memory of the offender should be disgraced for ever by a pillar of infamy. he also had it enacted that the same statute should extend to the violatours of an oath of reconciliation, once made. by thus combating a vice so destructive, he has, by a kind of shock of opposite passions, reduced the fiery corsicans to a state of mildness, and he assured me that they were now all fully sensible of the equity of that law. while i was at sollacarò information was received that the poor wretch who strangled the woman at the instigation of his mistress had consented to accept of his life, upon condition of becoming hangman. this made a great noise among the corsicans, who were enraged at the creature, and said their nation was now disgraced. paoli did not think so. he said to me, "i am glad of this. it will be of service. it will contribute to form us to a just subordination.[ ] we have as yet too great an equality among us. as we must have corsican taylours and corsican shoemakers, we must also have a corsican hangman." [footnote : "'sir,' said johnson, 'i am a friend to subordination, as most conducive to the happiness of society.'"--boswell's "johnson." date of june , .--ed.] i could not help being of a different opinion. the occupations of a taylour and a shoemaker, though mean, are not odious. when i afterwards met m. rousseau in england, and made him a report of my corsican expedition, he agreed with me in thinking that it would be something noble for the brave islanders to be able to say that there was not a corsican but who would rather suffer death than become a hangman; and he also agreed with me, that it might have a good effect to have always a genoese for the hangman of corsica. i must, however, do the genoese the justice to observe that paoli told me, that even one of them had suffered death in corsica, rather than consent to become hangman. when i, with a keenness natural enough in a briton born with an abhorrence at tyranny, talked with violence against the genoese, paoli said with a moderation and candour which ought to do him honour even with the republick, "it is true the genoese are our enemies; but let us not forget that they are the descendants of those worthies who carried their arms beyond the hellespont." there is one circumstance in paoli's character which i present to my readers with caution, knowing how much it may be ridiculed in an age when mankind are so fond of incredulity, that they seem to pique themselves in contracting their circle of belief as much as possible. but i consider this infidel rage as but a temporary mode of the human understanding, and am well persuaded that e'er long we shall return to a more calm philosophy. i own i cannot help thinking that though we may boast some improvements in science, and in short, superior degrees of knowledge in things where our faculties can fully reach, yet we should not assume to ourselves sounder judgements than those of our fathers; i will therefore venture to relate that paoli has at times extraordinary impressions of distant and future events. the way in which i discovered it was this: being very desirous of studying so exalted a character, i so far presumed upon his goodness to me, as to take the liberty of asking him a thousand questions with regard to the most minute and private circumstances of his life. having asked him one day when some of his nobles were present, whether a mind so active as his was employed even in sleep, and if he used to dream much, signor casa bianca said, with an air and tone which implied something of importance, "sì, si sogna. yes, he dreams." and upon my asking him to explain his meaning, he told me that the general had often seen in his dreams, what afterwards came to pass. paoli confirmed this by several instances. said he, "i can give you no clear explanation of it. i only tell you facts. sometimes i have been mistaken, but in general these visions have proved true. i cannot say what may be the agency of invisible spirits. they certainly must know more than we do; and there is nothing absurd in supposing that god should permit them to communicate their knowledge to us." he went into a most curious and pleasing disquisition on a subject, which the late ingenious mr. baxter has treated in a very philosophical manner, in his "inquiry into the nature of the human soul;"[ ] a book which may be read with as much delight, and surely with more advantage than the works of those who endeavour to destroy our belief. belief is favourable to the human mind, were it for nothing else but to furnish it entertainment. an infidel i should think must frequently suffer from ennui. [footnote : published in october, . "the author is said to be one baxter."--"gentleman's magazine" for , vol. xx.--ed.] it was perhaps affectation in socrates to say, that all he had learned to know was that he knew nothing. but surely it is a mark of wisdom, to be sensible of the limited extent of human knowledge, to examine with reverence the ways of god, nor presumptuously reject any opinion which has been held by the judicious and the learned, because it has been made a cloak for artifice, or had a variety of fictions raised upon it by credulity. old feltham says, "every dream is not to be counted of; nor yet are all to be cast away with contempt. i would neither be a stoick, superstitious in all; nor yet an epicure, considerate of none."[ ] and after observing how much the ancients attended to the interpretation of dreams, he adds, "were it not for the power of the gospel in crying down the vains[ ] of men, it would appear a wonder how a science so pleasing to humanity, should fall so quite to ruin."[ ] [footnote : "feltham's resolves," cent. i., resol. .] [footnote : he means vanity.] [footnote : "feltham's resolves," cent. i., resol. .] the mysterious circumstance in paoli's character which i have ventured to relate, is universally believed in corsica. the inhabitants of that island, like the italians, express themselves much by signs. when i asked one of them if there had been many instances of the general's foreseeing future events, he grasped a large bunch of his hair, and replied, "tante, signore, so many, sir." it may be said that the general has industriously propagated this opinion, in order that he might have more authority in civilizing a rude and ferocious people, as lycurgus pretended to have the sanction of the oracle at delphos, as numa gave it out that he had frequent interviews with the nymph egeria, or as marius persuaded the romans that he received divine communications from a hind. but i cannot allow myself to suppose that paoli ever required the aid of pious frauds. paoli, though never familiar, has the most perfect ease of behaviour. this is a mark of a real great character. the distance and reserve which some of our modern nobility affect is, because nobility is now little else than a name in comparison of what it was in ancient times. in ancient times, noblemen lived at their country seats, like princes, in hospitable grandeur. they were men of power, and every one of them could bring hundreds of followers into the field. they were then open and affable. some of our modern nobility are so anxious to preserve an appearance of dignity which they are sensible cannot bear an examination, that they are afraid to let you come near them. paoli is not so. those about him come into his apartment at all hours, wake him, help him on with his clothes, are perfectly free from restraint; yet they know their distance, and, awed by his real greatness, never lose their respect for him. though thus easy of access, particular care is taken against such attempts upon the life of the illustrious chief, as he has good reason to apprehend from the genoese, who have so often employed assassination merely in a political view, and who would gain so much by assassinating paoli. a certain number of soldiers are continually on guard upon him; and as still closer guards, he has some faithful corsican dogs. of these five or six sleep, some in his chamber, and some at the outside of the chamber-door. he treats them with great kindness, and they are strongly attached to him. they are extremely sagacious, and know all his friends and attendants. were any person to approach the general during the darkness of the night, they would instantly tear him in pieces. having dogs for his attendants, is another circumstance about paoli similar to the heroes of antiquity. homer represents telemachus so attended. [greek: duô kunes argoi heponto], --homer, "odyss.," lib. ii., l. . "two dogs a faithful guard attend behind." --pope. but the description given of the family of patroclus applies better to paoli. [greek: ennea tô ge anakti trapezêes kunes êsan], --homer, "iliad," lib. xxiii., l. . "nine large dogs domestick at his board." --pope. mr. pope, in his notes on the second book of the "odyssey," is much pleased with dogs being introduced, as it furnishes an agreeable instance of ancient simplicity. he observes that virgil thought this circumstance worthy of his imitation, in describing old evander.[ ] so we read of syphax, general of the numidians, "syphax inter duos canes stans, scipionem appellavit.[ ] syphax standing between two dogs called to scipio." [footnote : "Æneid," lib. viii., l. .] [footnote : i mention this on the authority of an excellent scholar, and one of our best writers, mr. joseph warton, in his notes on the aeneid; for i have not been able to find the passage in livy which he quotes.] talking of courage, he made a very just distinction between constitutional courage and courage from reflection. "sir thomas more," said he, "would not probably have mounted a breach so well as a sergeant who had never thought of death. but a sergeant would not on a scaffold have shewn the calm resolution of sir thomas more." on this subject he told me a very remarkable anecdote, which happened during the last war in italy. at the siege of tortona, the commander of the army which lay before the town, ordered carew an irish officer in the service of naples, to advance with a detachment to a particular post. having given his orders, he whispered to carew, "sir, i know you to be a gallant man. i have therefore put you upon this duty. i tell you in confidence, it is certain death for you all. i place you there to make the enemy spring a mine below you." carew made a bow to the general, and led on his men in silence to the dreadful post. he there stood with an undaunted countenance, and having called to one of the soldiers for a draught of wine, "here," said he, "i drink to all those who bravely fall in battle." fortunately at that instant tortona capitulated, and carew escaped. but he had thus a full opportunity of displaying a rare instance of determined intrepidity. it is with pleasure that i record an anecdote so much to the honour of a gentleman of that nation, on which illiberal reflections are too often thrown, by those of whom it little deserves them. whatever may be the rough jokes of wealthy insolence, or the envious sarcasms of needy jealousy, the irish have ever been, and will continue to be, highly regarded upon the continent. paoli's personal authority among the corsicans struck me much. i have seen a crowd of them, with eagerness and impetuosity, endeavouring to approach him, as if they would have burst into his apartment by force. in vain did the guards attempt to restrain them; but when he called to them in a tone of firmness, "non c'è ora ricorso, no audience now," they were hushed at once. he one afternoon gave us an entertaining dissertation on the ancient art of war. he observed that the ancients allowed of little baggage, which they very properly called "impedimenta;" whereas the moderns burthen themselves with it to such a degree, that , of our present soldiers are allowed as much baggage as was formerly thought sufficient for all the armies of the roman empire. he said it was good for soldiers to be heavy armed, as it renders them proportionably robust; and he remarked that when the romans lightened their arms the troops became enfeebled.[ ] he made a very curious observation with regard to the towers full of armed men, which we are told were borne on the backs of their elephants. he said it must be a mistake; for if the towers were broad, there would not be room for them on the backs of elephants; for he and a friend who was an able calculatour, had measured a very large elephant at naples, and made a computation of the space necessary to hold the number of men said to be contained in those towers, and they found that the back of the broadest elephant would not be sufficient, after making the fullest allowance for what might be hung by ballance on either side of the animal. if again the towers were high, they would fall; for he did not think it at all probable that the romans had the art of tying on such monstrous machines at a time when they had not learnt the use even of girths to their saddles. he said he did not give too much credit to the figures on trajan's pillar, many of which were undoubtedly false. he said it was his opinion, that those towers were only drawn by the elephants; an opinion founded in probability, and free from the difficulties of that which has been commonly received. [footnote : "the enervated soldiers abandoned their own, and the public defence; and their pusillanimous indolence may be considered as the immediate cause of the downfall of the empire." gibbon's "decline and fall," chapter .--ed.] talking of various schemes of life, fit for a man of spirit and education; i mentioned to him that of being a foreign minister. he said he thought it a very agreeable employment for a man of parts and address, during some years of his life. "in that situation," said he, "a man will insensibly attain to a greater knowledge of men and manners, and a more perfect acquaintance with the politicks of europe. he will be promoted according to the returns which he makes to his court. they must be accurate, distinct, without fire or ornament. he may subjoin his own opinion, but he must do it with great modesty. the ministry at home are proud." he said the greatest happiness was not in glory, but in goodness; and that penn in his american colony, where he had established a people in quiet and contentment, was happier than alexander the great after destroying multitudes at the conquest of thebes. he observed that the history of alexander is obscure and dubious; for his captains who divided his kingdom, were too busy to record his life and actions, and would at any rate wish to render him odious to posterity. never was i so thoroughly sensible of my own defects as while i was in corsica. i felt how small were my abilities, and how little i knew. ambitious to be the companion of paoli, and to understand a country and a people which roused me so much, i wished to be a sir james macdonald.[ ] [footnote : sir james macdonald, baronet of the isle of sky, who at the age of one and twenty, had the learning and abilities of a professour and a statesman, with the accomplishments of a man of the world. eton and oxford will ever remember him as one of their greatest ornaments.[b] he was well known to the most distinguished in europe, but was carried off from all their expectations. he died at frescati, near rome, in . had he lived a little longer, i believe i should have prevailed with him to visit corsica.] [footnote b: horace walpole thus describes him in a letter dated september th, :--"he is a very extraordinary young man for variety of learning. he is rather too wise for his age, and too fond of showing it; but when he has seen more of the world, he will choose to know less." see also boswell's "johnson." date of july th, .--ed.] the last day which i spent with paoli appeared of inestimable value. i thought him more than usually great and amiable, when i was upon the eve of parting from him. the night before my departure, a little incident happened which shewed him in a most agreeable light. when the servants were bringing in the desert after supper, one of them chanced to let fall a plate of walnuts. instead of flying into a passion at what the man could not help, paoli said with a smile, "no matter;" and turning to me, "it is a good sign for you, sir, tempus est spargere nuces, it is time to scatter walnuts. it is a matrimonial omen: you must go home to your own country, and marry some fine woman whom you really like. i shall rejoice to hear of it." this was a pretty allusion to the roman ceremony at weddings, of scattering walnuts. so virgil's "damon" says-- "mopse novas incide faces: tibi ducitur uxor. sparge marite nuces: tibi deserit hesperus oetam." --virg. "eclog." viii, l. . "thy bride comes forth! begin the festal rites! the walnuts strew! prepare the nuptial lights! o envied husband, now thy bliss is nigh! behold for thee bright hesper mounts the sky!" --warton. when i again asked paoli if it was possible for me in any way to shew him my great respect and attachment, he replied, "ricordatevi che io vi sia amico, e scrivetemi. remember that i am your friend, and write to me." i said i hoped that when he honoured me with a letter, he would write not only as a commander, but as a philosopher and a man of letters. he took me by the hand, and said, "as a friend." i dare not transcribe from my private notes the feelings which i had at this interview. i should perhaps appear too enthusiastick. i took leave of paoli with regret and agitation, not without some hopes of seeing him again. from having known intimately so exalted a character, my sentiments of human nature were raised, while, by a sort of contagion, i felt an honest ardour to distinguish myself, and be useful, as far as my situation and abilities would allow; and i was, for the rest of my life, set free from a slavish timidity in the presence of great men, for where shall i find a man greater than paoli? when i set out from sollacarò i felt myself a good deal indisposed. the old house of colonna, like the family of its master, was much decayed; so that both wind and rain found their way into my bed-chamber. from this i contracted a severe cold, which ended in a tertian ague. there was no help for it. i might well submit to some inconveniences, where i had enjoyed so much happiness. i was accompanied a part of the road by a great swarthy priest, who had never been out of corsica. he was a very hercules for strength and resolution. he and two other corsicans took a castle, garrisoned by no less than fifteen genoese. indeed the corsicans have such a contempt for their enemies, that i have heard them say, "basterebbero le donne contra i genovesi, our women would be enough against the genoese." this priest was a bluff, hearty, roaring fellow, troubled neither with knowledge nor care. he was ever and anon shewing me how stoutly his nag could caper. he always rode some paces before me, and sat in an attitude half turned round, with his hand clapped upon the crupper. then he would burst out with comical songs about the devil and the genoese,[ ] and i don't know what all. in short, notwithstanding my feverishness, he kept me laughing whether i would or no. [footnote : "when he came to the part-- 'we'll still make 'em run, and we'll still make 'em sweat, in spite of the devil and brussels gazette!' his eyes would sparkle as with the freshness of an impending event."--letter of charles lambe to h.c. robinson, january th, .--ed.] i was returning to corte, but i varied my road a little from the way i had come, going more upon the low country, and nearer the western shore. at cauro i had a fine view of ajaccio and its environs. my ague was sometime of forming, so i had frequent intervals of ease, which i employed in observing whatever occurred. i was lodged at cauro in the house of signor peraldi of ajaccio, who received me with great politeness. i found here another provincial magistracy. before supper, signor peraldi and a young abbé of ajaccio entertained me with some airs on a violin. after they had shewn me their taste in fine improved musick, they gave me some original corsican airs, and at my desire, they brought up four of the guards of the magistracy, and made them shew me a corsican dance. it was truly savage. they thumped with their heels, sprung upon their toes, brandished their arms, wheeled and leaped with the most violent gesticulations. it gave me the idea of an admirable war dance. during this journey i had very bad weather. i cannot forget the worthy rectour of cuttoli, whose house afforded me a hospitable retreat, when wet to the skin, and quite overcome by the severity of the storm, which my sickness made me little able to resist. he was directly such a venerable hermit as we read of in the old romances. his figure and manner interested me at first sight. i found he was a man well respected in the island, and that the general did him the honour to correspond with him. he gave me a simple collation of eggs, chestnuts and wine, and was very liberal of his ham and other more substantial victuals to my servant. the honest swiss was by this time very well pleased to have his face turned towards the continent. he was heartily tired of seeing foreign parts, and meeting with scanty meals and hard beds, in an island which he could not comprehend the pleasure of visiting. he said to me, "si j' etois encore une fois retourné à mon pais parmi ces montagnes de suisse dont monsieur fait tant des plaisanteries, je verrai qui m'engagera à les quitter. if i were once more at home in my own country, among those mountains of switzerland, on which you have had so many jokes, i will see who shall prevail with me to quit them." the general, out of his great politeness, would not allow me to travel without a couple of chosen guards to attend me in case of any accidents. i made them my companions, to relieve the tediousness of my journey. one of them called ambrosio, was a strange iron-coloured fearless creature. he had been much in war; careless of wounds, he was cooly intent on destroying the enemy. he told me, as a good anecdote, that having been so lucky as to get a view of two genoese exactly in a line, he took his aim, and shot them both through the head at once. he talked of this just as one would talk of shooting a couple of crows. i was sure i needed be under no apprehension; but i don't know how, i desired ambrosio to march before me that i might see him. i was upon my guard how i treated him. but as sickness frets one's temper, i sometimes forgot myself, and called him "bestia, blockhead;" and once when he was at a loss which way to go, at a wild woody part of the country, i fell into a passion, and called to him "mi maraviglio che un uomo si bravo può esser si stupido. i am amazed that so brave a man can be so stupid." however by afterwards calling him friend, and speaking softly to him, i soon made him forget my ill humour, and we proceeded as before. paoli had also been so good as to make me a present of one of his dogs, a strong and fierce animal. but he was too old to take an attachment to me, and i lost him between lyons and paris. the general has promised me a young one, to be a guard at auchinleck. at bogognano i came upon the same road i had formerly travelled from corte, where i arrived safe after all my fatigues. my good fathers of the franciscan convent, received me like an old acquaintance, and shewed a kind concern at my illness. i sent my respects to the great chancellor, who returned me a note, of which i insert a translation as a specimen of the hearty civility to be found among the highest in corsica. "many congratulations to mr. boswell on his return from beyond the mountains, from his servant massesi, who is at the same time very sorry for his indisposition, which he is persuaded has been occasioned by his severe journey. he however flatters himself, that when mr. boswell has reposed himself a little, he will recover his usual health. in the mean time he has taken the liberty to send him a couple of fowls, which he hopes, he will honour with his acceptance, as he will need some refreshment this evening. he wishes him a good night, as does his little servant luiggi, who will attend him to-morrow, to discharge his duty." my ague distressed me so much, that i was confined to the convent for several days: i did not however weary. i was visited by the great chancellor, and several others of the civil magistrates, and by padre mariani rectour of the university, a man of learning and abilities, as a proof of which he had been three years at madrid in the character of secretary to the general of the franciscans. i remember a very eloquent expression of his on the state of his country. "corsica," said he, "has for many years past, been bleeding at all her veins. they are now closed. but after being so severely exhausted, it will take some time before she can recover perfect strength." i was also visited by padre leonardo, of whose animating discourse i have made mention in a former part of this book. indeed i should not have been at a loss though my very reverend fathers had been all my society. i was not in the least looked upon as a heretick. difference of faith was forgotten in hospitality. i went about the convent as if i had been in my own house; and the fathers without any impropriety of mirth, were yet as chearful as i could desire. i had two surgeons to attend me at corte, a corsican and a piedmontese; and i got a little jesuit's bark from the spiceria, or apothecary's shop, of the capuchin convent. i did not however expect to be effectually cured till i should get to bastia. i found it was perfectly safe for me to go thither. there was a kind of truce between the corsicans and the french. paoli had held two different amicable conferences with m. de marboeuf their commander in chief, and was so well with him, that he gave me a letter of recommendation to him. on one of the days that my ague disturbed me least, i walked from the convent to corte, purposely to write a letter to mr. samuel johnson. i told my revered friend, that from a kind of superstition agreeable in a certain degree to him, as well as to myself, i had during my travels, written to him from loca solennia, places in some measure sacred. that as i had written to him from the tomb of melancthon, sacred to learning and piety, i now wrote to him from the palace of pascal paoli, sacred to wisdom and liberty; knowing that however his political principles may have been represented, he had always a generous zeal for the common rights of humanity. i gave him a sketch of the great things i had seen in corsica, and promised him a more ample relation.[ ] [footnote : "he kept the greater part of my letters very carefully; and a short time before his death was attentive enough to seal them up in bundles, and ordered them to be delivered to me, which was accordingly done. amongst them i found one, of which i had not made a copy, and which i own i read with pleasure at the distance of almost twenty years. it is dated november, , at the palace of pascal paoli, in corte, and is full of generous enthusiasm. after giving a sketch of what i had seen and heard in that island, it proceeded thus:--'i dare to call this a spirited tour. i dare to challenge your approbation.'"--boswell's "johnson." date of .] mr. johnson was pleased with what i wrote here; for i received at paris an answer from him which i keep as a valuable charter. "when you return, you will return to an unaltered, and i hope, unalterable friend. all that you have to fear from me, is the vexation of disappointing me. no man loves to frustrate expectations which have been formed in his favour, and the pleasure which i promise myself from your journals and remarks, is so great, that perhaps no degree of attention or discernment will be sufficient to afford it. come home however and take your chance. i long to see you, and to hear you; and hope that we shall not be so long separated again. come home, and expect such a welcome as is due to him whom a wise and noble curiosity has led where perhaps, no native of this country ever was before."[ ] [footnote : "having had no letter from him, ... and having been told by somebody that he was offended at my having put into my book an extract of his letter to me at paris, i was impatient to be with him.... i found that dr. johnson had sent a letter to me to scotland, and that i had nothing to complain of but his being more indifferent to my anxiety than i wished him to be." in the letter, which is dated march , , johnson had said, "i have omitted a long time to write to you, without knowing very well why. i could now tell why i should not write; for who would write to men who publish the letters of their friends without their leave? yet i write to you, in spite of my caution, to tell you that i shall be glad to see you, and that i wish you would empty your head of corsica, which i think has filled it rather too long."--ed.] i at length set out for bastia. i went the first night to rostino, hoping to have found there signor clemente de' paoli. but unluckily he had gone upon a visit to his daughter; so that i had not an opportunity of seeing this extraordinary personage, of whom i have given so full an account,[ ] for a great part of which i am indebted to mr. burnaby. [footnote : see appendix c.--ed.] next day i reached vescovato, where i was received by signor buttafoco, who proved superiour to the character i had conceived of him from the letter of m. rousseau.[ ] i found in him the incorrupted virtues of the brave islander, with the improvements of the continent. i found him, in short, to be a man of principle, abilities and knowledge; and at the same time a man of the world. he is now deservedly raised to the rank of colonel of the royal corsicans, in the service of france. [footnote : in this letter a high character is given of buttafoco. see page .--ed.] i past some days with signor buttafoco, from whose conversation i received so much pleasure, that i in a great measure forgot my ague. as various discourses have been held in europe, concerning an invitation given to m. rousseau to come to corsica; and as that affair was conducted by signor buttafoco, who shewed me the whole correspondence between him and m. rousseau, i am enabled to give a distinct account of it. m. rousseau in his political treatise, entitled "du contract social," has the following observation: "il est encore en europe un pays capable de législation; c'est l'isle de corse. la valeur et la constance avec laquelle ce brave peuple a su recouvrer et défendre sa liberté mériteroit bien que quelque homme sage lui apprit à la conserver. j'ai quelque pressentiment qu'un jour cette petite isle étonnera l'europe.[ ] there is yet one country in europe, capable of legislation; and that is the island of corsica. the valour and the constancy with which that brave people have recovered and defended its liberty, would well deserve that some wise man should teach them how to preserve it. i have some presentiment that one day that little island will astonish europe." [footnote : "du contract social," liv. ii., chap. .] signor buttafoco, upon this, wrote to m. rousseau, returning him thanks for the honour he had done to the corsican nation, and strongly inviting him to come over, and be that wise man who should illuminate their minds. i was allowed to take a copy of the wild philosopher's answer to this invitation; it is written with his usual eloquence. "il est superflu, monsieur, de chercher à exciter mon zele pour l'entreprise que vous me proposez. sa[ ] seule idée m'éleve l'ame et me transporte. je croirois la[ ] reste de mes jours bien noblement, bien vertueusement et bien heureusement employés.[ ] je croirois meme avoir bien racheté l'inutilité des autres, si je pouvois rendre ce triste reste bon en quelque chose à vos braves compatriotes; si je pouvois concourir par quelque conseil utile aux vues de votre[ ] digne chef et aux vôtres; de ce côté-là donc soyez sur de moi. ma vie et mon coeur sont à vous." [footnote : la.--ed.] [footnote : le.--ed.] [footnote : employé.--ed.] [footnote : leur. i have made the corrections by the copy given in "rousseau's collected works."--ed.] "it is superfluous, sir, to endeavour to excite my zeal for the undertaking which you propose to me. the very idea of it elevates my soul and transports me. i should esteem the rest of my days very nobly, very virtuously, and very happily employed. i should even think that i well redeemed the inutility of many of my days that are past, if i could render these sad remains of any advantage to your brave countrymen. if by any useful advice, i could concur in the views of your worthy chief, and in yours. so far then you may be sure of me. my life and my heart are devoted to you." such were the first effusions of rousseau. yet before he concluded even this first letter, he made a great many complaints of his adversities and persecutions, and started a variety of difficulties as to the proposed enterprise. the correspondence was kept up for some time, but the enthusiasm of the paradoxical philosopher gradually subsiding, the scheme came to nothing.[ ] [footnote : in one of his letters, dated march , , rousseau said:--"sur le peu que j'ai parcouru de vos mémoires, je vois que mes idées different prodigieusement de celles de votre nation. il ne serait pas possible que le plan que je proposerais ne fît beaucoup de mécontents, et peut-être vous-même tout le premier. or, monsieur, je suis rassasié de disputes et de querelles."--ed.] as i have formerly observed, m. de voltaire thought proper to exercise his pleasantry upon occasion of this proposal,[ ] in order to vex the grave rousseau, whom he never could bear. i remember he used to talk of him with a satyrical smile, and call him, "ce garçon, that lad;" i find this among my notes of m. de voltaire's conversations, when i was with him at his chateau de ferney, where he entertains with the elegance rather of a real prince than of a poetical one. [footnote : "je reçus bien ... la lettre de m. paoli; mais ... il faut vous dire, monsieur, que le bruit de la proposition que vous m'aviez faite s'étant répandu sans que je sache comment, m. de voltaire fit entendre à tout le monde que cette proposition était une invention de sa façon; il prétendait m'avoir écrit au nom des corses une lettre contrefaite dont j'avais été la dupe."--rousseau to butta-foco, may , .--ed.] to have voltaire's assertion contradicted by a letter under paoli's own hand, was no doubt a sufficient satisfaction to rousseau. from the account which i have attempted to give of the present constitution of corsica, and of its illustrious legislatour and general, it may well be conceived that the scheme of bringing m. rousseau into that island, was magnified to an extravagant degree by the reports of the continent. it was said, that rousseau was to be made no less than a solon by the corsicans, who were implicitely to receive from him a code of laws. this was by no means the scheme. paoli was too able a man to submit the legislation of his country to one who was an entire stranger to the people, the manners, and in short to every thing in the island. nay, i know well that paoli pays more regard to what has been tried by the experience of ages than to the most beautiful ideal systems. besides, the corsicans were not all at once to be moulded at will. they were to be gradually prepared, and by one law laying the foundation for another, a compleat fabrick of jurisprudence was to be formed. paoli's intention was to grant a generous asylum to rousseau, to avail himself of the shining talents which appeared in his writings, by consulting with him, and catching the lights of his rich imagination, from many of which he might derive improvements to those plans which his own wisdom had laid down. but what he had principally in view, was to employ the pen of rousseau in recording the heroick actions of the brave islanders. it is to be regretted that this project did not take place. the father of the present colonel buttafoco made large collections for many years back. these are carefully preserved, and when joined to those made by the abbé rostini, would furnish ample materials for a history of corsica. this, adorned with the genius of rousseau, would have been one of the noblest monuments of modern times. signor buttafoco accompanied me to bastia. it was comfortable to enter a good warm town after my fatigues. we went to the house of signor morelli, a counsellor at law here, with whom we supped. i was lodged for that night by a friend of signor buttafoco, in another part of the town. next morning i waited on m. de marboeuf. signor buttafoco introduced me to him, and i presented him the letter of recommendation from paoli. he gave me a most polite reception. the brilliancy of his levee pleased me; it was a scene so different from those which i had been for some time accustomed to see. it was like passing at once from a rude and early age to a polished modern age; from the mountains of corsica to the banks of the seine. my ague was now become so violent that it got the better of me altogether. i was obliged to ask the french general's permission to have a chair set for me in the circle. when m. de marboeuf was informed of my being ill, he had the goodness to ask me to stay in his house till i should recover; "i insist upon it," said he, "i have a warm room for you. my servants will get you bouillons, and every thing proper for a sick man; and we have an excellent physician." i mention all these circumstances to shew the goodness of m. de marboeuf, to whom i shall ever consider myself as under great obligations, his invitation was given in so kind and cordial a manner, that i willingly accepted of it. i found m. de marboeuf a worthy open-hearted frenchman. it is a common and a very just remark, that one of the most agreeable characters in the world is a frenchman who has served long in the army, and has arrived at that age when the fire of youth is properly tempered. such a character is gay without levity, and judicious without severity. such a character was the count de marboeuf, of an ancient family in britanny, where there is more plainness of character than among the other french. he had been gentilhomme de la chambre to the worthy king stanislaus. he took a charge of me as if he had been my near relation. he furnished me with books and every thing he could think of to amuse me. while the physician ordered me to be kept very quiet, m. de marboeuf would allow nobody to go near me, but payed me a friendly visit alone. as i grew better he gradually encreased my society, bringing with him more and more of his officers; so that i had at last the honour of very large companies in my apartment. the officers were polite agreeable men: some of them had been prisoners in england, during the last war. one of them was a chevalier de st. louis, of the name of douglas, a descendant of the illustrious house of douglas in scotland, by a branch settled near to lyons. this gentleman often came and sat with me. the idea of our being in some sort countrymen, was pleasing to us both. i found here an english woman of penrith in cumberland. when the highlanders marched through that country in the year , she had married a soldier of the french picquets in the very midst of all the confusion and danger, and when she could hardly understand one word he said. such freaks will love sometimes take. "sic visum veneri; cui placet impares formas atque animos sub juga ahenea saevo mittere cum joco." --horat. lib. i., od. . "so venus wills, whose power controuls the fond affections of our souls; with sportive cruelty she binds unequal forms, unequal minds." --francis. m. de la chapelle was the physician who attended me. he had been several years physician to the army at minorca, and had now the same office in corsica. i called him the physician of the isles. he was indeed an excellent one. that gayeté de coeur which the french enjoy, runs through all their professions. i remember the phrase of an english common soldier who told me, "that at the battle of fontenoy, his captain received a shot in the breast, and fell," said the soldier, "with his spontoon in his hand, as prettily killed as ever i see'd a gentleman." the soldier's phrase might be used in talking of almost every thing which the french do. i may say i was prettily cured by m. de la chapelle. but i think myself bound to relate a circumstance which shews him and his nation in the genteelest light. though he attended me with the greatest assiduity, yet, when i was going away, he would not accept of a single louis d'or. "no sir," said he, "i am nobly paid by my king. i am physician to his army here. if i can at the same time, be of service to the people of the country, or to any gentleman who may come among us, i am happy. but i must be excused from taking money." m. brion the surgeon major behaved in the same manner. as soon as i had gathered a little strength, i walked about as well as i could; and saw what was to be seen at bastia. signor morelli was remarkably obliging. he made me presents of books and antiques, and of every other curiosity relating to corsica. i never saw a more generous man. signor carassa, a corsican officer in the service of france, with the order of st. louis, was also very obliging. having made a longer stay in corsica than i intended, my finances were exhausted, and he let me have as much money as i pleased. m. barlé, secretary to m. de marboeuf, was also very obliging. in short, i know not how to express my thankfulness to all the good people whom i saw at bastia. the french seemed to agree very well with the corsicans. of old, those islanders were much indebted to the interposition of france in their favour. but since the days of sampiero, there have been many variances between them. a singular one happened in the reign of lewis xiv. the pope's corsican guards in some fit of passion insulted the french ambassadour at rome.[ ] the superb monarch resolved to revenge this outrage. but pope alexander vii. foreseeing the consequences, agreed to the conditions required by france; which were, that the corsican guards should be obliged to depart the ecclesiastical state, that the nation should be declared incapable ever to serve the holy see, and, that opposite to their ancient guard-house, should be erected a pyramid inscribed with their disgrace.[ ] [footnote : according to voltaire it was the french who were the most to blame. their ambassador had disgusted the romans by his arrogance. his servants exaggerated their master's faults, and imitated "la jeunesse indisciplinable de paris, qui se fesait alors un honneur d'attaquer toutes les nuits le guet qui vieille à la garde de la ville!" some of them ventured one day to fall sword in hand on the corsican guards. the corsicans in their turn besieged the ambassador's house. shots were fired, and a page was killed. the ambassador at once left rome. "le pape différa tant qu'il put la réparation, persuadé qu' avec les français il n'y a qu' à temporiser, et que tout s'oublie." he hanged, however, a corsican, and he took other measures to appease lewis xiv. he learnt with alarm that the french troops were entering italy, and that rome was threatened with a siege. "dans d'autres temps les excommunications de rome auraient suivi ces outrages; mais c'étaient des armes usées et devenues ridicules." he was forced to give full satisfaction. the pyramid mentioned by boswell was set up, but in a few years the french king allowed it to be destroyed.--see voltaire's "siècle de louis xiv.," chap. vii.--ed.] [footnote : corps diplomatique, anno .] le brun, whose royal genius could magnify and enrich every circumstance in honour of his sovereign, has given this story as a medallion on one of the compartments of the great gallery at versailles. france appears with a stately air, shewing to rome the design of the pyramid; and rome, though bearing a shield marked s.p.q.r. receives the design with most submissive humility. i wish that france had never done the corsicans greater harm than depriving them of the honour of being the pope's guards. boisseux and maillebois[ ] cannot easily be forgotten; nor can the brave islanders be blamed for complaining that a powerful nation should interpose to retard their obtaining entire possession of their country and of undisturbed freedom. [footnote : the commanders of the french troops that invaded corsica in and .--ed.] m. de marboeuf appeared to conduct himself with the greatest prudence and moderation. he told me that he wished to preserve peace in corsica. he had entered into a convention with paoli, mutually to give up such criminals as should fly into each others territories. formerly not one criminal in a hundred was punished. there was no communication between the corsicans and the genoese; and if a criminal could but escape from the one jurisdiction to the other, he was safe. this was very easily done, so that crimes from impunity were very frequent. by this equitable convention, justice has been fully administered. perhaps indeed the residence of the french in corsica, has, upon the whole, been an advantage to the patriots. there have been markets twice a week at the frontiers of each garrison-town, where the corsican peasants have sold all sorts of provisions, and brought in a good many french crowns; which have been melted down into corsican money. a cessation of arms for a few years has been a breathing time to the nation, to prepare itself for one great effort, which will probably end in a total expulsion of the genoese. a little leisure has been given for attending to civil improvements, towards which the example of the french has in no small degree contributed. many of the soldiers were excellent handi-craftsmen, and could instruct the natives in various arts. m. de marboeuf entertained himself by laying out several elegant pieces of pleasure ground; and such were the humane and amicable dispositions of this respectable officer, that he was at pains to observe what things were most wanted in corsica, and then imported them from france, in order to shew an example to the inhabitants. he introduced, in particular, the culture of potatoes, of which there were none in the island upon his arrival.[ ] this root will be of considerable service to the corsicans, it will make a wholesome variety in their food; and as there will thereby, of consequence, be less home consumption of chestnuts, they will be able to export a greater quantity of them. [footnote : about the year potatoes were not commonly known in kidderminster, as i know from an anecdote recorded by my grandfather.--ed.] m. de marboeuf made merry upon the reports which had been circulated, that i was no less than a minister from the british court. the "avignon gazette" brought us one day information that the english were going to establish un bureau de commerce in corsica. "o sir," said he, "the secret is out. i see now the motive of your destination to these parts. it is you who are to establish this bureau de commerce." idle as these rumours were, it is a fact that, when i was at genoa, signor gherardi, one of their secretaries of state, very seriously told me, "monsieur, vous m'avez fait trembler quoique je ne vous ai jamais vu. sir, you have made me tremble although i never saw you before." and when i smiled and assured him that i was just a simple traveller, he shook his head; but said, he had very authentick information concerning me. he then told me with great gravity, "that while i travelled in corsica, i was drest in scarlet and gold; but when i payed my respects to the supreme council at corte, i appeared in a full suit of black." these important truths i fairly owned to him, and he seemed to exult over me. i was more and more obliged to m. de marboeuf. when i was allowed by my physician, to go to his excellency's table where we had always a large company, and every thing in great magnificence, he was so careful of me, that he would not suffer me to eat any thing, or taste a glass of wine, more than was prescribed for me. he used to say, "i am here both physician and commander in chief; so you must submit." he very politely prest me to make some stay with him, saying, "we have taken care of you when sick, i think we have a claim to you for a while, when in health." his kindness followed me after i left him. it procured me an agreeable reception from m. michel, the french chargé d'affaires at genoa; and was the occasion of my being honoured with great civilities at paris, by m. l'abbé de marboeuf conseiller d'etat, brother of the count, and possessing similar virtues in private life. i quitted corsica with reluctance, when i thought of the illustrious paoli. i wrote to him from bastia, informing him of my illness, which i said, was owing to his having made me a man of so much consequence, that instead of putting me into a snug little room, he had lodged me in the magnificent old palace, where the wind and rain entered. his answer to my first letter is written with so much spirit, that i begged his permission to publish it, which he granted in the genteelest manner, saying, "i do not remember the contents of the letter; but i have such a confidence in mr. boswell, that i am sure he would not publish it if there was any thing in it improper for publick view; so he has my permission." i am thus enabled to present my readers with an original letter from paoli. "to james boswell, esq., "of auchinleck, scotland. "stimatissimo signor boswell. "ricevei la lettera che mi favori da bastia, e mi consolo assai colla notizia di essersi rimessa in perfetta salute. buon per lei che cadde in mano di un valente medico! quando altra volta il disgusto de' paesi colti, ed ameni lo prendesse, e lo portasse in questa infelice contrada, procurerò che sia alloggiata in camere più calde, e custodita di quelle della casa colonna in sollacarò; mà ella ancora dovrà contentarsi di non viaggiare quando la giornata, e la stagione vogliono che si resti in casa per attendere il tempo buono. io resto ora impaziente per la lettera che ha promesso scrivermi da genova, dove dubito assai che la delicatezza di quelle dame non le abbia fatto fare qualche giorno di quarantena, per ispurgarsi di ogni anche più leggiero influsso, che possa avere portato seco dell' aria di questo paese; e molto più, se le fosse venuto il capriccio di far vedere quell' abito di veluto corso, e quel berrettone, di cui i corsi vogliono l'origine dagli elmi antichi, ed i genovesi lo dicono inventato da quelli, che, rubando alla strada, non vogliano essere conosciuti: come se in tempo del loro governo avessero mai avuta apprensione di castigo i ladri pubblici? son sicuro però, che ella presso avrà il buon partito con quelle amabili, e delicate persone, insinuando alle medesime, che il cuore delle belle è fatto per la compassione, non per il disprezzo, e per la tirannia; e cosi sarà rientrato facilmente nella lor grazia. io ritornato in corte ebbi subito la notizia del secreto sbarco dell' abbatucci nelle spiaggie di solenzara. tutte le apparenze fanno credere che il medesimo sia venuto con disegni opposti alla pubblica quiete; pure si è constituito in castello, e protesta ravvedimento. nel venire per bocognano si seppe, che un capitano riformato genovese cercava compagni per assassinarmi. non potè rinvenirne e vedendosi scoperto si pose alla macchia, dove è stato ucciso dalle squadriglie che gli tenevano dietro i magistrati delle provincie oltramontane. queste insidie non sembrano buoni preliminari del nostro accomodamento colla republica di genova. io sto passando il sindicato a questa provincia di nebbio. verso il dell' entrante anderò per l'istesso oggetto in quella del capocorso, ed il mese di febrajo facilmente mi trattenerò in balagna. ritornerò poi in corte alla primavera, per prepararmi all' apertura della consulta generale. in ogni luogo avrò presente la sua amicizia, e sarò desideroso de' continui suoi riscontri. frattanto ella mi creda. "suo affettuosissimo amico "pasquale de' paoli." "patrimonio, decembre, ." "much esteemed mr. boswell, "i received the letter which you wrote to me from bastia, and am much comforted by hearing that you are restored to perfect health. it is lucky for you that you fell into the hands of an able physician. when you shall again be seized with a disgust at improved and agreeable countries, and shall return to this ill-fated land, i will take care to have you lodged in warmer and better finished apartments than those of the house of colonna, at sollacarò. but you again should be satisfied not to travel when the weather and the season require one to keep within doors, and wait for a fair day. i expect with impatience the letter which you promised to write to me from genoa, where i much suspect that the delicacy of the ladies will have obliged you to perform some days of quarantine, for purifying you from every the least infection, which you may have carried with you from the air of this country; and still more so, if you have taken the whim to show that suit of corsican velvet[ ] and that bonnet of which the corsicans will have the origin to be from the ancient helmets, whereas the genoese say that it was invented by those who rob on the high way, in order to disguise themselves; as if during the genoese government publick robbers needed to fear punishment. i am sure however, that you will have taken the proper method with these amiable and delicate persons, insinuating to them, that the hearts of beauties are formed for compassion, and not for disdain and tyranny: and so you will have been easily restored to their good graces. immediately on my return to corte, i received information of the secret landing of abbatucci,[ ] on the coast of solenzara. all appearances make us believe, that he is come with designs contrary to the publick quiet. he has however surrendered himself a prisoner at the castle, and protests his repentance. as i passed by bogognano, i learnt that a disbanded genoese officer was seeking associates to assassinate me. he could not succeed, and finding that he was discovered, he betook himself to the woods; where he has been slain by the party detached by the magistrates of the provinces on the other side of the mountains, in order to intercept him. these ambuscades do not seem to be good preliminaries towards our accommodation with the republick of genoa. i am now holding the syndicato in this province of nebbio. about the th of next month, i shall go, for the same object, into the province of capo corso, and during the month of february, i shall probably fix my residence in balagna. i shall return to corte in the spring, to prepare myself for the opening of the general consulta.[ ] wherever i am, your friendship will be present to my mind, and i shall be desirous to continue a correspondence with you. meanwhile believe me to be "your most affectionate friend "pascal paoli." "patrimonio, december, ." [footnote : by corsican velvet he means the coarse stuff made in the island, which is all that the corsicans have in stead of the fine velvet of genoa.] [footnote : abbatucci, a corsican of a very suspicious character.] [footnote : the parliament of the nation.--ed.] can any thing be more condescending, and at the same time shew more the firmness of an heroick mind, than this letter? with what a gallant pleasantry does the corsican chief talk of his enemies! one would think that the queens of genoa should become rival queens for paoli. if they saw him i am sure they would. i take the liberty to repeat an observation made to me by that illustrious minister,[ ] whom paoli calls the pericles of great britain. it may be said of paoli, as the cardinal de retz said of the great montrose, "c'est un de ces hommes qu'on ne trouve plus que dans les vies de plutarque. he is one of those men who are no longer to be found but in the lives of plutarch." [footnote : the earl of chatham. it appears from a letter published in the correspondence of the earl of chatham (vol. ii., p. ) that boswell had an interview granted him by pitt. boswell writes:--"i have had the honour to receive your most obliging letter, and can with difficulty restrain myself from paying you compliments on the very genteel manner in which you are pleased to treat me.... i hope that i may with propriety talk to mr. pitt of the views of the illustrious paoli."--ed.] the end. appendix a. under the head of learning i must observe that there is a printing-house at corte, and a bookseller's shop, both kept by a luccese, a man of some capacity in his business. he has very good types; but he prints nothing more than the publick manifestoes, calendars of feast days, and little practical devotional pieces, as also the "corsican gazette," which is published by authority, from time to time, just as news are collected; for it contains nothing but the news of the island. it admits no foreign intelligence, nor private anecdotes; so that there will sometimes be an interval of three months during which no news-papers are published. it will be long before the corsicans arrive at the refinement in conducting a news-paper, of which london affords an unparalleled perfection; for i do believe an english news-paper is the most various and extraordinary composition that mankind ever produced. an english news-paper, while it informs the judicious of what is really doing in europe, can keep pace with the wildest fancy in feigned adventures, and amuse the most desultory taste with essays on all subjects, and in every stile.--boswell's "account of corsica," page . appendix b. there are some extraordinary customs which still subsist in corsica. in particular they have several strange ceremonies at the death of their relations. when a man dies, especially if he has been assassinated, his widow with all the married women in the village accompany the corpse to the grave, where, after various howlings, and other expressions of sorrow, the women fall upon the widow, and beat and tear her in a most miserable manner. having thus satisfied their grief and passion, they lead her back again, covered with blood and bruises, to her own habitation. this i had no opportunity of seeing while i was in the island; but i have it from undoubted authority.--boswell's "account of corsica," page . appendix c. having said so much of the genius and character of the corsicans, i must beg leave to present my readers with a very distinguished corsican character, that of signor clemente de' paoli, brother of the general. this gentleman is the eldest son of the old general giacinto paoli. he is about fifty years of age, of a middle size and dark complexion, his eyes are quick and piercing, and he has something in the form of his mouth which renders his appearance very particular. his understanding is of the first rate; and he has by no means suffered it to lie neglected. he was married, and has an only daughter, the wife of signor barbaggi one of the first men in the island. for these many years past, signor clementi, being in a state of widowhood, has resided at rostino, from whence the family of paoli comes. he lives there in a very retired manner. he is of a saturnine disposition, and his notions of religion are rather gloomy and severe. he spends his whole time in study, except what he passes at his devotions. these generally take up six or eight hours every day; during all which time he is in church, and before the altar, in a fixed posture, with his hands and eyes lifted up to heaven, with solemn fervour. he prescribes to himself, an abstemious, rigid course of life; as if he had taken the vows of some of the religious orders. he is much with the franciscans, who have a convent at rostino. he wears the common coarse dress of the country, and it is difficult to distinguish him from one of the lowest of the people. when he is in company he seldom speaks, and except upon important occasions, never goes into publick, or even to visit his brother at corte. when danger calls, however, he is the first to appear in the defence of his country. he is then foremost in the ranks, and exposes himself to the hottest action; for religious fear is perfectly consistent with the greatest bravery; according to the famous line of the pious racine, "je crains dieu, cher abner; et n'ai point d'autre crainte." "i fear my god; and him alone i fear." --a friend. in the beginning of an engagement he is generally calm; and will frequently offer up a prayer to heaven, for the person at whom he is going to fire; saying he is sorry to be under the necessity of depriving him of life; but that he is an enemy to corsica, and providence has sent him in his way, in order that he may be prevented from doing any farther mischief; that he hopes god will pardon his crimes, and take him to himself. after he has seen two or three of his countrymen fall at his side, the case alters. his eyes flame with grief and indignation, and he becomes like one furious, dealing vengeance every where around him. his authority in the council is not less than his valour in the field. his strength of judgement and extent of knowledge, joined to the singular sanctity of his character, give him great weight in all the publick consultations; and his influence is of considerable service to his brother the general.--boswell's "account of corsica," page . reviews. dr. johnson: his friends and his critics. by george birkbeck hill, d.c.l.[ ] [footnote : smith, elder, and co. ] opinions of the press. "seldom has a pleasanter commentary been written on a literary masterpiece.... what its author has aimed at has been the reproduction of the atmosphere in which johnson lived; and he has succeeded so well that we shall look with interest for other chapters of johnsonian literature which he promises.... throughout the author of this pleasant volume has spared no pains to enable the present generation to realise more completely the sphere, so near and so far from this latter half of the nineteenth century, in which johnson talked and taught."--saturday review, _july th, _. "dr. hill has written out of his ripe scholarship several interesting disquisitions, all tending to a better understanding of the man and his times, and all written with the ease and the absence of pretence which come of long familiarity with a subject and complete mastery of its facts."--the examiner, _july th, _. "dr. hill has published a very interesting little book.... all the chapters are interesting in a high degree."--westminster review, _october, _. "we think dr. hill has succeeded in bringing before his readers, vividly and exactly, both the college of johnson's youth and the university of his later years.... we think he clearly establishes that boswell, murphy, and hawkins were all alike wrong in supposing that the celebrated passage in chesterfield's letters describing the 'respectable hottentot' refers to johnson.... he devotes a chapter each to langton and beauclerk, in which he gathers together the various scattered references to them by boswell and other biographers of johnson and combines them into admirable sketches of each of these friends of johnson."--westminster review, _january, _. "with great industry dr. hill has illustrated the condition of oxford as a university in the last century.... his first chapter ... embodies, in a lively and entertaining form, a highly instructive picture of the university, the materials for which only laborious industry could have collected."--the spectator, _august th, _. "the glimpses which these essays give us of the great men of the days of burke, reynolds, and goldsmith, of oxford, of london, and of the country, are as full of interest as the most powerful romance. the opening paper on the oxford of johnson's time is one of the longest, best, and most original of the whole set."--the standard, _august th, _. "dr. hill is at his best in examining the views of johnson's critics. macaulay's rough and ready assertions are subjected to a searching criticism, and mr. carlyle's estimate of johnson's position in london society in , if not altogether destroyed, is severely damaged."--the academy, _july th, _. "dr. hill's book is, in fact, a supplement to boswell, is brimful of original and independent research, and displays so complete a mastery of the whole subject, that it must be regarded as only less essential to a true understanding of johnson's life and character than boswell himself."--the world, _july th, _. "dr. hill's 'johnson: his friends and his critics' is a volume which no reader, however familiar with boswell, will think superfluous. its method is, in the main, critical; and even so far it possesses striking novelty from the tendency of the writer's judgment to obviously juster estimates than those of previous critics, both friendly and unfriendly."--the daily news, _august th, _. "the charming papers ... now published by dr. hill, under the title of 'dr. johnson: his friends and his critics,' will be, to admirers of the great eighteenth century lexicographer, like the discovery of some new treasure.... it is not too much to say that it is a volume which will henceforth be indispensable to all who would form a full conception of johnson's many-sided personality."--the graphic, _august rd, _. "dr. hill's work is certainly not the outcome of any sudden itch to give forth a fresh estimate of the great lexicographer, but the result of long and careful studies and researches; very natural indeed in a member of johnson's college at oxford, pembroke, but not such as any man, that was not gifted with the kind of genius which is patience, would be inclined to undertake. the first chapter, 'oxford in dr. johnson's time,' is one of the most admirable summaries of the kind we have ever read--doubly admirable here, as forming so fitting and illustrative an introduction to his work, which is very complete and thorough."--the british quarterly review, _october, _. "dr. hill has produced an entertaining and instructive book, based on careful and minute research, which has been prompted by keen interest in his subject. the introductory sketch of oxford in johnson's time is admirably executed."--the scotsman, _august th, _. "every reader who would be fully informed about the period of english literature, and the men and women who then figured in society, must read dr. hill's volume, or miss much that is essential to a full comprehension of it."--the nonconformist, _august th, _. "this work is the result of long study, has been accomplished with care and diligence, and is not only in itself a piece of very pleasant reading, but tends to place before us, in a truer light than anything that has before been written, the character of a man who did so much for the english language, and who deserves better than to be forgotten by his countrymen."--the morning post, _october th, _. images generously made available by the bibliothèque nationale de france (bnf/gallica) (http://gallica.bnf.fr/) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations and maps. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through la bibliothèque nationale de france. see http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/ /bpt k transcriber's note: the printed book carried two kinds of headnote: keyword and mileage. "keyword" headers, noting the places and subjects mentioned on the page, have been placed before the most appropriate paragraph. each itinerary gives the "miles from" {starting point} and "miles to" {ending point}, with the numbers themselves printed in the left and right corners of each paragraph. for this e-text the numbers are shown in braces before the beginning of each paragraph; the place names are given at the beginning of the itinerary, and repeated as needed. paragraphs describing side exursions do not have mileage information. additional transcriber's notes are at the end of the book. corsica. [map: sketch map of the riviera and corsica] * * * * * new editions of guide-books for france, belgium, spain, portugal and the channel islands. copiously illustrated with maps and plans. north-france--from the north sea to the loire, exclusive of paris, and from the bay of biscay to the rhine. maps and plans / south-france--from the loire to the mediterranean, and from the bay of biscay to the rivers arno and po. the island of corsica. maps and plans / _published also in separate parts._ north-france, west-half, or normandy, brittany and touraine. maps and plans. eighth edition / normandy: its castles and churches. second edition. maps and plans / north-france, east-half, or picardy, champagne, lorraine, alsace and part of burgundy. plans and maps. third edition / south-france, west-half. the summer resorts in the pyrenees; luchon, bigorre, barÈges, etc.; the winter resorts of pau, arcachon, biarritz, st. jean-de-luz, vernet, amÉlie-les-bains and malaga, and the claret-wine vineyards in medoc. maps and plans. fourth edition / south-france, east-half, or the valleys of the waldenses, of the rhÔne, the durance and the upper loire; the baths of vichy, aix-les-bains, royat, vals, mont-dore, bourboule, bourbon-lancy, acqui, lucca, valdieri, etc.; the volcanic region of ardÈche; the mountain-passes between france and italy; and the riviera of the mediterranean from marseilles to leghorn. plans and maps. fourth edition / the riviera, or the mediterranean from marseilles to leghorn, including the inland towns of pisa, lucca, carrara and florence, and excursions into the maritime alps. fourth edition. plans and maps / corsica, its rail, carriage and forest roads, with maps from the latest authorities. second edition / belgium, its churches, chimes and battlefields. plans and maps / north-france (east-half) and belgium in one volume, including a part of holland. convenient for those going to aix-la-chapelle, spa, vittel, contrexéville, or any of the bathing stations on the north sea / handbook for the car-tourist in the pleasant islands of jersey, guernsey and alderney. maps and plans. second edition / spain and portugal. (o'shea.) seventh edition. edited by john lomas. crown vo. maps and plans / from "scotsman," june , . _"c. b. black's guide-books have a character of their own; and that character is a good one. their author has made himself personally acquainted with the localities with which he deals in a manner in which only a man of leisure, a lover of travel, and an intelligent observer of continental life could afford to do. he does not 'get up' the places as a mere hack guide-book writer is often, by the necessity of the case, compelled to do. hence he is able to correct common mistakes, and to supply information on minute points of much interest apt to be overlooked by the hurried observer."_ * * * * * itinerary through corsica by its rail, carriage & forest roads by c. b. black illustrated by five maps and one plan [illustration: moor's head] edinburgh adam and charles black contents: corsica. [transcriber's note: the four pages consisting of the contents and list of illustrations appeared twice in the original text, first as pgs. v-viii, then as pgs. xv-xviii. (the intervening pages are absent.) the text and layout are identical except that the first group is headed "contents", the second "corsica." the repeated text has been omitted here.] page corsica. --position --extent --population --highest mountains --forests --vegetation --aspect --climate --steamboats ajaccio. --hotels --cabs --napoleon's birthplace --memorial chapel --chapel of san antonio --chapelle greco --fontaine du salario --family sepulchral chapels --climate --fair of st. pancras --water carriers --curiosities ajaccio to bastia by corté. --this road traverses the centre of the island diagonally, exhibits every characteristic of corsica, crosses the longest rivers, passes through one of the greatest forests and by some of the highest mountains, and connects the three principal towns. rail between corté and bastia from vivario, p. , a road leads to the mineral water establishment of pietrapola. from corté, p. , the ascent is made of mt. rotondo. from the ponte francardo, p. , the most important of the forest roads extends s.w. to porto by albertacce and evisa. from albertacce the ascent is made of mt. cinto. the great highway traversing the island from prunete to calvi passes through ponte alla leccia, p. . from bastia, p. , are trains or diligences to every part of the east coast, and steamers to leghorn, genoa, nice and marseilles. bastia to rogliano and morsaglia, skirting the east coast of the long peninsula called cap corse. this road follows more or less the level of the sea till it reaches macinaggio, whence it ascends to morsaglia. the highway on the western side of cap corse is cut along the flanks of the mountains, generally at a considerable height above the sea bastia to calvi by st. florent and the ile rousse calvi to ajaccio, by galeria, porto and sagona. from galeria and porto great forest roads penetrate into the interior galeria to the forests of filosorma. --tourists should not explore any of the great forest roads without being provided with letters to the dwellers in the maisons forestières and in those of the cantonniers; see p. and map, p. porto to the ponte francardo. --the most important of all the forest roads. it passes through evisa and by several good "maisons forestières." from the col vergio is seen mt. tafanato, with its natural tunnel, and from albertacce is commenced the ascent of mt. cinto. several mule-paths ramify from this forest road, the most important being to lake nino and corté, and to asco: whence mt. cinto is also ascended. the most famous part of the road itself is the scala di santa regina calvi to corté or to bastia by ponte alla leccia. --this road traverses a most picturesque country, and the region of the finest olive trees in the island belgodere to the forest of tartagine. --this forest contains few old trees, and is not of easy access ajaccio to evisa, vico and the baths of guagno ajaccio to sartène, by cauro, apa, olmeto and propriano. see s.w. end of general map cauro to bastelica. --bastelica is the common name of a group of hamlets, in one of which sampiero was born. from this the ascent is made of mt. renoso ajaccio and apa to zicavo and the baths of guitera, by santa-maria-siché, frasseto and zecavo. s. maria-siché is the birthplace of the fair and gentle vanina. from zicavo the ascent is made of mt. incudine; whence is beheld the finest view in corsica. see maps on fly-leaf and fronting p. propriano to solenzara, from the s.w. to the s.e. of the island. this route forestière is better treated on p. , as solenzara to sartène sartène to corté by vivario. --this is the great central highway, of which the wildest and most difficult part is given on map, p. . it leads to some fine forests, of which the best is the verde forest. at the most desolate portion are tolerably comfortable maisons forestières. vehicles should be hired either at sartène or vivario, to frs. per day ghisoni to ghisonaccia, by the route forestière, extending from the central main road to the ghisonaccia railway station on the east coast. the most dangerous part of the road is the "passage" inzecca. see map, p. sartÈne to bonifacio bonifacio to bastia by the fertile plains and insalubrious lakes of the east coast aleria to corté by a picturesque road following the course of the tavignano. coach every other day prunete to castagneto or alesani, by coach daily. castagneto is one of the villages in the castagniccia or chestnut country. the road ascends all the way. it, as well as most of the roads into the interior, should not be taken till the chestnut trees are in leaf folelli to stazzona by coach daily. stazzona is the village nearest to the spa of orezza. the road extends to ponte alla leccia vescovato station to porta, by coach daily, passing vescovato, venzolasca and silvareccio. in summer the coach goes on to piedicroce ponte alla leccia to piedicroce by "courrier" daily piedicroce to prunete-railway station, the finest part of the road being between piedicroce and castagneto. coach from castagneto to prunete by cervione. from castagneto or alesani to prunete see prunete to alesani, on p. solenzara, on the s.e. coast, to sartÈne, m. s.w., by a forest road with much fine scenery history, habits, agriculture and houses of refuge, called "maison" in the index list of maps. page sketch map of the riviera and corsica, showing the relative position of their principal towns; as also the ports connected with each other by steamboat _fly-leaf_ general map of corsica plan of ajaccio. --the town is built on rising ground environs of ajaccio the western central region. --this is the least known and the most difficult portion of the island to traverse. yet easy and picturesque short excursions may be made from porto, evisa and galeria, into the forests of evergreen oaks, etc central corsica, or the most troublesome part of the grand highway, which traverses corsica from south to north, from sartène to ponte alla leccia, whence it ramifies eastward to bastia and westward to calvi and ile rousse. it joins the railway and the road between ajaccio and corté near vivario corsica is situated miles w. from leghorn, m. s. from genoa, and m. s.e. from nice. it is m. long, m. broad, and contains an area of square miles; divided into arrondissements, subdivided into cantons, and these again into communes, with a population of , . the surface, of which little more than a tenth is under cultivation, is composed of lofty and rugged granite mountain chains, diverging in all directions from the culminating peaks of mounts cinto, ft.; rotondo, ft.; pagliorba, ft.; padro, ft.; and oro, ft. on the western and southern sides of the island these ranges terminate abruptly on the shore, or run out into the sea; while, on the eastern side, a great undulating plain intervenes between their termination and the coast, in summer troubled with malaria, but in a less degree than formerly. corsica is the central region of the great plant system of the mediterranean. among the many fine forests which cover the mountains, the most important are those of valdoniello, filosorma, vizzavona verde, zonza, bavella, ometa and calenzana. they contain noble specimens of pines, oaks, beech, chestnut, walnut and olive trees. the cork oak forms woods, chiefly in the south of the island. the chestnut trees are as large and fruitful as the best on the apennines, and the nuts form the staple article of food for man and beast during the winter months. indeed, these glorious chestnut and beech forests, when in full foliage, are the grand features of corsican scenery, which therefore cannot be seen to advantage till towards the end of may, and if to this we add the splendid bloom of the oleanders, not till july. "i at any rate know of no such combination of sea and mountains, of the sylvan beauty of the north with the rich colours of the south; no region where within so small a space nature takes so many sublime and exquisite aspects as she does in corsica. palms, orange groves, olives, vines, maize and chestnuts; the most picturesque beech forests, the noblest pine woods in europe; granite peaks, snows and frozen lakes--all these are brought into the compass of a day's journey. everything is as novel to the alpine climber as if, in place of being on a fragment of the alps, severed only by miles from their nearest snows, he was in a different continent."--d. w. freshfield, alpine club. [map: corsica] [headnote: vegetation.] the prickly pear, the american aloe, the castor-oil plant and the fig-tree, grow wild along the coast; while a little farther upwards, on the slopes and plateaus, the arbutus, cistus, oleander, myrtle and various kinds of heaths, form a dense coppice, called in the island maqui, supplying an excellent covert for various kinds of game and numerous blackbirds. when the arbutus and myrtle berries are ripe the blackbirds are eagerly hunted, as at that time they are plump and make very savoury and delicate eating. there are few cows on the island, the greater part of the milk supply being procured from goats. it is excellent, and has no rank flavour. the only remarkable creature is the mouflon, a species of sheep, resembling that almost extinct animal the bouquetin or ibex of the alps. it inhabits the highest mountains, and though very wild is easily tamed. the best red wines are grown about ajaccio, tallano, cervione and sartene, and the best white wines in sari and in the valleys of cape corso. they improve up to twenty years, and even up to fifty. the temperature of the climate of corsica varies according to the elevation. along the coast the sun is warm even in january. after january the temperature rises rapidly. the climate of the zone ft. above the sea is considerably colder and snow generally appears there in december. the olive ripens its fruit up to an elevation of ft. and the chestnut to , where it gives place to oaks, box trees, junipers, firs and beeches. the greater part of the population inhabits the region of the chestnut trees, in villages scattered over the mountain slopes, valleys and tablelands. [headnote: steamboats.] steamers to corsica.--for invalids the easiest way is by the large weekly tunis steamer of the compagnie generale transatlantique, r. de la republique, which on its way from and to marseilles, touches at ajaccio, m. s., in to hrs., fare including meals, frs. the compagnie insulaire, r. cannebière, have boats every week for ajaccio and propriano, frs., calvi and ile rousse, frs., bastia and leghorn, frs., and nice, bastia and leghorn. weekly steamers between genoa, leghorn and bastia. the boats of the compagnie insulaire being smaller, come within a few yards of the mole. the luggage is landed from the steamers by the company free of expense and is delivered at the custom-house to the proprietor on presentation of the bulletin de baggage. passengers are taken ashore and to their hotels for frs. each. the navigazione generale italiana, piazza marini, genoa, have a steamer every week for portotorres, at the north-west extremity of sicily, calling at bastia. also from leghorn to bastia. distance miles, fare frs., time hrs. small steamer between ajaccio and propriano twice weekly. ajaccio. _hotels._--on an eminence, in its own grounds, rising gently from the sea, is the *grand hotel, with sea and fresh water baths and every convenience; opened at the end of the present year. a skilled english physician on the premises. there are besides three good family hotels, charging from to frs.; in the course grandval, the h. continental, wine ½ fr., carpeted brick floors, garden; near it, with south exposure and full view of the bay, the *h. suisse or schweizerhof, wine fr., smooth wood floors, partially carpeted, garden; at the top of the course grandval, the h. bellevue, wine ¼ fr., partially carpeted wood floors, garden. these prices include coffee or tea in the morning, meat breakfast and dinner and service, but neither candles nor wine, of which the lowest price per bottle is given above. in the place bonaparte is the h. de france, a good french hotel, pension to frs. _bankers and money-changers._--the bank bozzo-costa and the bank lanzi, both near each other in the boulevard roi jerome. the office of the compagnie transatlantique is in the same boulevard; the office of the compagnie insulaire is in the place du marché. _cabs._--the course ½ fr., the hour frs., the day frs. tariff of return drives, with frs. extra for every hour of repose. _west_ from ajaccio: scudo, frs.; vignola ft., frs.; vignola village, frs.; lisa, frs.; iles sanguinaires, frs.; st. antoine, frs.; salario, frs. _north_ from ajaccio: castelluccio, frs.; mezzavia, frs.; alata and col carbinica, frs.; afa, frs. _east_ from ajaccio: the campo dell' oro, or the plain at the mouth of the gravona, frs.; the baths of caldaniccia, frs.; bastelicaccia, frs.; pisciatella, frs. three frs. gratuity for a whole day. the horses cover on an average about thirty miles a day. ajaccio, pop. , , the capital of corsica, is situated on the extremity of a small gulf miles from paris and to hours' sail from marseilles. founded in by the bank of st. george of genoa, a commercial association similar to the east india company, it was raised in through the influence of madame letitia and cardinal fesch to the dignity of capital of the island, and became accordingly the residence of the préfet and the seat of the civil and ecclesiastical courts. ajaccio has a handsome episcopal chapel built by miss campbell, of moniack castle, scotland, an accomplished lady, the authoress of a work on the island in french and english. in the cours napoleon is a small french mission, whose worthy pastor, besides conducting the regular sunday services, gives two lectures (conferences) every week, which are attended by from to people. the houses in ajaccio, as well as those throughout the island, are generally built in large square blocks of from to stories, each story forming a separate dwelling. [map: ajaccio] [headnote: napoleon's birthplace.] the mole at which passengers land from the steamers is at the foot of the place du marché. in the centre of this "place" is a fountain ornamented with lions and a white marble statue of napoleon i. by laboureur. to the left of the statue is the hotel de ville, the markets, and the commencement of the rue fesch, in which is the edifice containing the public library, the museum, and the memorial chapel (p. ); while to the right is the rue napoleon, in which the first opening right leads into the place letitia. a little beyond this opening is no. , the house of the pozzo di borgo family, of whom charles andré, - , was the great upholder of paoli and the bitter enemy of napoleon i. napoleon's house, though not equal to that of the borgo family, was one of the best in ajaccio. it is well built, of three stories of six windows each, and all the rooms have a more or less handsome marble chimney-piece. over the door is inscribed on white marble "napoleon est né dans cette maison le xv aovt mdcclxix". a good staircase, bordered by a wrought-iron railing, leads to the top. the rooms shown are on the first floor. the first is the parlour, with a small table, a few chairs, and a piano said to have belonged to mme. letitia. then after having passed through a small chamber we enter the room in which napoleon was born, into which madame was brought hurriedly from the church in the sedan chair kept in the end room. over the chimney-piece are portraits of the father and mother. then follows the dining-room, and after it the drawing-room, with inlaid wood floor and six windows on both sides. the floors of all the other rooms are of glazed tiles. in the next room is the sedan chair. fee for party fr. this now silent and empty house was once enlivened and brightened by the fair letitia and her large family of children, just like other men's children; schoolboys toiling at their plutarch or cæsar, and their three young sisters growing up careless and rather wild, like their neighbours' daughters, in the half-barbarous island town. there is joseph, the eldest, then napoleon, the second born, then lucien, louis, and jerome; then caroline, eliza, and pauline, the children of a notary of moderate income, who is incessantly and vainly carrying on law-suits with the jesuits of ajaccio to gain a contested estate which is necessary to his numerous family. their future fills him with anxiety; what will they be in the world and how will they secure a comfortable subsistence? and behold! these same children, one after the other, take to themselves the mightiest crowns of the earth--tear them from the heads of the most unapproachable kings of europe and wear them in the sight of all the world; and they, the sons of an ajaccio lawyer, cause themselves to be embraced as brothers and brothers-in-law by emperors and kings. napoleon is european emperor; joseph king of spain; louis king of holland; jerome king of westphalia; caroline queen of naples and pauline and eliza princesses of italy. in , after the flight of madame letitia and her children to her country residence, the casone, the house was pillaged by the corsicans opposed to the french republic. [headnote: cathedral.] near the place letitia is the cathedral built in the th century by pope gregory. it contains the font at which napoleon i. was baptized on the st july . [headnote: memorial chapel.] in the rue fesch is the college founded in . in one wing of the edifice is the public library, with , volumes, founded by lucien bonaparte, and the museum and picture gallery, with paintings, mostly copies; and in the other the memorial chapel built by napoleon iii., lined with beautiful marble. in the crypt under the transept, left hand, is the tomb of marie letitia ramolino, died at rome in ; and right hand, that of napoleon's uncle, cardinal fesch, died at rome in . both bodies were brought to this, their present resting-place, in . there are, besides, the tombs of prince charles and of zenaida his daughter. napoleon's father died in and is buried at montpellier. madame was only at his death and had already borne him children, of whom were dead, and jerome was an infant in the cradle. parallel with the rue fesch is the cours napoleon, by which all the diligences enter and leave the town. the continuation round the bay is bordered with plane trees. at the commencement is a bronze statue of "e. c. abbatucci né à zicavo le novembre , mort pour la patrie le decembre ." near it is the railway station. at the western end of the cours napoleon is the place bonaparte or diamant, bordered with trees and ornamented with a complicate bronze monument on a granite pedestal by violet le duc, "à la memoire de napoleon i. et de ses frères joseph, lucien, louis, jerome." all are life-size statues; napoleon is on horseback, the others on foot, marching solemnly towards the sea. [headnote: walks.] excursions. from the port, m. w., is the chapel s. antonio, ft. the road passes the penitentiary of s. antonio, ft. north from it, under the peak of la barrage, feet, is the castelluccio penitentiary. westward by the hospice eugenie and the batterie de maestrello, a pleasant road leads along the coast to the orange gardens of barbicaja, passing by the chapelle de greco and the cemetery. about m. farther is the tête parata, ft., opposite the iles sanguinaires. a beautiful road, the continuation of the cours grandval, ascends ½ m. to the fontaine du salario, ft., commanding enchanting views. this road traverses the place casone, ft., occupying the site of the casone, the country house of the bonapartes, destroyed in . close by is the "grotte napoleon," composed of blocks of granite, to which, it is said, the youthful napoleon used to retire. about m. n. from ajaccio is the village of alata, ft. within an easy walking distance north from ajaccio is the pleasant estate of carrosaccia, on the canal which supplies the town with water from the gravona. ½ m. n. from ajaccio are the sulphurous springs of caldaniccia. [headnote: family tombs.] in the neighbourhood of ajaccio and of the other corsican towns and villages are numerous family sepulchral chapels enclosed within walls. a more pleasing characteristic feature, probably inherited from the moors, are the numerous fountains in the villages and by the road side, whence flow streams of cold, sparkling water of exquisite purity. [headnote: climate.] _climate._--for convalescent invalids, ajaccio forms a delightful change from the riviera, as it is so rural, and has such pleasant air and good water. the hotels are comfortable and their charges moderate. as, too, the road metal used around ajaccio is that disintegrating granite which so readily solidifies by the combined action of the rain and traffic, there is very little dust in the neighbourhood (p. ). the principal winds are the libeccio or s.w. wind, the sirocco or s.e. wind, and the mistral or n.w. wind. on the th, th and th of may the fair of st. pancras is held, which affords a good opportunity for purchasing corsican horses. they are from to hands high and of great endurance. it is wonderful to behold the energy these small slim creatures display in dragging heavy lumbering diligences up long, steep, winding roads. but more wonderful still is it to see the peasant women and girls as young as thirteen carrying on their heads up and down the mountain paths big pails, or the more elegant two-handled brass jars of classic form, containing about two gallons of water, without ever stumbling on any of the many stones. the pails are made of copper lined with tin, weighing when full of water from lbs. to lbs. among the curiosities of ajaccio are gourds made into bottles, of various shapes and sizes and mounted with silver, and the pretty baskets made of straw by the girls of alata. [map: environs of ajaccio] ajaccio to bastia. ajaccio to bocognano by rail, thence by diligence to corté; corté to bastia by rail m., or by road. the road from ajaccio ascends the valley of the gravona to its source at the col vizzavona. on the n. side of the col it follows the course of the vecchio. the most picturesque part of this route is between vizzavona and vivario. miles from ajaccio miles to bastia { }{ } ajaccio. start from the station in the cours napoleon. the road, after traversing the fertile plain of campo dell oro, crosses the col sudricchio, ft., and then the bridge of ucciani, ft., built in the reign of louis xiv., ½ m. from ajaccio and m. from the village of ucciani. use general map, and map, p. . [headnote: bocognano.] { }{ } bocognano, pop. , and ft. above the sea. _inn:_ univers. picturesquely situated in a plantation of chestnut trees, surrounded by high mountain peaks. near bocognano commences the vizzavona tunnel, yards through the mountain. diligence now to corté. the road, having crossed the sellola bridge, ft., winds its way up by the col de pinzalone, ft., and the maison and pont de lavatoggio ft. to the top of the ridge. see map, p. . [headnote: vizzavona.] [headnote: pines.] { }{ } le fort de vizzavona, on the summit of the pass, ft. above the sea, with the gendarmerie and a few houses of refuge. a few miles northwards is monte d'oro, ft., and southwards monte renoso, ft. the diligence, in its descent to vivario, traverses the forest of vizzavona, consisting mainly of beeches and larches, frequently ft. high. of this tree there are two varieties, the _pinus pinaster_ or cluster pine, the _pin maritime_ of the french, which grows best on deep loose soils and flourishes even on the drifting sands of the sea shore. they supply large quantities of resin. their wood being soft, coarse and perishable, is usually converted into charcoal and lamp black. the other is the _pinus laricio_, which thrives on the high lands of corsica, spain, south of france, greece and cyprus. their growth is rapid, the trunk straight and from to ft. high, the branches are in regular whorls, forming in large trees a pyramidal head, and the leaves are slender, from to inches long, and of a dark green tint. the timber is good and durable, though less strong than that of the _pinus silvestris_. between the st and d kilomètre stones are passed the "maison de refuge d'alzarella," and the "maison de refuge omellina," ft. after crossing the col de campo di lupo, ft., m. from ajaccio, the road descends into the ravine of the vecchio, above which is [headnote: vivario.] { }{ } vivario, pop. , and ft. _inn:_ h. voyageurs a three-storied house. junction with road to zicavo, m. s. (pp. , ). although vivario be a poor village, yet it has a terrace and fountain ornamented with a statue of diana. the breeding of pigs fed in the adjoining chestnut forest, and the manufacture of hams, sausages and bacon, are the most important industries of the inhabitants. from vivario a forest road extends m. s.e. to the hamlet of vadina, by muracciole ft., ½ m., the col erbajo ft., m.; pietroso ½ m., saparelli ½ m., and quinzena m. from vadina a good carriage road leads m. to the baths of pietrapola, which are supplied by most copious springs of hot, saline, sulphurous water. the season is from may to june ; or september to november . the situation is beautiful and the bathing-establishment and lodging accommodation comfortable, and much frequented. the road from vivario to serraggio passes along the top of the rocky gorge of the foaming vecchio. the best view of the gorge is from the pont du vecchio m. from ajaccio and ft. above the bed. from serraggio, ft., mt d'oro is well seen. see map, p. . the road now passes lugo, ft.; s. pietro, ft.; the col. s. nicolo, ft.; and casanova, ft., to [headnote: cortÉ.] miles from ajaccio miles to bastia { }{ } cortÉ, ft., pop. . _hotels:_ *paoli, to frs., europe. is situated at the junction of the tavignano with the restonico, in the midst of majestic mountains of the most varied form. the citadel or château, built in the early part of the th century, stands on precipitous and jagged rocks rising from the tavignano, commanding from the top a magnificent view of the wild surrounding scenery. in the "place" is a statue of paoli, the corsican patriot, born at stretta in , and to the right of the statue the post and telegraph office. in the immediate neighbourhood stands a large house, a franciscan convent, in which the corsican parliament assembled in paoli's time. near corté, by the left side of the restonico, is a quarry of marble of a bluish tint with reddish white veins. to take the walk up the gorge of the restonico, descend by first road left up the main street from the hotels and cross only the tavignano bridge. the mountain appearing to close the valley is mte. rotondo. see map, p. . coach to aleria, m. s.e. (p. ), by a beautiful road. just outside corté the rail traverses the torretta tunnel, yards. [headnote: mte. rotondo.] from corté the ascent of monte rotondo is most easily effected. it is feet above the sea-level, or feet above corté. cabins inhabited by the herdsmen are scattered over the declivities of the mountain up to within feet of the top. time days. guide with mule frs. ascend by the road up the picturesque valley of the restonico to the timozzo bridge, feet, and ½ hours from corté. from this the path extends ½ hour up the wild ravine of the timozzo to the shepherds' huts; whence the rest must be done on foot. now the hard work commences. block lies above block, towering upwards and upwards in such endless masses of monotonous gray that the heart quails with the sight and the foot trembles to go farther. after about hours' scramble over these colossal steps the traveller reaches the fontaine de triggione, about feet below the summit and in full view of it, an incomplete circle of steep jagged cliffs. about feet higher is a little dark lake, the lago di monte rotondo, encircled by gentle green slopes, where the night is generally spent. snow-field extend from the lake to the summit, which, although apparently near, requires full hours' climbing to reach, often on hands and feet, over sharp fragments of rock, or up steep beds of slippery frozen snow. the extreme peak is a rugged obelisk of gray rock ending in a pinnacle. a way leads down by the s. side in hours, to guagno by lake bettianella, ft., then w. by the road over the col de manganella, ft. see map, p. . [headnote: granite.] "the view from monte rotondo did not impress me. the central uplands, which form a large portion of it, are bare and arid, while the great ridge of monte cinto stretches across the northern horizon like a long screen. comparatively little of the coast is seen in any direction, but most towards the west. it was curious to notice how completely the tops of the mountains between us and the cinto ridge were flattened down, while the crest on which we stood was a set of bristling teeth. there are two kinds of granite in corsica, one friable and unable to resist the action of the air, the other hard and defiant of the elements. of this latter consist the cinto range, monte rotondo and the rocks in the forest of bavella."--d. w. freshfield, alpine club. the road now from corté to bastia traverses the quilico col, ft., passes soveria, ft., and caporalino, m. from corté, from bastia and m. from omessa. about ½ m. farther it crosses the golo by the francardo bridge, ft., where it meets the great forest road from porto, m. s.w. by evisa and the col de vergio, p. , and map, p. . [headnote: ponte leccia.] miles from ajaccio miles to bastia { }{ } ponte alla leccia, ft. village, and coach and railway station. _inn:_ cyrnoz. diligence to calvi by the beautiful northern continuation of the road from prunete by cervione and piedicroce, p. . "courrier" daily to piedicroce, m. s.e. by morosaglia, see p. . during the summer heats ponte alla leccia is considered insalubrious. [headnote: ponte novo.] { }{ } ponte novo. the site of the disastrous battle fought on the th of may , when the corsicans lost their independence and became subject to france. the two small houses on the right bank, a little farther down the river, were paoli's headquarters. one month afterwards he, with some other corsican refugees, sailed from porto vecchio in a british vessel for england (p. ). [headnote: borgo.] { }{ } borgo, pop. . on the mariana hills, rising from lake biguglia, one of the many lagoons on the eastern coast, separated from the sea by narrow sandbanks. along this coast extend the only large plains in corsica. unfortunately, in summer they are subject to malaria, which, however, a judicious system of drainage is gradually abating. they are cultivated by italian labourers who visit the island periodically. between borgo and bastia is bevinco, with valuable marble quarries. southward from borgo on the coast is mariana, the site of the colony founded by marius (p. ). [headnote: bastia.] { } bastia, pop. , . _hotels:_ *france; europe; lingenieur; croix de malte over the post and telegraph office, all in the boul. du palais, to frs. theatre; public library with , volumes. steamers twice a week to marseilles, time hours, touching once a week at nice, hours distant. fare direct to marseilles, including food, frs. to nice, without food, frs. rubattino's steamers leave three times a week for leghorn; time hours. these same steamers proceed afterwards to genoa. railway to corté. rail also to aleria, whence diligence to bonifacio, sartène and ajaccio. diligences daily from bastia to cap corse, hours, or frs.; and also to calvi, hours, or frs. [headnote: brando.] carriages to visit the stalactite cave at brando, frs. admission frs. each. it is m. from bastia, above erbalunga, on the face of a mountain; and was discovered in by m. ferdinandi. a steep path leads up to it. keeper near cave. see p. . _bastia_, the most important city of corsica, is built on ground rising gently from the sea. facing the sea and the principal harbour is the place st. nicholas, adorned with a marble statue of napoleon i., by bartolini, looking towards the island of elba. in this "place", the promenade of the town, are the offices of the messageries maritimes and of the compagnie insulaire. fraissinet's office is at the old harbour; whence also their steamers sail. from the place st. nicholas ascends the principal street, the boulevard du palais, to the palais de justice. in this boulevard are the post and telegraph offices (whence most of the diligences start), the hotels, cafés and the best shops, and from it ramify the streets of the town. at the top of the b. du palais commences, right hand, the boul. cardo, one of the best roads to take for views of the town and neighbourhood. a flight of steps leads from the quay up to the cathedral, a handsome building in the italian style. the markets are held in the "place" fronting the cathedral. most of the houses are built in large blocks from to stories high and from to windows broad, each story forming a separate residence. bastia owes its name to the bastion built here by the genoese in the th century. from the hills behind bastia the view embraces the islands of gorgona, capraja, elba, and monte-christo, seen best from the top of the serra di pigno, feet. refer to map on fly-leaf. [headnote: steamers.] the most beautiful part of corsica, and the most easily visited, is the eastern side, including the castagniccia or the chestnut country, and the whole region up in the mountains, which border this coast. the wealthiest, most industrious and most enterprising of the people are those who inhabit that long narrow tongue of land called cap corse. although boats are constantly sailing from marseilles and leghorn to bastia, invalids visiting corsica with the intention of wintering in ajaccio should, if possible, sail from marseilles or nice direct to ajaccio; but on leaving the island, when winter is over, bastia is perhaps the best port to sail from, as it affords an excellent opportunity for visiting the most beautiful parts of corsica and the most important towns in italy. on arriving at leghorn (see black's _south france_) it is best to proceed at once to the railway station, and start for pisa, only minutes distant. there are numerous trains. at the station and in the kiosques in the "piazzas" of leghorn, is sold an excellent little book with all the railway time-tables, _l'indicatore ufficiale_, price c. [headnote: cap corse.--wine.] cap corse. bastia to rogliano and morsaglia. see general map, p. . by diligence, fare to rogliano, frs. and frs., distance ½ m., hrs. to morsaglia, ½ and ½ frs., distance ½ m., hrs. by the road skirting the eastern side of the peninsula of cap corse, the best cultivated part of the island, and containing the tidiest villages. the best cap corse wine, mostly white, is produced around luri and rogliano. the quality used as table wine is drunk the first year. it improves till the fifth year, the better qualities till the tenth and twentieth year. cap corse is traversed by a rugged mountain range or serra, of which the culminating peaks are mount alticcione, feet; mount stello, feet; and the serra de pigno, feet. from the east side of this rugged serra little fertile valleys extend to the sea. [headnote: pino.--luri.] mr. freshfield thus describes the "cap":--"down a promontory to m. wide runs a range to ft. high, with the crest towards the western coast and the valleys towards the eastern. hence the western cornice road is a terrace along an always steep, sometimes sheer, mountain side, while the eastern crosses a succession of low maquis-covered spurs, which beyond cap sagro flatten and become monotonous. pino is one of the most beautiful sites on the western coast. it is also important as the spot where the cross-road through the vale of luri, under seneca's tower, falls into the western cornice. half-way on this road the village of luri groups itself in the most picturesque way imaginable on a hill-side broken by a deep ravine. down on the seashore above the little marina or port is a large convent; a church occupies a projecting brow ft. above it; higher still, and right and left, every vantage-ground is occupied by groups of well-built villas and sepulchral chapels. the slopes are terraced into orchards of citron, lemon, peach and almond trees, olive groves and vineyards, sheltered from the gales of winter by high palisades." farther south, ¼ m., is nonza, with inn, ft., pop. . coach to st. florent. this is one of the most curious villages of the island. it stands like an eagle's nest, perched above the sea on a black rock on the mountain side. its houses, built level with the edge of the cliffs, formed in olden days a sufficient rampart against marauders. the diligence having passed lavasina ½ m. from bastia, brando m., and erbalunga ¼ m., halts at sisco-port ¼ m. to visit the cave of brando take the steep narrow path left, near a mill, just before arriving at erbalunga. seats in shady places are placed here and there. the keeper's house is close to the entrance. the diligence then proceeds by pietracorbara ½ m., and the torre all'osse m.; one of the best remaining specimens of the towers built by the pisans and genoese to ward off the attacks of the saracens. from the torre the diligence proceeds other m. to perticciolo, where it halts. [headnote: seneca's tower.] two miles farther is s. severa, where the horses are changed and the passengers breakfast. from s. severa, a road ramifies m. w. to pino on the other side of the peninsula by the valley of the luri, with vineyards and orange groves, passing the village of luri ½ m., with good inn, the col de s. lucie m., ft., and saronese ¾ m. from the santa severa inn, seneca's tower is distinctly seen, at the head of the valley, on the summit of a precipitous peak, rising from the s. side of the col, ft., from which a steep, stony path leads up to it, by a forsaken franciscan convent. the view is grand. to this tower, one of the many watch-towers built in the th cent., seneca could never have been sent, but to the roman colony of mariana, then used as a place of banishment for political offenders. [headnote: seneca.] lucius annæus seneca was born at cordova in spain, just before the commencement of the christian era. his eldest brother was a. seneca novatus, which name was altered afterwards to that of his adopted father, junius gallio. this brother was the proconsul of achaia, before whom st. paul was arraigned (acts xviii. ). while seneca was still a child he was brought by his aunt to rome, where he had for teachers sotion, papirius fabianus and attalus the stoic. although weak in body he was a most diligent student, which, joined to his powerful memory, enabled him to obtain at an early age important offices. before his banishment, a.d. , he had already served as quæstor. having irritated caligula, he would have been put to death, had not one of the mistresses of the emperor assured him that it was not worth while, as seneca was so consumptive he would soon die a natural death. in the first year of the reign of claudius, his wife messalina having become jealous of the influence his niece julia, daughter of germanicus, had over claudius her husband, succeeded in getting rid of her by imputing to her improper intimacy with seneca, then a married man. for that reason seneca was banished to corsica a.d. . during his exile he wrote his consolatory letter to his mother helvia, as well as a panegyric on messalina and a consolatory letter to polybius, ostensibly to condole with him on the loss of his brother; but in reality to get that powerful freedman to exert his influence with the emperor, to recall his sentence of exile. this letter is full of fulsome flattery and expressions unworthy of an honest man. after the death of messalina, claudius married his niece agrippina, sister of julia and mother of nero by a former husband. through her influence seneca was recalled a.d. and appointed a prætor and tutor to nero, then years old. in a.d. agrippina poisoned her husband. [headnote: macinaggio.--rogliano.] from s. severa, the diligence, resuming its journey, passes meria ½ m., and halts again at the port of macinaggio ½ m. more. from this commences the steep ascent up to rogliano ft., a town built in groups on the side of the mountain, among vineyards and olive and chestnut trees, the inn being in the second highest group, near the post-office. after rogliano the diligence crosses the cols s. anne, cappiaja and s. nicholas, and arrives at botticella m., and then proceeds to ersa with inn, near the top of the col de serra ft., commanding a good view of cap corse. shortly afterwards the diligence arrives at morsaglia, called also pecorile, a village composed of groups of houses like rogliano on the side of a hill. the conductor of the diligence will show the hotel. six miles s. from morsaglia is pino, see p. . [headnote: botticella.] from botticella a road leads ½ m. n. to barcaggio, opposite the island of giraglia, on which is a first-class lighthouse, feet above the sea, seen within a radius of m. from morsaglia the road is continued m. farther to the col s. bernardino on the bastia and st. florent road, passing pino, m. from the col s. bernardino; minerbio, ½ m.; marinca, m.; nonza, m.; farinole, ½ m.; pont du patrimonio, ¼ m.; and joins the bastia road at the col s. bernardino, ¼ m. w. from bastia. bastia to calvi. miles west; time hours; fare and frs. [headnote: col teghime.] miles from bastia miles to calvi { }{ } bastia. the road traverses a mountainous country, with scanty vegetation. as far as st. florent the prevailing rocks are micaceous and beyond granitic. immediately after leaving bastia the diligence commences the ascent of the col de teghime ( feet) in the serra di pigno, discovering as it winds its way upwards, an ever-extending panorama over the great eastern plain, including lake biguglia, and the mediterranean with the islands of elba, gorgona and monte christo. as the road descends towards the western shore, the enchanting panorama of the blue gulf of st. florent, encircled by low reddish rocks, gradually unfolds itself. it was at this road, made by count marboeuf, at which, it is said, king bernadotte worked among the other labourers. it passes the hamlets of barbaggio and patrimonio, the col st. bernardino ¼ m. from bastia, and the pont des strette, and enters the valley of nebbio, partly watered by the sluggish aliso, flowing through a marsh crowded with oleanders. [headnote: st. florent.] { ¼}{ ¾} st. florent, pop. . hôtel de l'europe, where a hurried breakfast can be had while the horses are being changed. close to the village is the site of the ancient town of nebbio, occupied now by a few poor houses and a small church, now a ruin, built in the th century. napoleon said, "st. florent has one of the finest situations i have ever seen. it lies most favourably for commerce, its landing places are safe and its roads can accommodate large fleets. i should have built there a large and beautiful city." it was one of the first places to give adherence to the bank of genoa. the road now for some distance leaves the shore and ascends a range of barren hills containing slate, limestone and granite. hardy trees become more abundant than the chestnut, and the mountains higher and more imposing, as we approach the little port of [headnote: l'ile rousse.] { }{ } l'ile rousse, pop. ; hotel europe. the diligence stops in the "place" near the monument to pascal paoli, and remains a sufficient time to enable the traveller to cast a glance over the main features of this port, founded by paoli in . the street beyond the "place" leads by the market to the harbour and to the long jagged tongue of red sandstone rocks projecting into the sea, bearing on the extreme point a lighthouse of the fourth order. steamer every alternate week to marseilles. there is a charming view from the eminence st. reparata, crowned with a church, now abandoned. inland from l'ile rousse is the fertile valley of balagna, famous for the size and fertility of its olive trees (p. ). { }{ } algajola, pop. . the block of granite which forms the pedestal of the column in the place vendome came from the quarries of this place. pillars feet long can be procured from this quarry. [headnote: lumio.] { }{ } lumio, pop. , among orange groves and high cactus hedges. from the hills here there is a beautiful view of the valley and gulf of calvi. junction here with road to corté, ½ miles, south-east, passing through a charming and picturesque country (see p. ). [headnote: calvi.] { } calvi, pop. . _inns:_ h. france, in the high town; *colombani, in the low town, near the dil. office and the wharf. steamer for marseilles every alternate week. this, the nearest port to france, is composed of the citadel or haute ville and the port or basse ville. the former, although the residence of the public functionaries, has a dilapidated and forsaken appearance. a rough road, paved with blocks of granite, leads up to it and to the ramparts, commanding beautiful and extensive views. the houses, shops and streets of the basse ville are much better and more cheerful than those in the citadel. both are defended by fort mozzello, rising behind the harbour. on the punta-revellata is a lighthouse of the first order, with a fixed light seen miles off. eight miles s.e. from calvi is calenzana, pop. , with the chapel of s. restituta, visited by pilgrims. calvi to ajaccio. miles from calvi miles to ajaccio { }{ } distance miles s.e. the road skirts the coast the greater part of the way. the first village is galeria, pop. --_inn:_ seta, miles s. from calvi. from galeria the route forestière, no. , extends miles eastwards to the col capronale, feet, in the forest of ometa. six miles from galeria is the entrance to the forest of evergreen oaks of treccio, as well as the commencement of the road, ½ m. long, to the forest of perticato by the col erbajo, ½ m., ft., and the bocca melza, ½ m. ft. galeria to the forests of filosorma. grand scenery. guide necessary. map, p. . this, the forest road no. , has two ramifications. the main line follows the course of the fango the whole way, and only becomes a mule-path when near the maison de cantonniers d'ometa, m. e. ¾ m. from galeria a mule-path ramifies from the road to the hamlets of tuarelli, prunicciole and chiorna. m. farther is the ramification, ½ m. s., through the forest of perticato by the col d'erbajo, ft., ½ m. s., and the bocca melza, ft., ½ m. s. from the bocca melza a very bad path leads m. s. to the hamlet of pinito. at the beginning of the above ramification the main road enters the ilex forest of treccio, and leaves it nearly m. afterwards. ¾ m. from galeria is a roadside inn, and ¼ m. farther the entrance into the ilex forest of ometa. ¼ m. from galeria and about m. from the almost unknown valley of the lonca, an affluent of the porto, is the pont de lancone, ft., across the rocce. from this bridge there is a good view of mt. tafonato, ft., to the n. e., with its singularly perforated peak. ¼ m. is the grand cassis d'ometa, ft. a little farther the road becomes a bridle-path, and ascends from ft. to the maison de cantonniers d'ometa, ft., and m. farther is the end of the forest of ometa. m. from galeria is the grand cassis de giargione, ft., and about m. farther the summit of col capronale, ft. a little way beyond, at the capo guagnerola, is a beautiful semicircle of reddish rocks covered with trees at the base. farther e. by the golo this forest road joins the forest road no. to francardo (p. ). having crossed the col de castellaccio, feet, and passed through the villages of partinello and vitriccia, m. from galeria, we arrive at miles from calvi miles to ajaccio { }{ } porto (_inn:_ h. padoram), occupying a pleasant and sheltered situation at the head of a fine gulf, with a climate rivalling that of ajaccio. most of the timber from the forests of valdoniello and perticato is shipped here. for porto to ponte francardo, see p. . the road from porto to la piana (map, p. ) affords a delightful drive, and exhibits good engineering. it is cut for a considerable distance through the rocks and cliffs and tall jagged peaks, like cypresses turned into stone, standing on the edge of this savage coast, parts of which are truly splendid. as the ascent is slowly continued, charming views disclose themselves, and on each side of the road the eye discerns some new beauty to dwell upon. at the col geneparo, to the right are the ruins of the castle of the colonnas di leca, rising boldly above the sea and surrounded and protected by magnificent natural battlements and pinnacles. six miles from porto, after having passed the cols of geneparo and mezzano, both about feet, the traveller reaches [headnote: la piana.] miles from calvi miles to ajaccio { }{ } la piana, feet, pop. . _inn:_ h. france. delightfully situated, with a fine sea-view. from the col san martino, m. from la piana and feet above the sea, the landscape undergoes a rapid change. the magnificent rocks become parched and arid and the grass as yellow as the soil where it tries to grow. [headnote: cargÉsÉ.] { }{ } cargÉsÉ, pop. . _inn:_ h. de voyageurs. a large village at the foot of a hill which slopes down to the sea. it was founded by a colony of greeks, who, fleeing from the oppression of the turks, arrived and settled here, by the permission of the genoese, in march . for having refused to aid paoli in against the genoese their villages were burnt to the ground, and they themselves had to seek refuge in ajaccio. after the cession of corsica to the french in m. de marboeuf had the village and church of cargese built for the colonists, when they all returned. greek is still spoken in the village, and it has a greek as well as a romanist priest. [headnote: sagona.] { }{ } sagona, pop. . the port of vico. it contains a few houses, one of which is the inn, where beds, bread, eggs, coffee and wine can be had. on the beach are generally large logs brought down from the forests for shipment. junction with road to vico ¼ miles e. (see p. ), and also with the road extending miles e. to the forest of aïtone, passing by the col vico, ½ m., ft.; poggio, ½ m.; the col sevi, ft., ¼ m.; cristinacce, ½ m.; and the col lacciola, ft. in the forest. five and a half miles from sagona are the cold sulphurous springs of caldanella; efficacious as a tonic. { ½}{ ½} calcatoggio, pop. . a poor village on a hill above the road. from this the diligence shortly after commences the ascent of the col sebastien, feet, miles from ajaccio. after the col sebastien, the road having passed over the col staggiola, feet, within a short distance of appietto, situated on a hill; reaches ajaccio, miles south-west from calvi. porto to the ponte francardo. miles north-east. map, p. . this important forest road traverses the region of the highest mountains and of the greatest forests, passes through albertacce, and by the other villages of the canton of calacuccia, and then proceeds to francardo by the defile of the golo. porto to evisa, ¾ m., by an excellent carriage road wending through most picturesque mountain scenery. the road, after following the course of the porto, crosses the stream onda, ascends the ravine of the cario, which it crosses m. from porto under the capo polmonaccia, ft. it now winds its way round little valleys into the narrow gorge of the porto between dark red cliffs crowned with pinnacles. nine m. from porto is the ramification of the mule-path to chidazzo, and ½ m. farther the ramification to marignano. the road, after passing the chapelle s. cyprien, enters evisa, pop. ; _inn:_ *h. carrara; ft., on a high promontory projecting in the centre of a mountain-girt basin from the central range between two deep gulfs hollowed out to a depth of ft. behind it rise pine forests to a broad mountain crest, the pass of the niolo. evisa is admirably situated for excursions. a difficult winding path leads in ½ hours down to the great walls of the dark granite ravine called the spelunca, at the confluence of the aïtone with the porto. rambles and drives into the forest of aïtone, from which unfortunately the old stately pines have disappeared. evisa to albertacce, m. e. the road traverses the forest of aïtone with its vigorous beeches and young pines (_pinus laricio_), whose stems are clear of branches from to ft. it is watered by the porto and numerous brawling streams; which rush down steep ravines covered with moss and ferns. in the forest, m. from evisa, by this road, is the maison forestière d'aïtone, where those provided with introductions, see p. , will find pleasant headquarters for grand excursions and fishing and botanical expeditions. ¼ m. farther is the house of the road menders (cantonniers) of tagnone; where lodging can also be had. the road having made several detours to get round the heads of ravines, ascends the col de vergio ft. on the great mountain chain separating the valley of the golo from the valley of the porto. about ft. above the col on the cricche ridge, a little to the w., is an admirable view of mt. tafonato, ft., almost due n., with a strange natural tunnel through the summit. from mt. cuculla, ft., nearly ¾ hours w. from the col is a still better view of tafonato, and besides a sight of mt. cinto, the valley of the golo and the mountain range of monte rotondo. a little beyond the summit of the col is the maison de cantonniers de castellaccio, whence there is a good view of the forest of valdoniello, , acres, containing besides many large pines very fine specimens of beeches, birches and alders. the felling of the trees in this forest commenced in . after arriving at the maison forestière de sciattarina ½ m. from evisa, the road passes by some of the finest trees, and descends into the valley of the golo; which has its source in a ravine between mts. tafonato and paglia-orba. four and a half miles farther is the maison forestière de popaja, ft., m. from evisa and m. from albertacce. either this house or the former, make good quarters for exploring the forest. two miles farther is the ponte alto, ft.; where the road crosses the golo and enters the pastoral country of the niolo; now called the canton of calacuccia, comprehending the villages of albertacce, calacuccia, corscia, lozzi, and casamaccioli. from near the bridge a mule path of ¾ m. ascends to casamaccioli, ft., pop. ; whence the continuation leads in hours to corté by the bocca la croce, the melo forest, and the valley of the tavignano. [headnote: albertacce.--monte cinto.] albertacce, m. from evisa, ft., pop. , a dirty village amidst chestnut and walnut trees; where a good deal of coarse linen and corsican cloth is woven. it is one of the places whence the ascent is made of monte cinto, ft., in hours, and in about for the descent. the path ascends by calasima, ft., to the height of ft. after this the course extends almost horizontally in a western direction across ridges, ascending by gradations more or less fatiguing. when about ft., and having climbed nearly hours, a cave is passed where shelter can be had. the remainder of the ascent is comparatively easy. the view is grand, monte falo, ft., being the most prominent object. the ascent cannot be made till the beginning of summer on account of the snow. [headnote: lake nino.] to lake nino, ft., the source of the tavignano in hours. from the lake a mule path chiefly by the left bank of the tavignano, leads in ½ hours to corté, through magnificent forests. around the lake are some shepherds huts; where rest and refreshment can be had, but no further supply of food can be counted on between the lake and corté. the lake, full of fish, lies in a hollow between high mountains, the highest being mt. retto, at the western end. albertacce to ponte francardo, m. n.e. the road follows the golo. to the left, a road ¼ m., leads up to lozzi, pop. . ½ m. from albertacce is calacuccia, ft. pop. , and m. farther, another byeroad ascends to corscia, ft., pop. , about hours walk s. from asco, whence also mt. cinto may be ascended by the valley of the asco called also stranciacone. asco is hours from olmi capella by the stranciacone, its affluent the tassinella, and the col de petrella, ft., to the s. of mt. corona, ft. near the chapel of s. pancrazio, ft., m. from albertacce is the commencement of the scala di santa regina, as this part of road is called, cut in the face of perpendicular cliffs rising from the bed of the golo. about half way are the small chapel and inn of santa regina, and the cave which in former times used to be the stronghold of robbers. thirteen miles from albertacce is the pont du diable, ft., where four roads meet. the road southwards or to the right leads to corté, m. s. by castirla and soveria, and the col of oninanda, ft., between cliffs rising ft. above it. [headnote: asco.] the road leading northwards extends to the beautiful highway between ponte alla leccia and calvi; by castiglione ¼ m., pop. , at the foot of mt. traunato, ft., popolasca, m., pop. , with beautiful red granite pinnacles, and moltifao m., pop. , with inn, consisting of a group of villages, clustered on the slopes of the ridge which separate the valley of the tartagine from the asco. the byeroad s.w. from moltifao leads up the highly picturesque valley of the asco, with magnificent forest trees, to the village of asco, pop. , a group of hamlets seldom visited, although one of the best points from which to make the ascent of mt. cinto. [headnote: ponte francardo.] the road leading m. n.e. by the golo extends to the ponte francardo, where the rail may be taken. see p. and general map. calvi to corté or to bastia. see general map. by ponte alla leccia. the finest part of the road is between calvi and the col colombano. "if i were to permit myself to dwell in detail on the exquisite variety and charm of the drive, especially after quitting the _route forestière_ a little e. of the hamlet of palasca, i should wander far from the main purpose of this paper. valery, gregorovius, lear and others have done justice to its wonderful beauty, and the last truly remarks that 'those who visit corsica without going through upper balagne remain ignorant of one of its finest divisions,' adding, 'no description can exaggerate the beauty of this remarkable tract of mountain background and deep valley, which for richness of foreground, cheerful fertility and elegance of distance may compete with most italian landscapes.' the district is densely peopled--at least twelve large villages are situated on the road itself between belgodere and lumio, a distance of miles--and picturesque hamlets with lofty campanili perch high up on the mountain slopes or crown the summits of the lower hills, whilst everywhere there is the richest culture and most varied produce, and the charm of the picture is completed by continually varying views over 'bowery hollows crowned with summer sea.'"--f. f. tuckett, alpine club. [headnote: the olive tree.] miles from calvi miles to cortÉ { }{ } calvi. the road skirts the coast as far as lumio, m. from calvi, whence it commences to ascend gradually by an admirably engineered road round the undulations of olive-clad mountains, disclosing at every turn a different view of the fertile valley of balagna, extending from the distant mountains to the blue waters of the mediterranean. it is said that there is no district throughout the whole of italy where the olive attains such a size as in this valley. of the tree there are three varieties, the sabine (_sabinacci_), the saracen (_saraceni_), and the genoese (_genovesi_), the most common of all, and is ascribed to the genoese, who during the government of agostino doria compelled the corsicans to plant olives in great numbers. [map: corsica western central region] after passing the picturesquely situated village of lavatoggio, m.; the col cesario, ft., ½ m.; the villages of feliceto, inn, pop. , ¼ m.; castor, m.; speloncato; ville di paraso, pop. ; occhiatana, and many more perched on the surrounding mountain tops, or nestling in nooks among olive and chestnut trees, the diligence arrives at [headnote: belgodere.] { ¾}{ ¼} belgodere, feet, pop. , commanding the finest view of this beautiful valley, its orchards, fields and mountains undulating towards the blue sea. the diligence just remains long enough to give time to run through the gate and up the narrow dirty street to the top of the rock on which the houses are clustered, and there to take a rapid glance at the lovely scene around and underneath. after the gate, the diligence halts at the post-office, and then moves on a few yards towards the stables, where the horses are changed. forest road from belgodere to the forest of tartagine. [headnote: capella.--tartagine forest.] from belgodere, route forestière, no. , leads down to the small port of losari, miles n. from belgodere and ½ e. from the ile rousse. a continuation of the same route southward extends to the bridge across the tartagine, feet, miles from the ile rousse, in the great forest of tartagine. it passes the bocca campana, feet, ¼ miles from belgodere; the bocca croce, feet, the culminating part of the road, miles from belgodere; and ½ miles farther, the hamlets of olmi and capella, miles from speloncato; with ever-varying mountain and village scenes among great forests; m. from belgodere is the pont tartagine in the forest of that name. the forest of tartagine, enclosed within the high crests of the capo dente ft. on the west, and of mt. padro on the east, measures acres, and contains principally the _pinus laricio_ and the _p. pinaster_, intermingled with ilexes or evergreen oaks (p. ). "olmi-capella ft. is in an open airy situation, commanding fine views of the mountains to the s. and s.w., and protected to some extent on the n. and n.w. by the ridge which sweeps round to the head of the tartagine valley. this ridge, though in the neighbourhood of the village only about ft. above the sloping plateau on which it is built, rises to the w. into the peaks of monte tolo ft., monte san parteo ft., monte cineraggia ft., monte grosso ft., punta radiche ft., capo al dente ft., and monte corona ft. the n. slope of this ridge is very steep, and commands most magnificent views of the haute balagne and the sea beyond, whilst it is traversed by numerous passes which afford charming scenery. besides the _route forestière_, which crosses the col de bocca croce ft., and by which the timber of the forest of tartagine is conveyed to ile rousse for shipment, several mule-paths connect olmi capella much more directly with ville and speloncato by the bocca battaglia ft., and bocca croce d'ovo feet; with feliceto by the bocca pianile ft.; with zilia and calvi by the bocca di cineraggia ft.; with calenzana by the bocca bianca ft., with calenzana or the val ficarella by the bocca di tartagine ft.; and with the head of the valley of asco by the bocca de l'ondella ft."--f. f. tuckett, alpine club. [headnote: palasca.] miles from calvi miles to cortÉ { ¾}{ ¼} palasca, pop. . situated lower down than the high road and the last village on this side of the { ½}{ ½} col de san colombano, feet above the sea. the view though more vast is less distinct, presenting a succession of mountain-tops, between which are dimly seen valleys with the sea in the distance. the diligence now descends into the narrow, rocky vale of the navaccia, an affluent of the tartagine, which enters the golo a little above the important bridge called the [headnote: ponte alla leccia.] { ¾}{ ¼} ponte alla leccia. inn at station. here take rail for corté (see p. ) or for bastia, miles n.e. (see p. ). the ponte nuovo is distinctly seen from the station. the two small houses near the railway bridge, on the s. side of the golo, were paoli's headquarters during the battle (see pp. and ). { } cortÉ, see page . ajaccio to vico and evisa. miles north; time to hours; fare frs. miles from ajaccio miles to vico { }{ } ajaccio. at about two miles from the town the diligence commences the ascent of the low col of stileto, passing the aqueduct for the gravona water. on the left hand are the granite quarries whence the large slabs were taken for the monument to napoleon in the place d'armes, as well as the long blocks for the pillars of the marseilles cathedral. to the right are the village of appietto, pop. , on a hill and the great cliff monte gozzi, feet high. { }{ } summit of the col st. sebastien, feet above the sea, commanding a lovely prospect of the bays of liscia, sagona and cargésé, and of the valley of cinarca, with its villages and vineyards. at the foot of the col is a small inn called le repos des voyageurs, where bread and wine and capital sea-urchins can be had. they are eaten raw, and taken out of the shell by cutting it in two horizontally. { }{ } sagona, junction with road to calvi, miles n. (see p. ). { }{ } summit of the col st. antoine, feet. near the top, at some distance to the left, is the village of balogna, pop. , while in front is seen the splendid range of the monte rotondo, among which the most conspicuous is la sposata, at the head of wooded valleys. the road to the left or n. leads to evisa, miles from vico, pop. , and feet above the sea. _hotel:_ carrara, a comfortable house, where vehicles may be hired. evisa is charmingly situated on the confines of the forest of aïtone, containing , acres. beyond aïtone, or miles from evisa, is the large forest of valdoniello, , acres. these forests, instead of extending monotonously on large plains, plunge into deep valleys, or creep up the sides of high mountains. from evisa descend to porto (see p. ). [headnote: vico.] miles from ajaccio miles to vico { } vico, pop. . _inns:_ france, where the diligence stops; voyageurs; univers. most picturesquely situated in the valley of the liamone, surrounded by steep mountains covered with apple, peach, chestnut, walnut, olive and oak trees. on the opposite side of the valley is the large whitewashed convent of st. francis, with terraced garden shaded by tall magnolias, beautifully placed on a thickly-wooded bank, above which is seen the small hamlet of nessa. it is a favourite summer resort of the _élite_ of ajaccio, who revel here on carpets of cyclamen, violets, and a profusion of other wild flowers, in the shade of the dense foliage of the chestnut groves around. [headnote: baths of guagno.] seven and a half miles from vico up the wooded vale of the liamone and by the bridges of silvani and belfiori, the village of murzo and the col de sorro, are the baths of guagno, with hot, sulphurous springs, resembling in their properties those of bareges in the pyrenees (see black's _south france_). from may to september they are much frequented, when a coach runs between vico and guagno. time, hours; fare, frs. coaches can be hired at vico for evisa. charge, frs. ajaccio to sartène. m. s. by diligence, over a hilly road; hrs. miles from ajaccio miles to sartÈne { }{ } ajaccio. the most comfortable way to go to sartène is to take the steamer to propriano, only miles n. from sartène, and there to await the daily coach. the diligence from ajaccio, after having crossed the rivers gravona, prunelli, agnone, vergajolo and margone, and the pass of campolaccio, feet, arrives at [headnote: cauro.] { ½}{ ½} cauro or cavro, ft. _inn._ coach to bastelica. pop. . a straggling mountain village, commanding extensive views. cauro to bastelica. m. northwards by "courrier" by a charming forest road, which after crossing the else at the pont zipitoli, m. from cauro, enters the defile of the prunelli at the col de menta, about m. from bastelica. the road from cauro crosses the col torro, ft., ½ m. four miles, the col and bridge s. alberto, ft. whence a road ramifies ½ m. s. to s. maria-siché and grossetto. on the right side of the road a waterfall descends from the crest of the usciolo. large oaks and chestnut trees with ilexes and pines are now seen. m. here a short branch road leads to a maison forestière surrounded by large trees, at the foot of mt. mantelluccio, ft. a little farther a road ramifies ½ m. by the wild and beautiful valley of the else into the forest of ponteniello, and where it ends a mule path commences to frasseto, pop. , on the coach road between ajaccio and the baths of guitera. ½ m. the zipitoli bridge across the else, a short way above its junction with the prunelli. on the right side of the river is the maison de cantonniers of zipitoli. m. the col crichetto, ft., and nearly m. farther the col menta, ft., from which the road descends to the prunelli and continues by its banks to [headnote: dominicacci.] bastelica, pop. , inn, ft., consisting of a group of hamlets, none of which bears the name of bastelica. sampiero was born in the one called dominicacci, between stazzona and costa, at the end of the th cent., and killed by the ornanos in the defile of the prunelli on the th january . the house which stands on the site of the one he lived in bears an epitaph to his memory, placed by "william wyse, irish roman catholic, nephew of napoleon the great." [headnote: mt. renoso.] among the many pleasant excursions is the ascent of mt. renoso, ft., ½ hrs. n.e. in summer men go up every day with mules for frozen snow. there are lakes on the south and east sides of the mountain, and some fine velvety swards. map, p. . five miles beyond cauro, the sartène road attains the summit of the col st. georges, ft., commanding a fine prospect of the surrounding country, and afterwards descends to the valley of ornano, the native land of vanina, traversed by the taravo. miles from ajaccio miles to sartÈne { }{ } apa, whence a route departamentale extends m. n.e. to the baths of guitera and zicavo. maps, pp. and . ajaccio to zicavo and the baths of guitera. [headnote: baths of guitera.] ¼ hrs. by coach and m. from ajaccio by the apa mill, ft., then by the slopes of the punta del castello, ft., through a charming country, to s. maria-siché, m. from apa, inn where coach stops, pop. . an old lofty building here of granite, with the remains of towers blackened by age, was the birthplace of the unfortunate vanina, strangled by sampiero, p. . the ruins of the chateau he built for himself in , after his house had been destroyed, are seen on a hill to the left of the road. coaches for ajaccio, guitera, zicavo, and propriano. ½ m. from apa at campo, pop. , the road describes a great circuit to get round the head of the defile of the torrent of frasseto, an affluent of the taravo. ¼ m. farther is frasseto, pop. . when about feet high there is, through an opening, a superb view extending to the sea by the valley of the frasseto. m. from apa is the col de granace, ft., with a splendid view. zecavo, m., ft., pop. , on an affluent of the taravo. then rounding the buttresses of the sposata, ft., enter the village of corrano, m., pop. , in a lovely situation. ½ m. from apa and ½ from ajaccio are the hot sulphurous springs of guitera, with hotel, ft., on the right bank of the taravo, an excellent trout stream. coach to and from ajaccio during the season, from may to september. pleasantly situated among cork oaks and banks covered with the osmunda fern. the road from the baths of guitera up to zicavo, ½ m., follows for about m. the taravo till its union with the torrent from mt. coscione, whence it climbs up through the gorge to [headnote: zicavo.--mt. incudine.] zicavo, pop. , hotel, ft., charmingly situated, overlooking the valley of the taravo, m. by coach from ajaccio. from zicavo the ascent is made of monte incudine, ft., in hrs. mules can be employed to within ½ hr. of summit. although not difficult, guide and mule are advisable, if for nothing else than to assist in fording the streams. after having passed the chapel of s. roch, ascend a steep mule path, right, among the largest and best formed chestnut trees in the island, then rounding mt. buchino, ft., among ilexes, and mt. occhiato, ft., covered with beech trees, ascend southwards by a wooded ravine between great rocks. between and hrs. the pastures of the plain of coscione, with many shepherds' huts, are reached, whence mt. incudine is seen. after leaving this the path becomes very bad, over loose stones and across troublesome torrents. these are succeeded by an annoying thick coppice of alders, and then the col de cheralba, ft., is ascended, in about ½ hrs. from starting. the mules are left here, and the ascent is made by the western flank, taking care to make the guide understand that the highest peak is wanted, and not the rocher de l'incudine. "the view is probably the most beautiful in corsica--a vast panorama full of variety. steep pine clad hills sink abruptly into the eastern sea; glens open southward on a rich glowing valley; the blue depths of the bays are fringed with an edging of white sand and green water. the great granite aiguilles of the forest of bavella, a strange array of horns and pinnacles, run across the foreground; to the left the long fiord of porto vecchio stretches far into the land; while in the centre of the picture are spread out the broad straits of bonifacio, studded with pale isles and islets. on the left is caprera, the home of the liberator of the two sicilies. [headnote: nelson.] the one beside it, maddalena, is linked with even greater memories--nelson and napoleon. under its lee, in a bay which nelson christened 'agincourt sound,' the british fleet lay for months before the battle of the nile, watching for the french squadron sheltered behind the guns of toulon. two silver candlesticks on the altar of the village church record nelson's gratitude for the friendly services of the inhabitants. it was in attacking this same village that napoleon, in , first saw fire. for mountain views the alpine clubman is spoilt, but for sea views, and they are not less beautiful, he must go far, perhaps as far as greece, to find such another."--d. f. freshfield, alpine club. see map on fly-leaf. miles from ajaccio miles to sartÈne { }{ } grosseto, feet, pop. ; ½ hours by diligence from ajaccio. a little beyond the inn is the church, sheltered by large ilex trees, which grow to a great height in this neighbourhood. { }{ } bicchisano, feet, pop. , where the passengers dine. the diligence then passes the villages of petreto and cassalabriva, pop. , and shortly afterwards reaches the summit of the col celaccia, feet, about ½ m. e. from sollacaro, pop. , where boswell visited paoli. sollacaro is not on the highroad. [headnote: olmeto.] { }{ } olmeto, pop. , hotel. on a hill, with an extensive view. in the neighbourhood, on monte buttareto, are the ruins of the castle of arrigo della rocca. no more beautiful sight than that of olmeto can be pictured. immediately below the town the ground dips steeply down, covered with corn or turf; or in terraces of vineyard, varied with large groups of fine olive trees stretching down to the shore. above the village a vast growth of vegetation climbs the heights. among huge masses of granite are tangles of every shrub the island produces, the wild olive or oleaster being one of the most elegant; while every part of the heights close to the town abounds with little picture subjects, with a clear blue sky for a background. the road now descends to the coast, and after crossing the baracci, near the hot sulphurous mineral baths of baracci, arrives at [headnote: propriano.] { ½}{ ½} propriano, pop. . h. france. every saturday a steamer arrives from ajaccio, and returns on the monday morning. another steamer twice weekly between this and ajaccio. near the bridge over the rizzanèse, are the two celtic monuments called the stazione del' diavolo. propriano to solenzara. two and a half miles beyond the bridge commences the route forestière, no. , leading to solenzara, ½ m. n.e. this road ascends by the rizzanese to s. lucia di tallano, whence eastward to levie, ft.; and thence zonza, ft. the road afterwards ascends n.e. by a picturesque ravine to the col bavella, ft.; whence after descending to the maison cantonniere, ft., it crosses the col larone, ; whence it descends by a winding road partly by the banks of the fiumicello and partly by the r. solenzara to solenzara (see p. ). [map: corsica, central region] shortly after crossing the rizzanese the diligence commences the long ascent to sartène, disclosing views of the great valley below and of the splendid snowy heights of the long range of mountains opposite, terminating in the lofty regions of the great monte incudine, ft. [headnote: sartÈne.] miles from ajaccio miles to sartÈne { } sartÈne, feet; pop. ; _inns:_ commerce: univers. coaches daily to and from ajaccio, bonifacio and santa lucia di tallano. old sartène is a town of narrow streets approached by a fine bridge, whence the whole valley is seen down to the gulf of valinco. it still retains some towers and parts of the walls erected in the th century. the houses are built of rough, dark gray granite, with steep stone steps leading up to the main entrance, and odd italian chimneys, some in the shape of pillars with curious capitals, others in the form of towers or obelisks. the houses bordering the nouvello traverse and the streets leading into the "place" form the new town. sartène to corté by vivario, up the centre of the island. maps, pp. and . this grand mountain road, no. bis, extends from sartène, m. n. to the ajaccio and corté road, which it joins at the kilometres-stone, on the col serra, ½ mile from vivario. all the diligences between ajaccio and corté halt at the inn of vivario (p. ). [headnote: s. lucia di tallano.] after leaving sartène the road crosses the fiumicicoli and ascends the valley of the rizzanese to loreto, m., and cargiaca m. n. from sartène ft.; grand view. near loreto is s. lucia di tallano, ft., with a quarry of a beautiful amphibole, a variety of hornblende. the ground colour is grayish blue sprinkled with white and margined with black spots (see p. ). [headnote: zicavo.] from cargiaca the road enters the valley of the coscione and ascends through the ilex forest of taca amidst towering mountains and vertical cliffs by the villages of zerubia and aullene, ft., pop. ; inn; m. n. from sartène. it now crosses the coscione, ft., then the col vaccia, ft., and descends by the col d'alisandri, ft., to zicavo, ft., with an inn, m. from aullene, ½ m. e. from the baths of guitera, m. n. from sartène and m. s. from vivario. from the bocca tinzole a road ramifies n.w. to olivese ft., pop. , in the valley of the taravo, m. from guitera by a beautiful road. from zicavo the road crosses the col san francesco, ft., to cozzano, m., pop. , and enters the valley of the taravo, which it ascends by the east bank between two great mountain chains, the culminating point of the western chain being mt. don giovanni ft., and that of the eastern pointe capella ft. three and a quarter miles up the valley from cozzano a wheel road leads ½ m. e. to the maison forestière of st. antoine, whence a mule path by the col de rapara, ft., extends to isolaccio and the hot baths of pietrapola, p. , by a picturesque road through a beautiful part of the forest. four and a half miles above cozzano is the col scrivano, ft., whence a mule path leads across the valley to palneca, pop. , on the wooded slopes of mt. pietra cinta, ft. a little below the summit of the col is the maison de cantonniers de scrivano. nine and a half miles n. from zicavo is the bridge argentuccia, fronting a grand semi-circle of mountains covered with noble trees. this is the commencement of the real verde forest. eleven and three quarter miles from zicavo is the maison de cantonniers de ghiraldino, ft., m. n. from sartène, m. s. from the col verde and m. s. from the house of refuge of marmano. a little beyond the house a wheel road, left, descends into one of the finest parts of the verde forest. [headnote: col verde.] thirteen and three quarter miles from zicavo and m. from sartène is the col verde, ft., with, nearly a mile distant, the maison de cantonniers de marmano. below is the forest of marmano, with its best trees cut down, and in the neighbourhood the sources of the rivers taravo, ft., at the col tisina, of the fium orbo, ft. under a mountain a little to the n. of the col verde, and of the prunelli, ft., among a group of high mountains to the w. the vecchio rises from the springs on mt. oro. [headnote: refuge de marmano.] seventeen miles from zicavo and m. from sartène is the refuge de marmano, ft., beautifully situated. here was formerly the summer station of the casabianda penitentiary. the escaped criminals committed such outrages that the government at the repeated petitioning of the shepherds were obliged to withdraw it. finally casabianda was abandoned also, and the prisoners removed to the neighbourhood of ajaccio, where they could be well looked after. food and lodging may be obtained at the maison forestière, or ¼ m. farther at the maison de cantonniers de canareccia, ft., in the rocky defile of the fium orbo. between this and ghisoni, m., bridges and low cols are crossed. at the second bridge, the pont de casso, ½ m. from ghisoni, are seen the great pinnacles or needles and lofty cliffs of albuccia point or kyrie eleison, ft. from the canaraccia the road winds its way northward along the flanks of mountains sloping down to the orbo, which it leaves shortly before reaching [headnote: ghisoni.--col sorba.] ghisoni, pop. , ft., m. n. from sartène, m. s. from vivario, m. n. from the house of refuge, and m. n. from zicavo. four m. n. from ghisoni the road crosses the col scozzolatojo, ft., and m. farther the col sorba, ft., m. s. from vivario, see p. . the descent from the col sorba into vivario is very striking. it is effected by excessively sharp zigzags through a noble pine forest. between the branches tower the bold forms of monte d'oro, monte rotondo, and, in the distance, behind the uplands of corté, the crags of monte traunato. the best resting-places on this road are zicavo, m. s.e. from ajaccio, from which it is approached by a diligence; and the pleasant village of ghisoni, where there is a very fair inn. at vivario there is the hotel voyageurs. guides and carriages should be hired either at sartène or vivario, frs. per day. ghisoni to ghisonaccia. m. s.e. maps, pp. and . by the forest road no. , cut for nearly m. in the face of the steep cliffs which enclose the orbo. as this road in all the dangerous parts is hardly ft. wide, it is necessary to ascertain before starting in a vehicle, the position of the carts conveying the logs, and to arrange accordingly. the road descends from ghisoni to the pont de regolo, ft., where it crosses the casapietrone, and then follows the course of the fium orbo, crosses the ruello bridge ft., and enters the salto della sposata ½ m. from ghisoni, where the river flows in a narrow bed between vertical precipices, some more than ft. high. [headnote: l'inzecca.] the road, chiselled out of these cliffs, passes under great portals. from the third is seen, through the great cleft in the rock of inzecca, the sea at aleria. after this the defile opens up to close again between serpentine cliffs. it then crosses the ponts de parabuja and the viaduct de l'inzecca, and reaches the entrance to the passage de l'inzecca, m. from ghisoni, ft. above the sea, where the road is cut through great serpentine rocks. this is the most difficult part for the waggons to pass. map, p. . the plain now widens, and m. from ghisoni a branch road leads to vezzani. nine and a quarter miles from ghisoni is the col s. antoine, ft., and ¾ m. farther is ghisonaccia, p. . sartène to bonifacio. miles south-east, by diligence; time, hours. miles from sartÈne miles to bonifacio { }{ } sartÈne. the road winds its way through great blocks of granite scattered on a plain studded with shrubby specimens of the ilex, towards the shore of the golfo di roccapina, with a fantastically shaped rock called il leone coronato. east from the gulf the road passes the village of pianottoli, m. from sartène, almost due south from the singular mountain l'uomo di cagna, ft.; then the bridge across the figari at the head of the gulf of figari, m.; the col de la testa or scopeto, ft., m.; and the bridge across the ventilegni, m. from sartène, and from bonifacio. [headnote: bonifacio.] { } bonifacio, pop. . h. du nord; france in the high town. diligences leave daily for bastia, sartène, and ajaccio. a steamer arrives every saturday from ajaccio and returns on the monday. bonifacio was founded in by the tuscan marquis whose name it bears, to protect this part of the island against the piratical incursions of the saracens. the high town is built on the top of a limestone rock rising vertically from the sea. the low town occupies one side of the fine natural dock, hemmed in by perpendicular cliffs with an opening of only yards towards the sea. from the steamboat wharf a broad paved series of steps leads up to the high town, entering it through the porte vieille. in the old house fronting this porte or gateway, charles v., in , stayed two days and a night on his return from his unsuccessful expedition against algiers. overtaken by a storm, he had taken refuge in the gulf of santa manza. the door of the house, decorated with an arabesque on marble, is in the narrow side street. in the place d'armes are the church of san domenico, built by the templars, characterised by its octagonal tower with an embrasured termination; and the great tower "torrione," part of the fortifications built by the marquis, and formerly the most important part of the citadel. near this tower is the flight of steps "redragon," cut in the rock by the genoese, which descends by steps to the sea. the small room over the gateway of the citadel, opposite the house of charles v., was inhabited by napoleon for nearly eight months. there are grand sea-views from the ramparts. the town consists of tall, dingy houses, and narrow, steep, and in most cases dirty streets. the promenade of bonifacio is the small covered terrace before the church of santa maria. here also is the public cistern. of the numerous caves which pierce the base of the rock of bonifacio, the most remarkable one enters from the sea, feet below the place d'armes, and extends to an unknown distance. it contains a freshwater lake, which rises and falls with the tide. a staircase with a vaulted roof and consisting of steps leads down to this lake. the water is brought up to the surface by a force pump, is perfectly transparent, with a slight calcareous taste. in the high town there are private and one public cistern, in which the rain water from the roofs is stored up. the low town has a well supplied from a stream by an aqueduct. the afternoon is the best time to visit the caves. a boat for one or party should not cost more than frs. the finest, the dragonetta, cannot be visited when the sea is rough. on monte pertusato (the south extremity of corsica), miles s.e. from bonifacio, is a lighthouse of the first order, feet above the sea. the southern promontory is pierced by a cavern hung with stalactites. bonifacio to bastia. miles; diligence to ghisonaccia, m. n., the rest by rail. miles from bonifacio miles to bastia { }{ } bonifacio. the diligence, after passing the col finocchio, feet, ½ miles n. from bonifacio, the maison francola, miles, the bridge across the stabiacco, miles, and the col mattonara, ½ miles (whence the route forestière, no. , ascends miles west into the forest of the ospedale), arrives in hours at [headnote: porto-vecchio.] { }{ } porto-vecchio, pop. . hôtel amis. surrounded by its old walls, and at the head of a beautiful gulf. the surrounding country is fertile, but unhealthy during the hot weather, on account of the miasma rising from the morasses and lagoons. to the n. of porto, the mountains still approach near to the sea; but beyond solenzara (where the diligence halts) ½ miles from bonifacio, they recede and leave free those great undulating plains which characterise the eastern coast of corsica--plains almost uninhabited and covered with heaths. from the north side of the travo commences a series of large lakes swarming with fish and a kind of cockle. they are separated from the sea by long narrow sandbanks, like earthen break-waters. the malaria prevails from june to october, but even then only the night should be avoided in travelling along this coast. the road after passing by the hamlet of favona, m., arrives at [headnote: solenzara.] { }{ } solenzara. whence a wheel road extends westwards into the forest of bavella by the col bavella ½ m. s.w., and the col scalella, m., ft. to zonza, ½ m. from solenzara; m. farther is the village of s. gavino di carbini, ft., and other ½ m. the village of levie; m. s.w. from solenzara, and ½ from propriano is s. lucia de tallano, on the highroad to aullene (see p. ), and for continuation of this road to propriano see p. . the road to bastia, after passing the travo, m., vicchiseri, m., and casamozza, ½ m., arrives at the railway station of [headnote: ghisonaccia.] { }{ } ghisonaccia, pop. . on the fium orbo, m. s.e. from corté. from this a department road of ½ m. leads to the hot sulphurous baths of pietrapola, with a large hotel in a healthy situation. from ghisonaccia a carriage road extends n.w. to the villages of poggio-di-nazza, ½ m., and lugo-di-nazza, ½ m. from ghisonaccia railway station a forest road extends m. n.w. to ghisoni, where it joins the high road between sartène and vivario (p. ). the southern prolongation of this road leads to zicavo, petreto, bicchisano, and portopollo, on the gulf of valinco. forty-six m. from bastia is casabianda. h. perett; a village situated on a well-cultivated estate belonging to the government; formerly used as an agricultural penitentiary for juvenile criminals. in the hot season it is safer to pass the night at casabianda than at aleria. [headnote: aleria.] miles from bonifacio miles to bastia { ¼}{ ¾} aleria. inn. the capital of corsica till the invasion of the saracens in the th cent., now a poor village with an old genoese fort, situated at the mouth of the tavignano, ¼ m. from the etang de diane. ancient aleria, the colony founded by the dictator sulla about b.c., occupied both banks of the tavignano, which waters one of the finest plains in the world, where winter is unknown. the site of the town was well selected. the population was probably , . it was at aleria that theodore neuhoff, a native of altona, in germany, landed to have himself proclaimed king of corsica, march . he died a pauper in london, and was buried in an obscure corner of st. anne's churchyard, soho. on a mural tablet against the exterior wall, west end, is the following epitaph written by horace walpole:--"near this place is interred theodore, king of corsica, who died in this parish, dec. , , immediately after leaving the king's bench prison, by the benefit of the act of insolvency. in consequence of which, he registered his kingdom of corsica for the use of his creditors." his capital was cervione. the lake de diane is a great sheet of salt water with one narrow opening to the sea. it formed the harbour of aleria, and was provided with quays, of which a vestige still remains. the lake contains an island yards in circumference, composed of oyster shells covered with luxurious vegetation. fish, and a cockle a species of venerupis, inhabit the brackish water of the lake. aleria to cortÉ. coach every other day; fare, francs; time, hours. thirty-one and a half m. n.w., by a picturesque road up the course of the tavignano, passing cateraggio, m., rotani, m., commencement of bridle path leading n. to tallone, ½ m., tox, ½ m., campo, m., and moïta, ½ m. seven m. farther up the main road a ramification extends n. to giuncaggio, ½ m., and to pancheraccia, ½ m. up the main road, ½ m. from aleria, and near the bridge across the vecchio, a bridle path strikes off s. to rospigliani, m., and vezzani, ½ m. a little higher a ramification extends m. w. to serraggio (p. ). the road, after passing several other ramifications with the corté and ajaccio road, arrives at corté, p. . ten m. w. from aleria are the cold saline sulphurous springs of puzzichello, ft., considered efficacious in the cure of syphilitic diseases, resembling in this property the water of aulus in the pyrenees. see black's _south france_, west half (pyrenees). [headnote: prunete.--cervione.--alesani.] miles from bonifacio miles to bastia { }{ } prunete. _inn:_ gaetan. junction with road to ponte alla leccia, m. n.w. (p. ), leading through a region of chestnut trees and past many villages on the mountains, built chiefly on terraces. a coach runs from the station to alesani called also castagneto ft. m. w.; ascending by muchieto ft. ¾ m., cervione ft. ½ m., pop. ; _inns:_ france: voyageurs: an untidy village, once the capital of king theodore's realm. from cervione the road describes a long detour to the bridge across the chebbia, whence it ascends to cotone ft ¼ m., the col d'aja ft., and ortale ft., ¾ m. from alesani. good red wine is made in the neighbourhood of cervione. the dirty little village of castagneto or alesani is picturesquely situated on the side of a mountain overlooking a valley covered with chestnut trees. the diligence stops at an inn, where bread, eggs and coffee with goats' milk can be had and a comfortable bed. a char-a-banc from this inn to piedicroce (orezza) costs frs., time ½ hours, miles. for orezza, see p. . passengers from prunete to piedicroce or stazzona should not stop at cervione but continue the diligence route to castagneto, whence start next morning. the drive between castagneto and piedicroce, miles, is by far the most beautiful part of the road. the highest part of the col d'arcarotta is a narrow ridge between the valleys of orezza and ortia, commanding a charming view. see also p. . { ¼}{ ¾} padulella. four and a quarter miles west by a good road is san nicolao, pop. . [headnote: stazzona.] { ¼}{ ¾} folelli-orezza station. junction with road to piedicroce ¼ m. s.w.; by the course of the fium'alto, the chestnut country, and the village of stazzona, ¼ m. from folelli, ¼ m. from and ft. under piedicroce, and m. from and ft. above the spring of orezza. the coach from the station stops at stazzona, pop. . _hotels_: *paix, casino. very fine oleanders in the gardens. on the opposite side of the valley of the fium'alto is granajola, with the establishment manfredi, ft. above the sea and feet above the spring. the hotel manfredi has the most select society, is the largest house, and its road from the spring is the least dusty; but as no public coach goes there it is necessary to hire a private conveyance either at stazzona or piedicroce, or miles. the charge in all the hotels is frs. per day, not including coffee or tea in the morning. the hotels of stazzona and the hotel manfredi are the most convenient for the spa drinkers; those of piedicroce are too distant. [headnote: orezza.] the orezza spring is in the centre of a small terrace in the narrow valley of the fium'alto, whose steep banks are covered with chestnut trees, and ascended by dusty winding roads. the water is a bicarbonate chalybeate, with an agreeable amount of free carbonic acid gas. [headnote: vescovato.] { }{ } vescovato station. town ¼ m. w., pop. . *h. de progreso in the large "place" where all the coaches stop, near a fountain of pure gushing water, cold even in summer. the rather untidy town of vescovato is almost hidden in the corner of a valley, ft. above the sea, by woods of vigorous olive and chestnut trees. from it a coach starts daily to porta, m. w., by a bad, dusty, jolting road, passing through venzolasca, pop. , on the top of a hill, ft., ½ m. from vescovato. three m. farther a road, left, m., leads to porri, ft., pop. . ½ m. from vescovato is the col s. agostino, and then follow, m., silvareccio, ft., pop. ; ½ m., piano, ft., pop. ; casabianca, m. farther, ft.; and then porta, pop. ; _inn:_ h. franceschi, in the "place," opposite the church, where the coach stops. in july and august the coach goes on to piedicroce. { }{ } pont du golo. a little more than miles from the bridge, at the mouth of the river, stood the town of mariana, founded by marius (b. , d. b.c.), where seneca most probably spent his exile, and of which there remain only a few insignificant fragments on the beach. in the vicinity are the ruins of a chapel, and about a mile farther those of the church, called la canonica, with aisles and a nave feet long and wide, ornamented with rows of pillars of the doric order. both church and chapel are in the pisan style. at casamozza station, ½ m. s. from bastia, the aleria railway joins the one from corté. { } bastia. see p. . ponte alla leccia to piedicroce. eighteen miles s.e. by "courrier" daily. fare frs. time hours, by a mountain road, making immense circuits round by the heads of ravines among rich pastures and great chestnut and beech trees. nine miles from the ponte is morosaglia, pop. , with an inn, where the coach stops. a conglomeration of hamlets on the slopes of a mountain, one of which, stretta, was the birthplace of pascal paoli. m. farther is the summit of the col de prato with an inn, ft., ft. below, or hours from the top of san pietro, commanding a magnificent view of the castagniccia or the chestnut country, and the islands of monte christo, pianosa, and elba, floating in the haze between sky and water. see map on fly-leaf. [headnote: castagniccia.] the castagniccia may be said to lie between the golo and the tavignano, bounded on the w. by the railway. the chestnut trees are not so famous for their size as for the qualify of their fruit. the coach having passed the hamlet of campana arrives at [headnote: piedicroce.] piedicroce, pop. , several inns, ft., m. from ponte alla leccia, and ft. above the spring of orezza by a winding, dusty, bad wheel road, passing stazzona ft. above the sea. although piedicroce is not a suitable place for those who come to drink the orezza water, it is an excellent centre for excursions, the favourite one being to the top of monte s. pietro ft. in hours, by the cabins of tajalto ft., and a beech forest. mule to nearly the top. guide and mule, frs. see also above. coach in july and august to the vescovato station by porta, p. . piedicroce to prunete station, m. s.e. the continuation of the road from ponte alla leccia. from piedicroce the road passes by pied'orezza, ft., ¾ m. from piedicroce, piedipartino, ft., m.; carcheto, ft., m.; brustico, ft. m.; the col d'arcarotta, ft., ¼ m. from piedicroce, between the richly wooded valleys of the fium'alto and the alesani, and commanding a very fine view of both. from this the road gradually descends to prunete, the most beautiful part being from this col to castagneto called also alesani, where there is an inn and whence a coach starts daily to prunete railway station. [headnote: castagneto.] seven miles from piedicroce and from the col is ortia, ft., pop. , hidden among chesnut trees; felce, ft., ¾ m., pop. ; pied alesani m.; querceto, ft., and castagneto or alesani, ft., m. from piedicroce and from prunete railway station, the principal village in this valley. a little below castagneto, at the commencement of this chestnut wooded valley is ortale, ft., pop. . the coach then having passed cotone ft., ¼ m., pop. , and having crossed the little bridge over the stream chebbia arrives at cervione, _inn_, france: ft., ¾ m. from piedicroce, and ¼ from prunete. from cervione another coach descends to prunete railway station by muchieto ft. prunete consists of a few houses near the beach, resorted to by bathers in summer, situated on the highway between bastia and bonifacio. see also p. . solenzara to sartène, m. s.w. this forest road, no. , ascends the valley of the solenzara, crosses the great s.e. range at the col de bavella, descends into the valley of the rizzanese, passes through the villages of zonza, san gavino, levie, and ste. lucie, and joins the highroad between ajaccio and bonifacio at the milestone · ( ¾ m.) from ajaccio, ¾ m. from sartène, and m. from solenzara. the road, after passing up by the s. side of the river through olive groves and "maquis," arrives at the col and maison de cantonniers de castelluccio, ft., m. from solenzara. two m. farther by the pont de ghiadole, the road crosses the solenzara by the calzatojo bridge, m. from solenzara, ft., winds upward by the deep gully of the fiumicello, which having crossed by the bridge ¼ m. from solenzara, ascends a steep winding road bordered with great trees to the maison de cantonniers de rocchio-pinzuto, ¾ m., ft., at the foot of the great cliff of that name. the road still winding upwards passes the immense wall of reddish cliffs called the rochers de bavella before arriving at the col de larone ¾ m., ft. the road, still winding, ascends a huge promontory between the torrents fiumicello and s. pietro, separating into two distinct parts the forest of bavella, and crosses the pont de bocintoro, ft., m. a little farther, in a wild yet beautiful situation, is the maison de cantonniers d'arghiavara. from the pont ½ m. is the better house, la maison forestière de l'alza, commanding superb views, situated among great trees and nursery gardens. the ascent from this is by a steep road, almost impracticable for vehicles, through a forest of the stateliest and oldest pines in corsica. m. from solenzara and from sartène is the maison de cantonniers de bavella, ft., near the summit of the col bavella, ft. in this house of refuge there is generally comfortable accommodation and a supply of provisions. the surrounding huts are occupied in july and august by people from the plains about solenzara, who come here to escape the fever-producing malaria. the house commands, even from the windows, grand views. on the other side of the col, ft. below it and ¼ m. from it, is the maison de cantonniers de ballatojo, from which the road descends amidst great pines mixed with a few oaks and ilexes, in view of the asinao forest and of the lofty granite pinnacled precipices, m. long, between mt. colva, ft., and the point tintinaja, ft. zonza, good inn, pop. , height ft., ¼ m. from solenzara and ¾ m. from sartène, hidden among chestnut trees and conveniently situated for visiting the forests of zonza, asinao, and bavella. [headnote: s. gavino.] ½ m. beyond is san gavino di carbini, pop. , height ft., a poor miserable village, where there existed in a sect of socialists, with whom even the women and children were held in common, and by whom were committed frightful abominations. [headnote: levie.] m. from solenzara and m. from sartène is levie, consisting of various hamlets. inn where the coach, running between this and sartène, stops. pop, , height ft this village, easily approached, is situated among mountains abounding with game. it commands superb views, and makes in april a very pleasant residence. in winter it is rather cold. on the road between levie and santa lucia di tallano, ½ m. from the col d'aja vignarsa, ft., are seen the valley of the rizzanese and the gulfs of valinco and ajaccio. on the grassy table lands of the col d'aja are many rare flowers, among others a species of red gladiolus. [headnote: s. lucia di tallano.] ½ m. w. from levie and ¼ from sartène is santa lucia di tallano, pop. , inn where the sartène and levie coach stops. s. lucia is built in terraces on the hills rising from the fiumicicoli. church th cent. the wines grown in this neighbourhood command good prices in the corsican market. below, on the fiumicicoli, is a hot sulphurous spring. on the way down to the river by the sides of the point campolaccia, near a place called campolajo, is beautiful hornblende, page . from santa lucia the road leads southwards by the rizzanese to sartène, p. . sketch of the history of corsica. it is not known who the original inhabitants of corsica were. the phocæans of ionia were the first civilised people that established settlements in corsica. about the year b.c. they landed on the island, and founded at the mouth of the tavignano the city of aleria, which after a short occupation they were compelled to abandon. after an interval of a few years they again returned, rebuilt aleria, which they fortified, and endeavoured to maintain their ground against the natives. after a struggle of some years they were again compelled to leave the island. the next foreign occupants of corsica were the tuscans, who founded the city of nicæa, but they in their turn were compelled to give way before the growing maritime power of the carthaginians, whose jurisdiction in the island was unquestioned till the beginning of the first punic war. on that occasion the romans sent out a fleet, drove the carthaginians from the island, and exacted at least a nominal homage from the native population. they did not, however, fully establish their power here till about thirty years later, and even then rebellions and revolts were of constant occurrence. [headnote: roman colonies.] the first step made towards the real subjugation of the island was the establishment of the two colonies on its eastern coast-that of aleria by sulla and that of mariana by marius. in the time of the emperors the island had fallen into disrepute among the romans, by whom it was used chiefly as a place of banishment for political offenders. one of the most distinguished of these sufferers was the younger seneca, who spent in this island eight years of banishment ending with a.d. [headnote: arms.] on the downfall of the roman empire in the west, corsica passed into the hands of the vandals. these barbarians were driven out by belisarius, but after his death, a.d., the resistless hordes of attila once more gained possession of the island. since that period it has successively owned the dominion of the goths, the saracens, the pisans and the genoese. the impress of the last is to be found in the style of the church architecture, while the armorial crest of the island, a moor's head, with a band across the brow, dates from the expedition of the saracen king, sanza ancisa. the patroness of corsica, the "protectrice de la corse," is santa devota; who is also the patron saint of monaco. the corsicans often style the virgin mary simply la santa; and in their common exclamation santa! maria is understood. [headnote: sampiero.] among the most renowned and intrepid patriots in the struggle of the corsicans to free themselves from the genoese was sampiero, born of poor parents towards the end of the th cent, in dominicacci, one of the hamlets which compose bastelica. his house having been burned down by the genoese, the inhabitants in the th cent. constructed a new one on the same site, on which mr. wyse, an irishman, affixed a tablet with an inscription in , expressing his admiration of the man. after serving with great distinction in the armies of the italian princes and in those of francis i., king of france, sampiero returned to corsica in and married the fair vanina, heiress of ornano, belonging to one of the oldest families in the island. shortly after the marriage the corsicans, led by sampiero, revolted against the tyranny of the banking company of st. george of genoa, and, assisted by the french, under general thermes, overthrew them after six years of hard fighting and much bloodshed, in which sampiero and his peasant army bore by far the greatest share. all, however, they had gained at such immense sacrifice was completely lost to them by the treaty of chateau cambresis, , by which france agreed to restore corsica to genoa. sampiero and his family had to leave the island. such was the virulent and implacable hatred sampiero bore to the genoese, that he with his own hand, in cold blood, strangled mercilessly his trembling wife three years after ( ) in marseilles, for having allowed herself, in his absence, to be persuaded to make an arrangement with the genoese to save the patrimony of her children. sampiero escaped with impunity, although he buried his murdered wife publicly, and with pomp, in the church of st. francis at marseilles. antonio francesco, the younger son, who was, when a mere child, with his mother when she was murdered, was afterwards assassinated at rome by a frenchman, whom he had insulted while playing at cards. on the th june sampiero landed at the gulf of valinco with a band of corsicans and frenchmen, to make another desperate attempt to free corsica from the hated yoke. after a five years' life-and-death struggle, fired by a feverish thirst for revenge, the corsicans had to yield to the might of genoa, supported by well-drilled italian, german and spanish mercenaries, commanded by their greatest generals, doria, centurione and spinola, and aided by a powerful fleet. on the th january sampiero was slain in an ambuscade laid for him in the defile of cauro, into which he had been led by forged letters brought him by the monk ambrosius of bastelica. his elder son alfonso d'ornano continued the struggle after his father's death, till the exhausted state of corsica compelled him to desist and to accept a general amnesty proclaimed by the genoese governor george doria in . alfonso d'ornano was afterwards created "maréchal de france." [headnote: pascal paoli.] from the corsicans, led by the brave pascal paoli, carried on the struggle for their independence against the genoese, who were occasionally assisted by the french. on the th may the former sold their presumed claims to the island to the french, who ended this war of subjugation by the terrible battle of ponte nuovo, th may . on the llth of june paoli left porto-vecchio for london; where, at the instance of the duke of grafton, then prime minister of england, he received an annual pension of £ . after corsica had been made one of the departments of france he was invited in , by the national assembly, to take the supreme command in the island. on his arrival at paris ( d april ), on his way to corsica, he was fêted as the washington of europe, and lafayette was constantly by his side; while, on his arrival at marseilles, he was received by a deputation, among whom was napoleon. in july he landed at macinaggio, on the east side of cap corse. the execution of the king and the cruelties and excesses of the convention having shocked the philanthropic spirit of paoli and alienated his sympathies, he organised a revolt to separate corsica from france, and succeeded by the aid of the english fleet, th july , when calvi, the last of the forts, surrendered. on the th of june the corsicans declared that they would unite their country to great britain, but that it was to remain independent, and to be governed by a viceroy according to their own constitution. the english, from ignorance, managed the affairs of the island so badly, that when in napoleon sent troops against them, they were joined by the corsicans, who together forced the english to leave the island. not only had a certain gilbert elliot been named viceroy instead of paoli, but this same man having written to the government that it was necessary for the safety of the english to remove paoli from the island, george iii. wrote paoli a letter inviting him to return to england and to his court. it is suspected that andrea pozzo di borgo, president of the council of state, under the short viceroyship of elliot, influenced, for his own ends or from jealousy, the english in corsica against paoli. paoli lived twelve years more in london, died peacefully on th february at the age of , was buried in st. pancras churchyard, and a small monument to his memory was placed in westminster abbey. he bequeathed to four professors of the intended corté university salaries of £ a year each, but as it was never established the money was given to the ecole paoli in corté, attended by pupils. since the expulsion of the english, the french have remained in undisturbed possession of corsica. the english occupation lasted from to . [headnote: character.] the corsicans look to the government for the improvement of their island far more than to their own efforts, for they themselves are neither industrious nor enterprising. the roads, railways, bridges and other public works are constructed chiefly by italian labourers. the women do the drudgery both in their homes and on the fields, carrying great loads on their heads, as the mules do on their backs; but bestow little labour on the cleanliness of their children and dwellings, and do not make good domestic servants. in many small towns women are the bread bakers and assistant butchers. the villages, excepting in cape corse, are untidy. the use of the bath is almost unknown to young and old, rich and poor. [headnote: vendetta.] the tendency to take summary vengeance, called vendetta, still exists in the villages; where the people having no social amusements, nothing to read, nor any other resource than cards during the winter nights, are apt to quarrel over trifles; which, fanned by their local petty jealousies, assisted often by the generous nature of their wine, ripen into deadly feuds. [headnote: oaks.] the staple food of the majority of the inhabitants, as well as of the horses and mules, during a great part of the year, is the chestnut. for domestic purposes it is mostly ground, when it costs only about half the price of wheat flour, which is procured chiefly from marseilles, corsica itself producing very little. the ease with which the harvest of chestnuts is annually obtained tends to foster indolence and deaden enterprise among the peasantry. the one great danger to which the generous chestnut trees are exposed is a conflagration. besides olives, pines, beeches and chestnuts, there are also important forests of evergreen oaks, the quercus ilex, called also the holm oak. it has abundance of dark-green ovate leaves, mostly prickly at the margin; the acorns are oblong on short stalks; the stem grows to the height of ft.; the wood is dark-brown and hard, weighing lbs. the cubic foot, while the same of the quercus ruber or british oak weighs only lbs., and the tree attains a vast age. the cork oak, quercus suber, grows either singly among other trees or in groups, principally in the southern parts of the island. the bark is of little commercial importance. [headnote: agriculture.] the inhabitants do not assist nature. their seed potatoes are of an inferior class, their fruit trees receive little attention, very few of the vineyards are carefully cultivated, and their sheep, goats and pigs are of poor breeds. of late years many have taken to the growing of lemons and citrons; which in a good year yield a very handsome profit; but the harvest, through untimely frosts, is precarious. the headquarters of this culture is cape corse. the olive trees yield a more secure though less remunerative harvest. that terrible scourge the phylloxera has got among the vineyards, where it is committing its usual havoc. the drives and pedestrian excursions about corsica are superb, especially along the east side and up the centre by sartène, zicavo and ghisoni (p. ), and the road between calvi and ponte alla leccia (p. ). there are inns in all the large villages, though the only good and comfortable hotels are in ajaccio. [headnote: foresthouses.] enterprising tourists wishing to explore the great forests and to scale the mountains should endeavour to procure letters of introduction from the chief forestal authorities at ajaccio, corté, bastia or calvi to the occupants of the maisons forestières in the forests to be visited. although the gardes forestières are generally hospitable, they are afraid to follow their inclination without orders from their superiors. for each day in these houses to frs. should be given. index. agriculture aïtone forest , ajaccio bankers cab tariff cathedral climate curiosities drives episcopal chapel excursions fountains hotels library memorial chapel mission napoleon picture gallery pozzo di borgo st. pancras sepulchral chapels steamers water-carriers ajaccio to bastia ---- to corté ---- to sartène ---- to vico and evisa albertacce albuccia point aleria ---- to corté ---- to puzzichello alesani , algajola amphibole apa ---- to zicavo appietto arcarotta col , asco , aullene balagna valley balogna baracci baths barcaggio bastelica bastia ---- to calvi ---- to cap corse ---- rail to aleria baths of baracci ---- of caldaniccia ---- of guagno ---- of guitera ---- of orezza ---- of pietrapola , ---- of puzzichello bavella col , , belgodere ---- to olmi-capella ---- to tartagine forest bettianella lake bevinco bianca bocca bicchisano biguglia lake bocca melza bocognano bonifacio caves charles v. napoleon bonifacio to bastia borgo botticella brando cave , brustico calacuccia calasima calcatoggio caldanella caldaniccia calenzana calenzana calvi ---- to ajaccio ---- to bastia campo cap corse capella mount capronale col cargese cargiaca carrosaccia casabianca casabianda casamaccioli casamozza cassalabriva castagneto , castagniccia castellaccio col castello punta castiglione cauro ---- to bastelica celaccia col cervione , character chestnut trees , chidazzo cineraggia mount bocca cinto mount , , climate coast lakes , , corona mount , corsican arms ---- character ---- dimensions ---- patroness corscia corté ---- to aleria ---- to mt. rotondo coscione mount cotone , cozzano cristinacce cuculla mount dente capo diana lake dominicacci don giovanni mount else valley erbajo col , erbalunga ersa escutcheon evergreen oaks evisa , ---- to albertacce felce feliceto , fium orbo source folelli ---- to piedicroce francardo bridge , frasseto , galeria ---- to forests of filosorma ghisonaccia ---- to ghisoni ghisoni ---- to ghisonaccia giraglia island golo source gozzi mount granace col grosso mount guagno baths guitera baths history houses of shelter . see also under "maison." ile rousse incudine mount inzecca isolaccio kyrie eleison lacciola col la piana larone col , lavatoggio leone coronato levie , , lonca valley lozzi lugo lugo di nazza lumio luri macinaggio , maddalena isle maison aïtone ---- alza ---- arghiavara ---- ballatojo ---- bavella ---- canareccia ---- castellaccio ---- castelluccio ---- ghiraldino ---- marmano ---- ometa ---- popaja ---- rocchio-pinzuto ---- s. antoine ---- sciattarina ---- scrivano ---- tagnone ---- zipitoli manganella col mariana marmano forest menta col moltifao moor's head morosaglia morsaglia mouflon muchieto , napoleon , , nelson nino lake niolo nonza , olivese olive trees olmeto olmi-capella ometa ilex forest oninanda col orezza spa oro mount ortale , padro mount , padulella pagliorba mount palasca palneca pancheraccia paoli patron saint pecorile perticato forest pertusato mount petrella col piano piedicroce , , ---- to prunete pietrapola baths , pines pino , pinus laricio pinus pinaster poggio di nazza pont diable pont du golo ponte alla leccia , ---- to calvi ---- to piedicroce ponteniello forest ponte novo , popolasca porri porta porto ---- to evisa ---- to ponte francardo portopollo porto-vecchio prato col propriano ---- to solenzara prunelli source prunete , ---- to alesani quercus ilex rapara col renoso mount , retto mount rogliano rotondo mount , sagona , ---- to aitone forest ---- to vico st. antoine col ---- bernardino col ---- colombano col ---- devota ---- florent ---- georges col ---- gavino di carbini ---- lucia di tallano , , , ---- lucie col ---- maria siché ---- nicolao ---- pietro mount ---- sebastien col ---- severa salario fountain sampiero , sartène ---- to bonifacio ---- to vivario scala di santa regina scozzolatojo col scrivano col sea-urchins sebastien col seneca's tower serra col serraggio , sevi col silvareccio solenzara ---- to sartène ---- to zonza sollacaro sorba col speloncato spelunca sposata stazzona steamers , , stretta taca forest tafonato mount , taravo source tartagine forest teghime col theodore neuhoff torre all'osse traunato mount treccio ilex forest ucciani bridge uomo di cagna vadina valdoniello forest , vanina , vecchio source vendetta venzolasca verde col verde forest vergio col vescovato ---- to porta vico ville vivario , ---- to pietrapola ---- to sartène vizzavona wines , wyse, w., zecavo zicavo , , zonza , , the end. printed by_ r. & r. clark, _edinburgh * * * * * errors and uncertainties noted by transcriber when the index and body text disagreed on spelling, the form shown in the general map was used. the abbreviation "ft" has been regularized to "ft." where full stop was missing or invisible. _inconsistencies (as alphabetized in index, where applicable)_ between the st and d kilomètre stones kilometres-stone, _inconsistency in original_ calenzana (pg ) _index entry reads "calenzani", but body text has "calenzana"; it appears to refer to the same place as the earlier index entry "calenzana"_ granace (col) _body text "garanace", index "garance", map "granace". the map's spelling was used because it can be found in modern sources._ ponte novo. the site of the disastrous battle ... the ponte nuovo is distinctly ... ... the terrible battle of ponte nuovo ... [index] ponte novo , _the general map and the town description (p. ) use the "novo" spelling; other references (p. , ) use "nuovo". the index as printed had parallel entries for each spelling, omitting p. _ col st. sebastien [text and index] col sebastien [text and index] _variant forms of same name_ zicavo ... ft. zicavo, ft. _same place: map has ft._ _errors_ [contents] ajaccio to sartène _text reads "sarténe"_ portotorres, at the north-west extremity of sicily _error for sardinia_ and other ½ m. the village of levie _error for "and another"?_ s. lucia de tallano, on the highroad to aullene _text reads "lucie"_ ortia, ft., pop. , hidden among chestnut trees _text reads "chesnut trees"_ from the corsicans, led by the brave pascal paoli _text reads "corscians"_ quercus ilex _text and index: should be "quercus ilex"_ [index] (ajaccio) to corté _page reference missing from text_ _may be intentional: corté is on ajaccio-bastia itinerary_ corscia _not an error here: "corscia" is the name of a village_ levie _text has "levie , " only_ available by google and the bodleian library. the corsican brothers a novel by alexandre dumas translated by henry frith london george routledge and sons broadway, ludgate hill new york: , broome street london: printed by woodfall and kinder, milford lane, strand, w.c. to henry irving the latest representative of the twin brothers this book is dedicated by the translator the corsican brothers. chapter i. in the beginning of march, , i was travelling in corsica. nothing is more picturesque and more easy to accomplish than a journey in corsica. you can embark at toulon, in twenty hours you will be in ajaccio, and then in twenty-four hours more you are at bastia. once there you can hire or purchase a horse. if you wish to hire a horse you can do so for five francs a-day; if you purchase one you can have a good animal for one hundred and fifty francs. and don't sneer at the moderate price, for the horse hired or purchased will perform as great feats as the famous gascon horse which leaped over the pont neuf, which neither prospero nor nautilus, the heroes of chantilly and the champ de mars could do. he will traverse roads which balmat himself could not cross without _crampons,_ and will go over bridges upon which auriol would need a balancing pole. as for the traveller, all he has to do is to give the horse his head and let him go as he pleases; he does not mind the danger. we may add that with this horse, which can go anywhere, the traveller can accomplish his fifteen leagues a day without stopping to bait. from time to time, while the tourist may be halting to examine some ancient castle, built by some old baron or legendary hero, or to sketch a tower built ages ago by the genoese, the horse will be contented to graze by the road side, or to pluck the mosses from the rocks in the vicinity. as to lodging for the night, it is still more simple in corsica. the traveller having arrived at a village, passes down through the principal street, and making his own choice of the house wherein he will rest, he knocks at the door. an instant after, the master or mistress will appear upon the threshold, invite the traveller to dismount; offer him a share of the family supper and the whole of his own bed, and next morning, when seeing him safely resume his journey, will thank him for the preference he has accorded to his house. as for remuneration, such a thing is never hinted at. the master would regard it as an insult if the subject were broached. if, however, the servant happen to be a young girl, one may fitly offer her a coloured handkerchief, with which she can make up a picturesque coiffure for a fête day. if the domestic be a male he will gladly accept a poignard, with which he can kill his enemy, should he meet him. there is one thing more to remark, and that is, as sometimes happens, the servants of the house are relatives of the owner, and the former being in reduced circumstances, offer their services to the latter in consideration of board and lodging and a few piastres per month. and it must not be supposed that the masters are not well served by their cousins to the fifteenth and sixteenth degree, because the contrary is the case, and the custom is not thought anything of. corsica is a french department certainly, but corsica is very far from being france. as for robbers, one never hears of them, yet there are bandits in abundance; but these gentlemen must in no wise be confounded one with another. so go without fear to ajaccio, to bastia, with a purse full of money hanging to your saddle-bow, and you may traverse the whole island without a shadow of danger, but do not go from oceana to levaco, if you happen to have an enemy who has declared the vendetta against you, for i would not answer for your safety during that short journey of six miles. well, then, i was in corsica, as i have said, at the beginning of the month of march, and i was alone; jadin having remained at rome. i had come across from elba, had disembarked at bastia, and there had purchased a horse at the above-mentioned price. i had visited corte and ajaccio, and just then i was traversing the province of sartène. on the particular day of which i am about to speak i was riding from sartène to sullacaro. the day's journey was short, perhaps a dozen leagues, in consequence of detours, and on account of my being obliged to climb the slopes of the mountain chain, which, like a backbone, runs through the island. i had a guide with me, for fear i should lose my way in the maquis. it was about five o'clock in the afternoon when we arrived at the summit of the hill, which at the same time overlooks olmeto and sullacaro. there we stopped a moment to look about us. "where would your excellency wish to stay the night?" asked the guide. i looked down upon the village, the streets of which appeared almost deserted. only a few women were visible, and they walked quickly along, and frequently looked cautiously around them. as in virtue of the rules of corsican hospitality, to which i have already referred, it was open to me to choose for my resting place any one of the hundred or hundred and twenty houses of which the village was composed, i therefore carried my eyes from house to house till they lighted upon one which promised comfortable quarters. it was a square mansion, built in a fortified sort of style and machicolated in front of the windows and above the door. this was the first time i had seen these domestic fortifications; but i may mention that the province of sartène is the classic ground of the vendetta. "ah, good!" said my guide, as he followed the direction of my hand--"that is the house of madame savilia de franchi. go on, go on, signor, you have not made a bad choice, and i can see you do not want for experience in these matters." i should note here that in this th department of france italian is universally spoken. "but," i said, "may it not be inconvenient if i demand hospitality from a lady, for if i understand you rightly, this house belongs to a lady." "no doubt," he replied, with an air of astonishment; "but what inconvenience does your lordship think you will cause?" "if the lady be young," i replied, moved by a feeling of propriety--or, perhaps, let us say, of parisian self-respect--"a night passed under her roof might compromise her." "compromise her!" repeated the guide, endeavouring to probe the meaning of the word i had rendered in italian with all the emphasis which one would hazard a word in a strange tongue. "yes, of course," i replied, beginning to feel impatient; "the lady is a widow, i suppose?" "yes, excellency." "well, then, will she receive a young man into her house?" in i was thirty-six years old, or thereabouts, and was entitled to call myself young. "will she receive a young man!" exclaimed the guide; "why, what difference can it make whether you are young or old?" i saw that i should get no information out of him by this mode of interrogation, so i resumed-- "how old is madame savilia?" "forty, or nearly so." "ah," i said, replying more to my thoughts than to my guide, "all the better. she has children, no doubt?" "yes, two sons--fine young men both." "shall i see them?" "you will see one of them--he lives at home." "where is the other, then?" "he lives in paris." "how old are these sons?" "twenty-one." "what, both?" "yes, they are twins." "what professions do they follow?" "the one in paris is studying law." "and the other?" "the other is a corsican." "indeed!" was my reply to this characteristic answer, made in the most matter-of-fact tone. "well, now, let us push on for the house of madame savilia de franchi." we accordingly resumed our journey, and entered the village about ten minutes afterwards. i now remarked what i had not noticed from the hill, namely, that every house was fortified similarly to madame savilia's. not so completely, perhaps, for that the poverty of the inhabitants could not attain to, but purely and simply with oaken planks, by which the windows were protected, loop-holes only being left for rifle barrels; some apertures were simply bricked up. i asked my guide what he called these loop-holes, and he said they were known as _archères_--a reply which convinced me that they were used anterior to the invention of firearms. as we advanced through the streets we were able the more fully to comprehend the profound character of the solitude and sadness of the place. many houses appeared to have sustained a siege, and the marks of the bullets dotted the walls. from time to time as we proceeded we caught sight of a curious eye flashing upon us from an embrasure; but it was impossible to distinguish whether the spectator were a man or a woman. we at length reached the house which i had indicated to my guide, and which was evidently the most considerable in the village. as we approached it more nearly, one thing struck me, and that was, fortified to all outward appearance as it was, it was not so in reality, for there were neither oaken planks, bricks, nor loop-holes, but simple squares of glass, protected at night by wooden shutters. it is true that the shutters showed holes which could only have been made by the passage of a bullet; but they were of old date, and could not have been made within the previous ten years. scarcely had my guide knocked, when the door was opened, not hesitatingly, nor in a timid manner, but widely, and a valet, or rather i should say a man appeared. it is the livery that makes the valet, and the individual who then opened the door to us wore a velvet waistcoat, trowsers of the same material, and leather gaiters. the breeches were fastened at the waist by a parti-coloured silk sash, from the folds of which protruded the handle of a spanish knife. "my friend," i said, "is it indiscreet of me, who knows nobody in sullacaro, to ask hospitality of your mistress?" "certainly not, your excellency," he replied; "the stranger does honour to the house before which he stops." "maria," he continued, turning to a servant, who was standing behind him, "will you inform madame savilia that a french traveller seeks hospitality?" as he finished speaking he came down the eight rough ladder-like steps which led to the entrance door, and took the bridle of my horse. i dismounted. "your excellency need have no further concern," he said; "all your luggage will be taken to your room." i profited by this gracious invitation to idleness--one of the most agreeable which can be extended to a traveller. chapter ii. i slowly ascended the steps and entered the house, and at a corner of the corridor i found myself face to face with a tall lady dressed in black. i understood at once that this lady of thirty-eight or forty years of age, and still beautiful, was the mistress of the house. "madame," said i, bowing deeply, "i am afraid you will think me intrusive, but the custom of the country may be my excuse, and your servant's invitation my authority to enter." "you are welcome to the mother," replied madame de franchi, "and you will almost immediately be welcomed by the son. from this moment, sir, the house belongs to you; use it as if it were your own." "i come but to beg hospitality for one night, madame," i answered; "to-morrow morning, at daybreak, i will take my departure." "you are free to do as you please, sir; but i hope that you will change your mind, and that we shall have the honour of your company for a longer period." i bowed again, and madame continued-- "maria, show this gentleman to my son louis' chamber; light the fire at once, and carry up some hot water. you will excuse me," she said, turning again to me as the servant departed, "but i always fancy that the first wants of a tired traveller are warm water and a fire. will you please to follow my maid, sir; and you need have no hesitation in asking her for anything you may require. we shall sup in an hour, and my son, who will be home by that time, will have the honour to wait upon you." "i trust you will excuse my travelling dress, madame." "yes, sir," she replied smiling; "but on condition that you, on your part, will excuse the rusticity of your reception." i bowed my thanks, and followed the servant upstairs. the room was situated on the first floor, and looked out towards the rear of the house, upon a pretty and extensive garden, well planted with various trees, and watered by a charming little stream, which fell into the tavaro. at the further end the prospect was bounded by a hedge, so thick as to appear like a wall. as is the case in almost all italian houses, the walls of the rooms were white-washed and frescoed. i understood immediately that madame de franchi had given me this, her absent son's chamber, because it was the most comfortable one in the house. while maria was lighting the fire and fetching the hot water, i took it into my head to make an inventory of the room, and try to arrive at an estimation of the character of its usual occupant by those means. i immediately put this idea into execution, and beginning with the left hand, i took mental notes of the various objects by which i was surrounded. the furniture all appeared to be modern, a circumstance which in that part of the island, where civilization had not then taken deep root, appeared to indicate no inconsiderable degree of luxury. it was composed of an iron bedstead and bedding, a sofa, four arm-chairs, six other occasional chairs, a wardrobe, half book case and half bureau, all of mahogany, from the first cabinet maker in ajaccio. the sofas and chairs were covered with chintz, and curtains of similar material fell before the windows, and hung round the bed. i had got so far with my inventory when maria left the room, and i was enabled to push my investigation a little closer. i opened the book-case, and found within a collection of the works of our greatest poets. i noticed corneille, racine, molière, la fontaine, ronsard, victor hugo, and lamartine. our moralists--montaigne, pascal, labruyère. our historians--mezeray, chateaubriand, augustin thierry. our philosophers--cuvier, beudant, elie de beaumont. besides these there were several volumes of romances and other books, amongst which i recognized, with a certain pride, my own "impression of travel." the keys were in the drawer of the bureau. i opened one of them. here i found fragments of a history of corsica, a work upon the best means of abolishing the vendetta, some french verses, and some italian sonnets, all in manuscript. this was more than i expected, and i had the presumption to conclude that i need not seek much farther to form my opinion of the character of monsieur louis de franchi. he appeared to be a quiet, studious young man, a partizan of the french reformers, and then i understood why he had gone to paris to become an advocate. there was, without doubt, a great future for him in this course. i made all these reflections as i was dressing. my toilette, as i had hinted to madame de franchi, although not wanting in a certain picturesqueness, demanded that some allowance should be made for it. it was composed of a vest of black velvet, open at seams of the sleeves, so as to keep me cooler during the heat of the day, and slashed _à l'espagnole,_ permitting a silken chemise to appear underneath. my legs were encased in velvet breeches to the knee, and thence protected by spanish gaiters, embroidered in spanish silk. a felt hat, warranted to take any shape, but particularly that of a sombrero, completed my costume. i recommend this dress to all travellers as being the most convenient i am acquainted with, and i was in the act of dressing, when the same man who had introduced me appeared at the door. he came to announce that his young master, monsieur lucien de franchi, had that instant arrived, and who desired to pay his respects to me if i were ready to receive him. i replied that i was at the disposal of monsieur lucien de franchi if he would do me the honour to come up. an instant afterwards i heard a rapid step approaching my room, and almost immediately afterwards i was face to face with my host. chapter iii. he was, as my guide had told me, a young man of about twenty-one years of age, with black hair and eyes, his face browned by the sun, rather under than over the average height, but remarkably well-proportioned. in his haste to welcome me he had come up, just as he was, in his riding-costume, which was composed of a redingote of green cloth, to which a cartridge-pouch gave a somewhat military air, grey pantaloons with leather let in on the inner side of the legs, boots and spurs. his head-dress was a cap similar to those worn by our chasseurs d'afrique. from either side of his pouch there hung a gourd and a pistol, and he carried an english carbine in addition. notwithstanding the youthful appearance of my host, whose upper lip was as yet scarcely shaded by a moustache, he wore an air of independence and resolution, which struck me very forcibly. here was a man fitted for strife, and accustomed to live in the midst of danger, but without despising it, grave because he was solitary, calm because he was strong. with a single glance he took me all in, my luggage, my arms, the dress i had just taken off, and that which i had just donned. his glance was as rapid and as sure as that of a man whose very life may depend upon a hasty survey of his surroundings. "i trust you will excuse me if i disturb you," he said; "but i come with good intentions. i wish to see if you require anything. i am always somewhat uneasy when any of you gentlemen from the continent pay us a visit, for we are still so uncivilized, we corsicans, that it is really with fear and trembling that we exercise, particularly to frenchmen, our own hospitality, which will, i fear, soon be the only thing that will remain to us." "you have no reason to fear," i replied; "it would be difficult to say what more a traveller can require beyond what madame de franchi has supplied. besides," i continued, glancing round the apartment, "i must confess i do not perceive any of the want of civilization you speak of so frankly, and were it not for the charming prospect from those windows, i should fancy myself in an apartment in the chaussee d'antin." "yes," returned the young man, "it is rather a mania with my poor brother louis; he is so fond of living _à la française;_ but i very much doubt whether, when he leaves paris, the poor attempt at civilization here will appear to him sufficient on his return home as it formerly did." "has your brother been long away from corsica?" i inquired. "for the last ten months." "you expect him back soon?" "oh, not for three or four years." "that is a very long separation for two brothers, who probably were never parted before." "yes, and particularly if they love each other as we do." "no doubt he will come to see you before he finishes his studies?" "probably; he has promised us so much, at least." "in any case, nothing need prevent you from paying him a visit?" "no, i never leave corsica." there was in his tone, as he made this reply, that love of country which astonishes the rest of the universe. i smiled. "it appears strange to you," he said, smiling in his turn, "when i tell you that i do not wish to leave a miserable country like ours; but you must know that i am as much a growth of the island as the oak or the laurel; the air i breathe must be impregnated with the odours of the sea and of the mountains. i must have torrents to cross, rocks to scale, forests to explore. i must have space; liberty is necessary to me, and if you were to take me to live in a town i believe i should die." "but how is it there is such a great difference between you and your brother in this respect?" "and you would add with so great a physical resemblance, if you knew him." "are you, then, so very much alike?" "so much so, that when we were children our parents were obliged to sew a distinguishing mark upon our clothes." "and as you grew up?" i suggested. "as we grew up our habits caused a very slight change in our appearance, that is all. always in a study, poring over books and drawings, my brother grew somewhat pale, while i, being always in the open air, became bronzed, as you see." "i hope," i said, "that you will permit me to judge of this resemblance, and if you have any commission for monsieur louis, you will charge me with it." "yes, certainly, with great pleasure, if you will be so kind. now, will you excuse me? i see you are more advanced in your toilet than i, and supper will be ready in a quarter of an hour." "you surely need not trouble to change on my account." "you must not reproach me with this, for you have yourself set me the example; but, in any case, i am now in a riding dress, and must change it for a mountaineer's costume, as, after supper, i have to make an excursion in which boots and spurs would only serve to hinder me." "you are going out after supper, then?" i asked. "yes," he replied, "to a rendezvous." i smiled. "ah, not in the sense you understand it--this is a matter of business." "do you think me so presumptuous as to believe i have a right to your conscience?" "why not? one should live so as to be able to proclaim what one has done. i never had a mistress, and i never shall have one. if my brother should marry, and have children, it is probable that i shall never take a wife. if, on the contrary, he does not marry, perhaps i shall, so as to prevent our race from becoming extinct. did i not tell you," he added, laughing, "that i am a regular savage, and had come into the world a hundred years too late? but i continue to chatter here like a crow, and i shall not be ready by the time supper is on the table." "but cannot we continue the conversation?" i said. "your chamber, i believe, is opposite, and we can talk through the open doors." "we can do better than that; you can come into my room while i dress. you are a judge of arms, i fancy. well, then, you shall look at mine. there are some there which are valuable--from an historical point of view, i mean." chapter iv. the suggestion quite accorded with my inclination to compare the chambers of the brothers, and i did not hesitate to adopt it. i followed my host, who, opening the door, paused in front of me to show me the way. this time i found myself in a regular arsenal. all the furniture was of the fifteenth or sixteenth century--the carved and canopied bedstead, supported by great posts, was draped with green damask _à fleur d'or;_ the window curtains were of the same material. the walls were covered with spanish leather, and in the open spaces were sustained trophies of gothic and modern arms. there was no mistaking the tastes of the occupant of this room: they were as warlike as those of his brother were peaceable. "look here," he said, passing into an inner room, "here you are in three centuries at once--see! i will dress while you amuse yourself, for i must make haste or supper will be announced." "which are the historic arms of which you spoke amongst all these swords, arquebuses, and poignards?" i asked. "there are three. let us take them in order. if you look by the head of my bed you will find a poignard with a very large hilt--the pommel forms a seal." "yes, i have it." "that is the dagger of sampietro." "the famous sampietro, the assassin of vanina?" "the assassin! no, the avenger." "it is the same thing, i fancy." "to the rest of the world, perhaps--not in corsica." "and is the dagger authentic?" "look for yourself. it carries the arms of sampietro--only the fleur-de-lis of france is missing. you know that sampietro was not authorized to wear the lily until after the siege of perpignan." "no, i was not aware of that fact. and how did you become possessed of this poignard?" "oh! it has been in our family for three hundred years. it was given to a napoleon de franchi by sampietro himself." "do you remember on what occasion?" "yes. sampietro and my ancestor fell into an ambuscade of genoese, and defended themselves like lions. sampietro's helmet was knocked off, and a genoese on horseback was about to kill sampietro with his mace when my ancestor plunged his dagger into a joint in his enemy's armour. the rider feeling himself wounded spurred his horse, carrying away in his flight the dagger so firmly embedded in his armour that he was unable to withdraw it, and as my ancestor very much regretted the loss of his favourite weapon sampietro gave him his own. napoleon took great care of it, for it is of spanish workmanship, as you see, and will penetrate two five-franc pieces one on top of another." "may i make the attempt?" "certainly." placing the coins upon the floor, i struck a sharp blow with the dagger. lucien had not deceived me. when i withdrew the poignard i found both pieces pierced through and through, fixed upon the point of the dagger. "this is indeed the dagger of sampietro," i said. "but what astonishes me is that being possessed of such a weapon he should have employed the cord to kill his wife." "he did not possess it at that time," replied lucien; "he had given it to my ancestor." "ah! true!" "sampietro was more than sixty years old when he hastened from constantinople to aix to teach that lesson to the world, viz., that women should not meddle in state affairs." i bowed in assent, and replaced the poignard. "now," said i to lucien, who all this time had been dressing, "let us pass on from sampietro to some one else." "you see those two portraits close together?" "yes, paoli and napoleon." "well, near the portrait of paoli is a sword." "precisely so." "that is his sword." "paoli's sword? and is it as authentic as the poignard of sampietro?" "yes, at least as authentic; though he did not give it to one of my male ancestors, but to one of the ladies." "to one of your female ancestors?" "yes. perhaps you have heard people speak of this woman, who in the war of independence presented herself at the tower of sullacaro, accompanied by a young man?" "no, tell me the story." "oh, it is a very short one." "so much the worse." "well, you see, we have not much time to talk now." "i am all attention." "well, this woman and this young man presented themselves before the tower of sullacaro and requested to speak with paoli; but as he was engaged writing, he declined to admit them; and then, as the woman insisted, the two sentinels repulsed her, when paoli, who had heard the noise, opened the door and inquired the cause." "'it is i,' said the woman; 'i wish to speak to you.' "'what have you to say to me?' "'i have come to tell you that i have two sons. i heard yesterday that one had been killed for defending his country, and i have come twenty leagues to bring you the other!!!'" "you are relating an incident of sparta," i said. "yes, it does appear very like it." "and who was this woman?" "she was my ancestress." "paoli took off his sword and gave it to her. "'take it,' he said, 'i like time to make my excuses to woman.'" "she was worthy of both--is it not so?" "and now this sabre?" "that is the one buonaparte carried at the battle of the pyramids." "no doubt it came into your family in the same manner as the poignard and the sword." "entirely. after the battle buonaparte gave the order to my grandfather, who was an officer in the guides, to charge with fifty men a number of mamelukes who were at bay around a wounded chieftain. my grandfather dispersed the mamelukes and took the chief back a prisoner to the first consul. but when he wished to sheath his sword he found the blade had been so bent in his encounter with the mamelukes that it would not go into the scabbard. my grandfather therefore threw sabre and sheath away as useless, and, seeing this, buonaparte gave him his own." "but," i said, "in your place i would rather have had my grandfather's sabre, all bent as it was, instead of that of the general's, which was in good condition." "look before you and you will find it. the first consul had it recovered, and caused that large diamond to be inserted in the hilt. he then sent it to my family with the inscription which you can read on the blade." i advanced between the windows, where, hanging half-drawn from its scabbard, which it could not fully enter, i perceived the sabre bent and hacked, bearing the simple inscription-- "battle of the pyramids, st of july, ." at that moment the servant came to announce that supper was served. "very well, griffo," replied the young man; "tell my mother that we are coming down." as he spoke he came forth from the inner room, dressed, as he said, like a mountaineer; that is to say, with a round velvet coat, trowsers, and gaiters; of his other costume he had only retained his pouch. he found me occupied in examing two carbines hanging opposite each other, and both inscribed-- " st september, : a.m." "are these carbines also historical?" i asked. "yes," he answered. "for us, at least, they bear a historical significance. one was my father's--" he hesitated. "and the other," i suggested. "and the other," he said, laughing, "is my mother's. but let us go downstairs; my mother will be awaiting us." then passing in front of me to show me the way he courteously signed to me to follow him. chapter v. i must confess that as i descended to the supper-room i could not help thinking of lucien's last remark, "the other is my mother's carbine;" and this circumstance compelled me to regard madame de franchi more closely than i had hitherto done. when her son entered the _salle à manger,_ he respectfully kissed her hand, and she received this homage with queenly dignity. "i am afraid that we have kept you waiting, mother," said lucien; "i must ask your pardon." "in any case, that would be my fault, madame," i said, bowing to her. "monsieur lucien has been telling me and pointing out many curious things, and by my reiterated questions i have delayed him." "rest assured," she said, "i have not been kept waiting; i have but this moment come downstairs. but," she continued, addressing lucien, "i was rather anxious to ask you what news there was of louis." "your son has been ill, madame?" i asked. "lucien is afraid so," she said. "have you received a letter from your brother?" i inquired. "no," he replied, "and that is the very thing that makes me uneasy." "but, then, how can you possibly tell that he is out of sorts?" "because during the last few days i have been suffering myself." "i hope you will excuse my continual questions; but, really, your answer does not make matters any clearer." "well, you know that we are twins, don't you?" "yes, my guide told me as much." "were you also informed that when we came into the world we were joined together?" "no; i was ignorant of that circumstance." "well, then, it was a fact, and we were obliged to be cut asunder. so that, you see, however distant we may be, we have ever the same body, so that any impression, physical or moral, which one may receive is immediately reflected in the other. during the last few days i felt _triste,_ morose, dull, and without any predisposing cause, so far as i am aware. i have experienced terrible pains in the region of the heart, and palpitations, so it is evident to me that my brother is suffering some great grief." i looked with astonishment at this young man, who affirmed such a strange thing without the slightest fear of contradiction, and his mother also appeared to entertain the same conviction as he did. madame de franchi smiled sadly, and said, "the absent are in the hands of god, the great point is that you are certain that he is alive." "yes," replied lucien, calmly, "for if he were dead i should have seen him." "and you would have told me, would you not, my son?" "oh, of course, mother, at once." "i am satisfied. excuse me, monsieur," she continued, turning to me, "i trust you will pardon my maternal anxiety. not only are louis and lucien my sons, but they are the last of their race. will you please take the chair at my right hand? lucien, sit here." she indicated to the young man the vacant place at her left hand. we seated ourselves at the extremity of a long table, at the opposite end of which were laid six other covers, destined for those who in corsica are called the family; that is to say, the people who in large establishments occupy a position between the master and the servants. the table was abundantly supplied with good cheer. but i confess that although at the moment blessed with a very good appetite, i contented myself with eating and drinking as it were mechanically, for my senses were not in any way attracted by the pleasures of the table. for, indeed, it appeared to me that i had entered into a strange world when i came into that house, and that i was now living in a dream. who could this woman be who was accustomed to carry a carbine like a soldier? what sort of person could this brother be, who felt the same grief that his brother experienced at a distance of three hundred leagues? what sort of mother could this be who made her son declare that if he saw the spirit of his dead brother he would tell her at once? these were the questions that perplexed me, and it will be readily understood they gave me ample food for thought. however, feeling that continual silence was not polite, i made an effort to collect my ideas. i looked up. the mother and son at the same instant perceived that i wished to enter into conversation. "so," said lucien to me, as if he were continuing his remarks, "so you made up your mind to come to corsica?" "yes, as you see, i had for a long time had a desire to do so, and at last i have accomplished it." "_ma foi!_ you have done well not to delay your visit; for with the successive encroachments of french tastes and manners those who come to look for corsica in a few years will not find it." "however," i replied, "if the ancient national spirit retires before civilization and takes refuge in any corner of the island, it certainly will be in the province of sartène, and in the valley of the tavaro." "do you think so, really?" said the young man, smiling. "yes, and it appears to me that here at the present moment there is a beautiful and noble tablet of ancient corsican manners." "yes, and nevertheless, even here, between my mother and myself, in the face of four hundred years of reminiscences of this old fortified mansion, the french spirit has come to seek out my brother--has carried him away to paris, when he will return to us a lawyer. he will live in ajaccio instead of dwelling in his ancestral home. he will plead--if he possess the talent--he may be nominated _procureur du roi_ perhaps; then he will pursue the poor devils who have 'taken a skin,' as they say here. he will confound the assassin with the avenger--as you yourself have done already. he will demand, in the name of the law, the heads of those who had done what their fathers would have considered themselves dishonoured _not_ to have done. he will substitute the judgment of men for the justice of god; and in the evening, when he shall have claimed a head for the scaffold, he will believe that he has performed his duty, and has brought his stone as a tribute to the temple of civilization, as our préfect says. oh! mon dieu! mon dieu!" the young man raised his eyes to heaven, as hannibal is reported to have done after the battle of zama. "but," i replied, "you must confess that it is the will of god to equalize these things, since in making your brother a proselyte of the new order he has kept you here as a representative of the old manners and customs." "yes; but what is there to prove that my brother will not follow the example of his uncle instead of following mine? and even i myself may be about to do something unworthy of a de franchi." "you!" i exclaimed, with astonishment. "yes, i. do you wish me to tell you why you have come into this province of sartène?" [see "transcriber's note."] "yes, tell me." "you have come here to satisfy your curiosity as a man of the world, an artist, or a poet. i do not know what you are, nor do i ask; you can tell us when you leave, if you wish; if not, you need not inform us; you are perfectly free to do as you like. well, you have come in the hope of seeing some village vendetta, of being introduced to some original bandit, such as mr. merimée has described in 'columba.'" "well, it appears to me that i have not made such a bad choice, for if my eyes do not deceive me, your house is the only one in the village that is not fortified." "that only proves i have degenerated, as i have said. my father, my grandfather, and my ancestors for many generations have always taken one side or the other in the disputes which in the last ten years have divided the village. and do you know what i have become in the midst of musket shots and stabs? well, i am the arbitrator. you have come into the province of sartène to see bandits; is not that the fact? so come with me this evening and i will show you one." "what! will you really allow me to go with you this evening?" "certainly, if it will amuse you. it entirely depends upon yourself." "i accept, then, with much pleasure." "our guest is fatigued," said madame de franchi, looking meaningly at her son, as if she felt ashamed corsica had so far degenerated. "no, mother, no, he had better come; and when in some parisian _salon_ people talk of the terrible vendettas, of the implacable corsican bandits who strike terror into the hearts of children in bastia and ajaccio, he will be able to tell them how things actually are." "but what is the great motive for this feud, which, as i understand, is now by your intercession to be for ever extinguished?" "oh," replied lucien, "in a quarrel it is not the motive that matters, it is the result. if a fly causes a man's death the man is none the less dead because a fly caused it." i saw that he hesitated to tell me the cause of this terrible war, which for the last ten years had desolated the village of sullacaro. but, as may be imagined, the more he attempted to conceal it the more anxious i was to discover it. "but," said i, "this quarrel must have a motive; is that motive a secret?" "good gracious, no! the mischief arose between the orlandi and the colona." "on what occasion?" "well, a fowl escaped from the farm yard of the orlandi and flew into that of the colona. "the orlandi attempted to get back the hen, the colona declared it belonged to them. the orlandi then threatened to bring the colona before the judge and make them declare on oath it was theirs. and then the old woman in whose house the hen had taken refuge wrung its neck, and threw the dead fowl into her neighbour's face, saying-- "'well, then, if it belongs to you, eat it.' "then one of the orlandi picked up the fowl by the feet, and attempted to beat the person who had thrown it in his sister's face; but just as he was about to do so, one of the colona appeared, who, unfortunately, carried a loaded gun, and he immediately sent a bullet through the orlandi's heart." "and how many lives have been sacrificed since?" "nine people have been killed altogether." "and all for a miserable hen not worth twelve sous?" "yes, but as i said just now, it is not the cause, but the effect that we have to look at." "since there were nine people killed, then, there might easily be a dozen." "yes, very likely there would be if they had not appointed me as arbitrator." "at the intercession of one of the two families no doubt?" "oh! dear no, at my brother's request, who heard of the matter at the chancellor's house. i asked him what on earth they had to do in paris with the affairs of an out-of-the-way little village in corsica; but it seems the préfect mentioned it when he wrote to paris, and said that if i were to say a word the whole thing would finish like a farce, by a marriage and a public recitation; so my brother took the hint, and replied he would answer for me. what could i do?" added the young man, throwing back his head proudly; "it shall never be said that a de franchi passed his word for his brother, and that his brother did not fulfil the engagement." "and so you have arranged everything?" "i am afraid so." "and we shall see the chief of one of these two parties this evening, no doubt?" "just so; last night i saw the other." "are we going to see an orlandi or a colona?" "an orlandi." "is it far from here?" "in the ruins of the castle of vicentello d'istria." "ah! yes--they told me those ruins were close by." "yes, they are about a league from here." "so in three-quarters of an hour we shall be there?" "yes, in about that time." "lucien," said madame de franchi, "remember you speak for yourself. for a mountaineer as you are it is scarcely three-quarters of an hour distance, but recollect that our guest may not be able to proceed so quickly." "that is true; we had better allow ourselves an hour and a half at least." "in that case you have no time to lose," said madame de franchi, as she glanced at the clock. "mother," said lucien as he rose, "you will excuse our leaving you, will you not?" she extended her hand to him, and the young man kissed it with the same respect as he had previously done. then turning to me, lucien said-- "if you prefer to finish your supper quietly, and to smoke your cigar afterwards----" "no, no!" i cried; "hang it, you have promised me a bandit, and i must have one." "well, then, let us take our guns and be off." i bowed respectfully to madame de franchi, and we left the room, preceded by griffo, who carried a light. our preparations did not occupy us very long. i clasped a travelling belt round my waist, from which was suspended a sort of hunting-knife, and in the folds of which i carried powder and ball. lucien soon re-appeared with his cartridge case, and carrying a double-barrelled manton, and a sort of peaked cap, woven for him by some penelope of sullacaro. "shall i go with your excellency?" asked griffo. "no, it will be useless," replied lucien; "but you may as well loose diamond, as we might put up a pheasant, and the moon is so clear we should be able to shoot as well as in daylight." an instant afterwards a great spaniel bounded out, and jumped joyously around its master. we had not gone many paces from the house when lucien turned round and said-- "by-the-by, griffo, tell them if they hear any shots on the mountain that it is we who have fired them." "very well, your excellency." "if we did not take some such precautions," said lucien, "they would think that hostilities had recommenced, and we should soon hear our shots echoing in the streets of sullacaro. a little farther on you will see a footpath to the right that will lead us directly up the mountain." chapter vi. although it was only the beginning of the month of march the weather was beautiful, and we should have said that it was hot, had it not been for a refreshing breeze which carried with it a savour of the sea. the moon was rising brilliantly behind mount cagna, and the cascades of light were falling upon the southern slope which separates corsica into two parts, and in a measure forms two different nations, which are always at war, or at least, detest one another heartily. as we mounted we could see the gorge in which the tavaro was buried in profound darkness, impossible to penetrate, but we could view the calm mediterranean, like a vast steel mirror extending into the horizon. there are certain noises one hears only at night, for during the day they are overcome by other sounds, or it may be they awake only with the darkness, and these produced not upon lucien, who was familiar with them, but upon me, who was a stranger to them, curious sensations of surprise, and awoke in me a powerful interest in all that i saw. when we reached the place where the path united with another--one going up the mountain direct, and the other to the right, lucien turned to me and said-- "are you anything of a mountaineer?" "yes, a little, as far as walking goes." "you are likely to get giddy, then." "i am afraid so. the precipice has an irresistible attraction for me." "then we had better take this foot-path where there are no precipices, but merely rough walking." "i am quite equal to that." "very well, then, we have three-quarters of an hour's walk before us." "let us take the path." lucien then went first, and crossed through a little oak wood, into which i followed him. diamond trotted fifty or sixty paces away, beating right and left, and occasionally coming back to us, wagging his tail as much as to inform us that we might trust to him and continue our route in safety. i saw that as some people like to possess a horse, equally for riding or driving, so diamond had apparently been trained to hunt the biped or the quadruped, the bandit or the boar. i did not wish to appear altogether strange to corsican manners, so i said as much to lucien. "you are mistaken," he replied; "diamond is very useful in hunting men or animals, but he never chases bandits. it is the triple red of the gendarmes, the voltigeur, and the volunteer that he hunts." "then i suppose diamond is a bandit's dog?" "he is. he belongs to an orlandi, to whom i sometimes used to send him into the country with bread, powder, bullets, or whatever he required. he was shot by a colona, and the next day the dog came to me, for being accustomed to come to the house, he looked upon me as a friend." "but," i said, "i fancied i saw another dog at your house." "yes, that is brucso, he possesses the same qualities as diamond, only he came to me from a colona who was killed by an orlandi, and so when i pay a visit to a colona i take brucso, but when i have business with an orlandi i take diamond. if i were to make a mistake and loose them both together they would kill each other. so," continued lucien, with a bitter smile, "men can make it up, and will receive the sacrament together; the dogs will never eat from the same platter." "well," i said, laughing; "here are two regular corsican dogs, but it seems to me that diamond, like all other modest creatures, has gone out of earshot while we are speaking of him. i am afraid he has missed us." "oh, do not be alarmed," said lucien, "i know where he is." "may i inquire where?" "he is at the mucchio." i was about to hazard another question, even at the risk of tiring my companion, when a long howl was heard, so lamentable, so sad, and so prolonged, that i shivered and stopped. "what can that be?" i said. "nothing, it is only diamond crying." "what is he crying for?" "his master. do you not know that dogs do not forget those they have loved?" "ah, i understand," i said, as another prolonged howl rose through the night. "yes," i continued, "his master was shot, you say, and i suppose we are approaching the place where he was killed?" "just so, and diamond has left us to go to mucchio." "that is where the man's tomb is?" "yes, that is to say, the monument which passers-by have raised to his memory, in the form of a cairn; so it follows that the tomb of the victim gradually grows larger, a symbol of the increasing vengeance of his relations." another long howl from diamond's throat made me shudder again, though i was perfectly well aware of the cause of the noise. at the next turn of the path we came upon the wayside tomb or cairn. a heap of stones formed a pyramid of four or five feet in height. at the foot of this strange monument diamond was lying with extended neck and open mouth. lucien picked up a stone, and taking off his cap approached the mucchio. i did the same, following his example closely. when he had come close to the pyramid he broke a branch from a young oak and threw, first, the stone and then the branch upon the heap. he rapidly made the sign of the cross. i imitated him exactly, and we resumed our route in silence, but diamond remained behind. about ten minutes afterwards we heard another dismal howling, and then almost immediately diamond passed us, head and tail drooping, to a point about a hundred paces in front, when he suddenly resumed his hunting. chapter vii. we still kept advancing steadily, but, as lucien had warned me, the path became rougher and more difficult. i slung my gun over my shoulder, for i perceived that i should soon need both hands to assist me. as for my friend, he continued to press forward with the same easy gait, and did not appear to be at all inconvenienced by the difficult nature of the ground. after some minutes' climbing over rocks, aided by bushes and roots, we reached a species of platform surmounted by some ruined walls. these ruins were those of the castle of vicentello d'istria, our destination. in about five minutes we had climbed up to the last terrace, lucien in advance, and as he extended his hand to assist me he said:-- "well done, well done; you have not climbed badly for a parisian." "supposing that the parisian you have assisted has already had some little experience in mountain scrambling?" "ah, true!" said lucien, laughing. "have you not a mountain near paris called montmartre?" "yes, but there are others beside montmartre which i have ascended. for instance, the rigi, the faulhorn, the gemmi, vesuvius, stromboli and etna." "indeed! now i suppose you will despise me because i have never done more than surmount monte rotundo! well, here we are! four centuries ago my ancestors would have opened the portal to you and bade you welcome to the castle. now their descendants can only show you the place where the door used to be, and say to you, 'welcome to the ruins!'" "i suppose the chateau has been in possession of your family since the death of vicentello d'istria?" i said, taking up the conversation at the point at which we had dropped it previously. "no, but before his birth. it was the last dwelling-place of our famous ancestress savilia, the widow of lucien de franchi." "is there not some terrible history connected with this woman?" "yes; were it daylight i could now show you from this spot the ruins of the castle of valle. there lived the lord of guidice, who was as much hated as she (savilia) was beloved, as ugly as she was beautiful. he became enamoured of her, and as she did not quickly respond to his desires, he gave her to understand that if she did not accept him in a given time he would come and carry her off by force. savilia made pretence of consenting, and invited guidice to come to dinner at the castle. guidice was overcome with joy at this, and forgetting that the invitation had only been extorted by menace, accepted it, and came attended only by a few body servants. the gate was closed behind them, and in a few minutes guidice was a prisoner, and cast into a dungeon, yonder." i passed on in the direction indicated, and found myself in a species of square court. the moonlight streamed through the apertures time had made in the once solid walls, and threw dark and well-defined shadows upon the ground. all other portions of the ruins remained in the deep shade of the overhanging walls round about. lucien looked at his watch. "ah! we are twenty minutes too soon," he exclaimed. "let us sit down; you are very likely tired." we sat down; indeed, we extended ourselves at full length upon the grassy sward, in a position facing the great breach in the wall. "but," said i to my companion, "it seems to me that you have not finished the story you began just now." "no," replied lucien. "every morning and every evening savilia came down to the dungeon in which giudice was confined, and then separated from him only by a grating, she would undress herself, and expose herself naked to him, a captive.' "'giudice,' she would say, 'how do you expect that such an ugly man as you are can ever hope to possess all this?' "this trial lasted for three months, and was repeated twice a day. but at the end of that period, thanks to a waiting woman whom he had bribed, guidice was enabled to escape. he soon returned with all his men, who were much more numerous than those savilia could assemble, and took the castle by assault, and having first possessed himself of savilia, he subsequently exposed her naked in an iron cage at the cross roads in the bocca di cilaccia, offering, himself, the key to any passer by who might be tempted to enter. after three days of this public prostitution savilia died." "well," i said, "it seems to me that your ancestors had a very pretty idea of revenging themselves, and that in finishing off their enemies with dagger or gunshot their descendants have in a manner degenerated!" "without mentioning that the day may come when we shall not kill them at all!" replied lucien. "but it has not come to that yet. the two sons of savilia," he continued, "who were at ajaccio with their uncle, were true corsicans, and continued to make war against the sons of guidice. this war lasted for four hundred years, and only finished, as you saw, by the dates upon the carbines of my parents, on the st september, , at eleven o'clock a.m." "oh, yes, i remember the inscription; but i had not time to inquire its meaning, as just then we were summoned to supper." "well, this is the explanation: of the family of guidice there remained, in , only two brothers. of the de franchi family there remained only my father, who had married his cousin. three months after that the guidice determined to exterminate us with one stroke. one of the brothers concealed himself on the road to olmedo to await my father's coming home to sartène--while the other, taking advantage of his absence, determined to attack our house. this plan was carried out, but with a different result to what had been anticipated. my father, being warned of the plot, was on his guard; my mother, who had also got a hint of the affair, assembled the shepherds, &c., so that when the attack was made the intended victims were prepared for it--my father on the mountains, my mother in the mansion. the consequence was that the two guidici fell, one shot by my father, the other by my mother. on seeing his foe fall, my father drew out his watch and saw it was eleven o'clock. when my mother shot her assailant she turned to the timepiece and noticed that it was also eleven o'clock. the whole thing had taken place exactly at the same moment. there were no more guidici left, the family was extinct, and our victorious family is now left in peace; and considering we carried on a war for four hundred years, we didn't want to meddle with it any more. my father had the dates engraved upon the carbines, and hung the pieces up on each side of the clock, as you saw. seven months later my mother gave birth to twins, of whom one is your very humble servant, the corsican lucien; the other, the philanthropist, louis, his brother." as he ceased speaking, i noticed a shadow of a man accompanied by a dog projected in the doorway. the shadows were those of the bandit orlandi and his friend diamond. at that moment the village clock of sullacaro was heard striking nine with measured strokes. evidently the orlandi was of louis xv.'s opinion, that punctuality is the politeness of kings! it would have been impossible to have been more exact than was that king of the mountain, with whom lucien had appointed a meeting at nine o'clock. we both rose from our reclining posture when we saw the bandit approaching. chapter viii. "you are not alone, monsieur lucien," said the bandit. "do not let that disturb you, orlandi. this gentleman is a friend of mine, who has heard me speak of you, and wished to pay you a visit. i could not think of refusing him that pleasure." "monsieur is welcome to the country," said the bandit, bowing as he advanced towards us. i returned his salute with the most punctilious politeness. "you must have been waiting here some time," continued orlandi. "yes, about twenty minutes." "quite so. i heard diamond howling at mucchio, and he has been with me quite a quarter of an hour since then; he is a good and faithful dog, is he not, monsieur lucien?" "yes, indeed he is, orlandi," replied lucien, as he patted the animal. "but," said i, "since you knew that monsieur lucien was here, why did you not come sooner?" "because our appointment was for nine o'clock," said the bandit, "and it is just as unpunctual to be a quarter of an hour too soon as to arrive a quarter of an hour too late." "that is meant for a hit at me, orlandi," said lucien, laughing. "no, sir; you no doubt have your reasons; besides you have a companion, and it is likely on his account you may have started earlier, for i know your punctual habits, monsieur lucien, and i know also that you have been good enough to put yourself to inconvenience on my account frequently." "oh, do not say anything about that, orlandi; this will probably be the last time." "have we not some few words to exchange upon that subject, monsieur lucien," said the bandit. "yes, if you will have the goodness to follow me." "i am at your orders." lucien turned towards me, and said: "will you excuse me a moment?" "of course;" i replied. the men then went away together, and ascending the breach through which orlandi had appeared halted at the top of it, their figures standing out in strong relief in the moonlight. then i was able to take more particular note of this orlandi. he was a tall man, who had fashioned his beard in exactly the same manner as young de franchi, and was clothed like him; but his dress showed traces of more frequent contact with the bushes through which he was obliged to fly, and of the earth upon which he was obliged to lie, than did those of lucien. i could not hear what the men were talking about, and had i heard it i could not have understood it, as they spoke in the corsican dialect. but i was enabled to perceive by their gestures that the bandit was refuting with some heat a series of arguments which the young man was setting forth with an impartiality that did him honour. at length the gestures of the orlandi became less frequent and more energetic. his voice became subdued, and he at last bowed his head and held out his hand to the young man. i concluded the conference was now over, and the men descended together towards me. "my dear, sir," said lucien, "orlandi wishes to shake you by the hand, and to thank you." "and for what?" i said. "for being so good as to be one of his sponsors. i have answered for you!" "if you have answered for me i will readily accept, without even asking what is in question." i extended my hand to the bandit, who did me the honour to touch it with the tips of his fingers. "you will now be able to tell my brother that all has been arranged according to his wishes," said lucien, "and that you have signed the contract." "is there, then, a marriage about to take place?" "no, not yet; but perhaps there may be shortly." a disdainful smile passed over the bandit's face as he replied, "we have made peace, monsieur lucien, because you wished it; but marriage is not included in the compact." "no," replied lucien, "it is only written in the future amongst the probabilities; but let us talk of something else. did you not hear anything while i was talking with orlandi?" he said, turning to me. "of what you were saying, do you mean?" "no, but what you might have thought was a pheasant close by?" "well, i fancied i did hear a bird crow, but i thought i must have been mistaken!" "no, you were not mistaken, there is a cock perched in the great chestnut tree you saw about a hundred paces from here. i heard him just now as i was passing." "well, then," said lucien, "we must eat him tomorrow." "he would have already been laid low," said orlandi, "if i had not thought that in the village they would believe i was shooting at something besides a pheasant." "i have provided against that," said lucien. "by-the-by," he added, turning to me and throwing on his shoulder the gun he had already unslung, "the shot by courtesy belongs to you." "one moment," i said. "i am not so sure of my aim as you, and i will be quite content to do my part in eating the bird. so do you fire." "i suppose you are not so used to shooting at night as we are," replied lucien, "and you would probably fire too low. but if you have nothing particular to do to-morrow you can come and take your revenge." chapter ix. we left the ruins on the side opposite to that on which we had entered, lucien going first. as soon as we had got into the brushwood a pheasant once more loudly announced his presence. he was about eighty paces from us, roosting in the branches of the chestnut tree, the approach to which was prevented on all sides by the undergrowth. "i do not quite see how you are going to get him," i said to lucien; "it does not appear a very easy shot." "no," he replied; "but if i could just see him, i would fire from here." "you do not mean to say that your gun will kill a pheasant at eighty yards?" "not with shot," he replied; "it will with a bullet." "ah! that is a different thing altogether. i did not know you were loaded with ball. you were right to undertake the shot." "would you like to see the pheasant?" asked orlandi. "yes," said lucien, "i confess that i should." "wait a moment, then;" and orlandi began to imitate the clucking of the hen pheasant. then, without our being able to see the bird, we perceived a movement in the leaves of the chestnut-tree. the pheasant was evidently mounting branch by branch as he replied to the call of the hen imitated by orlandi. at length he arrived at the end of a branch, and was quite visible in the moonlight. orlandi ceased, and the pheasant remained motionless. at the same moment lucien levelled his gun, and, with a quick aim, fired. the pheasant fell like a stone. "fetch it!" said lucien to diamond. the dog rushed into the brushwood, and soon returned with the bird, pierced by the bullet, in his mouth. "that is a good shot," i said. "i congratulate you upon it, particularly with a fowling-piece." "oh," said lucien, "i do not deserve your praise, for one barrel is rifled, and carries a ball like a carbine." "never mind, such a shot with a carbine deserves honourable mention." "bah!" said orlandi; "why, with a carbine, monsieur lucien could hit a five-franc piece at three hundred paces." "and can you shoot with a pistol as well as with a gun?" "yes," said lucien, "very nearly. at twenty-five paces i can always divide six balls out of twelve on the blade of a knife." i took off my hat and saluted the speaker, saying, "is your brother an equally good shot?" "my brother?" he replied. "poor louis! he has never handled gun nor pistol in his life. my great fear is that he will get mixed up in some affair in paris, and, brave as he undoubtedly is, he will be killed to sustain the honour of the country." lucien, as he spoke, thrust the pheasant into the great pocket of his velveteen coat. "now," he said, "my dear orlandi, till to-morrow farewell." "till to-morrow, monsieur lucien?" "i count upon your punctuality. at ten o'clock your friends and relatives will be at the end of the street. on the opposite side colona, with his friends, will be likewise present, and we shall be on the steps of the church." "that is agreed, monsieur lucien. many thanks for your trouble; and to you, monsieur," he added, turning to me, "i am obliged for the honour you have done me." after this exchange of compliments we separated, orlandi disappearing in the brushwood, while we took our way back to the village. as for diamond, he was puzzled which to follow, and he stood looking right and left at the orlandi and ourselves alternately. after hesitating for about five minutes, he did us the honour to accompany lucien and me. i must confess that while i had been scaling the ruined walls i had had my misgivings as to how i should descend, for the descent is usually more difficult, under such circumstances, than the ascent. but i was glad to see that lucien, apparently divining my thoughts, took another route home. this road, also, was advantageous in another respect, for it was not so rough, and conversation was easier. at length, finding the path quite smooth, i continued my questions to my companion, in accordance with my usual custom, and said-- "now peace is made, i suppose?" "yes, and as you see, it has not been concluded without some trouble. i have been obliged to represent all the advances as having been made by the colona; for, you see, they have had five men killed, while the orlandi have lost but four. the former consented to the arrangement yesterday, and the latter to-day. the upshot of it all is that the colona have agreed to hand over a live hen to the orlandi, a concession which will prove them in the wrong. this last consideration has settled the matter." "and to-morrow this touching reconciliation will be effected?" "yes, to-morrow, at ten o'clock. you are still unfortunate; you hoped to see a vendetta?" the young man smiled bitterly as he continued--"but this is a finer thing than a vendetta! isn't it? for four hundred years, in corsica, they have been talking of nothing else. now you will see a reconciliation. i assure you it is a much rarer sight than a vendetta!" i could not help laughing. "there, you see, you are laughing at us," he said. "and you are right, after all. we are really a very droll people." "no," i replied, "i was laughing at another strange thing, and that is, to see that you are annoyed with yourself because you have succeeded so well in bringing about a reconciliation." "ah!" he replied. "if you had understood what we said you would have admired my eloquence. but come back in ten years' time, and you will find us all speaking french." "you would make a first-rate pleader." "no, no--i am a referee--an arbitrator. what the deuce do you expect? must not an arbitrator reconcile opposing factions? they might nominate me the arbiter between heaven and hell, that i might teach them to be reconciled, although, in my own heart, i should feel that i was a fool for my pains." i perceived that this conversation was only irritating to my new acquaintance, so i let it drop, and as he did not attempt to resume it, we proceeded in silence, and did not speak again until we had reached his house. chapter x. griffo was in attendance when we arrived, and before his master said a word the servant had taken the pheasant from lucien's pocket. the valet had heard and had understood the object of the shot. madame de franchi had not yet retired to rest, although she had gone upstairs, and she had left a message with griffo to request her son to go into her room before she went to bed. the young man first inquiring whether i was in want of anything, and on my reply in the negative, begged to be excused, to wait upon his mother. of course i acknowledged the politeness, and leaving him, went up to my own room. i entered it with a certain feeling of self congratulation. i was pleased that i had divined the character of louis, as i had found out lucien's. i undressed deliberately, and having taken down a volume of victor hugo's works, i lay down and enjoyed myself thoroughly with _les orientales._ for the hundredth time i came upon _le feu du ciel,_ and re-read it once more. i was fully occupied thus, when i fancied i heard a step upon the staircase, which stopped at my door. i suspected that my host had paused outside, wishing to bid me good-night, but scarcely liking to venture in for fear i should be asleep; so i cried out "come in," and put my book upon the table. in fact, as i spoke the door opened, and lucien appeared. "i trust you will excuse me," he said; "but it seems to me that i have been somewhat rude this evening, and i did not like to retire without making my excuses to you. so i have come to make the _amende honorable_--and as i daresay you have a number of questions to ask i am quite at your disposal." "a thousand thanks," i replied; "but, thanks to your good nature, i am already well informed upon most topics concerning which i desired information, and there only remains one question, which i have made up my mind _not_ to ask." "why?" "because it would appear too impertinent. however, if you remain here i confess i cannot answer for myself. i give you fair warning!" "well, then, go on. curiosity unsatisfied is an uncomfortable companion, and awakens all kinds of suppositions; and two, at least, out of every three guesses concerning a fact are sure to be quite wide of the mark, and more likely to prejudice the object than to arrive at the truth concerning it." "well, you may rest easy. my worst suspicions concerning you lead me to regard you as a sorcerer!" the young man laughed loudly. "the devil! you have inoculated me with some of your curiosity: tell me why, i entreat you--speak out!" "well, then, you have had the kindness to clear up many things which were before obscure to me; but one thing you did not touch upon. you have shown me your beautiful weapons, which i should like to examine again before my departure." "granted. that's one reason." "you have explained to me the inscriptions upon the carbines." "that's another reason." "you have made it clear to me that, thanks to the phenomenon of your birth, you always experience--although far away from him, the same sensations that agitate your brother, and no doubt he feels equally your troubles." "that is a third reason for your belief in my sorcery!" "yes, but madame de franchi, when referring to the sadness you lately have experienced, and which leads you to think that some misfortune threatens your brother, asked you if you were sure he were not dead, and you replied 'no, for then i should have seen him.'" "yes, i remember i did say so." "well, then, if such an explanation may be entrusted to a stranger, will you explain to me how this could happen?" the young man's face had assumed a very grave expression as i was speaking, and i hesitated to pronounce the last words. he was silent for a moment after i ceased to speak, and i said-- "i am afraid that i have been too indiscreet; pray forget that i spoke on the subject at all." "no," he replied, quietly; "no, but you are a man of the world, and as such inclined to be somewhat incredulous. so, you see, i am rather afraid you will treat as a superstition an old family tradition which has been handed down for centuries." "listen," i said. "i can declare one thing, and that is that no one is more easily convinced than i am on all questions of legendary or traditionary lore--and i am always ready to give credence to things regarded as impossible!" "so you believe in ghosts?" "do you wish to hear me tell how i saw one?" "yes, that will encourage me." "my father died in , when i was three and a-half years old. when the doctor announced his speedy death i was sent away to the house of an old cousin in the country. "she had made up a bed for me opposite her own, to which i was sent at the usual time, and, notwithstanding the trouble hanging over me, i feel fast asleep. "i was suddenly awakened by three violent blows upon the door of the chamber; i got out of bed and walked across the floor to open it. "'where are you going?' asked my cousin. "she had herself been awakened by the noise, but could not overcome her terror, knowing very well that as the front door was fastened no one would be likely to come to the room in which we were sleeping. "'i am going to open the door to my father, who has come to bid me adieu,' i replied. "it was then she jumped out of bed and insisted upon my lying down again. i cried for a long time and very bitterly, saying, 'papa is at the door, and i want to see papa again before he goes away for ever.'" "and has the apparition ever returned since?" asked lucien. "no, although i have often called upon it; but, perhaps, providence permitted to the innocence and purity of the child what it declines to accord to the sinfulness of the man." "well, then," said lucien smiling, "in our family we are more fortunate than you." "then you are enabled to see your deceased parents?" "yes, always when any great event is about to happen or has been accomplished." "and to what do you attribute this privilege?" "i will tell you the tradition that has been handed down. you remember that i told you that savilia died leaving two sons." "yes, i recollect." "well, these children grew up concentrating on each other the affection they would have bestowed on other relatives had any been alive. they swore nothing should separate them, not even death, and after some incantation or other they wrote with their blood on two pieces of parchment, which they exchanged, the reciprocal oath that whichever died first should appear to the other at the moment of his own death, and, subsequently, at every important epoch of his brother's life. three months afterwards one of the two brothers was killed in an ambuscade at the moment when the survivor was sealing a letter addressed to him. just as he was pressing the signet upon the burning wax he heard a sigh behind him, and, turning round, perceived his brother standing behind him, and touching his shoulder, although he felt no pressure from the hand. then, by a mechanical movement, he held out the letter that was destined for his brother, the spirit took the letter and disappeared. on the night before the survivor's death, the ghost appeared again. "there is no doubt that the brothers not only made this engagement for themselves, but it applies also to their descendants, for spirits have appeared not only at the moment of the death of those who had passed away, but also on the eve of any great event in their lives." "and have you never seen any apparition?" "no; but like my father, who, during the night preceding his death, was warned by his father that he was about to die, so i presume my brother and i inherit the privilege of our ancestors, not having done anything to forfeit it." "and is this privilege accorded to the males of the family only?" "yes." "that is strange." "it is as i say." i looked at the young man as he was speaking to me. he was cool, calm, and grave, and i could not help repeating with hamlet-- "there are more things in heaven and earth, horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." in paris i should have thought that this young man was hoaxing me; but here in corsica, in a little unknown village, one must look upon him either as a foolish person endeavouring to deceive one for his own purposes, or as a privileged being amongst other men. "and now," he said, after a long silence, "are you satisfied?" "yes, thank you," i answered. "i appreciate your confidence, and will promise to keep your secret." "oh, goodness," he said, laughing, "there is no secret in the matter--the first peasant you meet would tell you all i have told you; i only hope that in paris my brother has not boasted of this privilege, which would only cause men to laugh, and would frighten the ladies." so saying, he bade me good-night, and retired to his room. although fatigued, i was not able to sleep for some time, and when i did at last sleep i was restless. i appeared to see in a confused manner in my dreams all the people with whom i had come in contact that day. it was only when day broke that i fell into a sound sleep, and was awakened by the striking of a clock, close to my bed, apparently. i rang the bell, without rising, for my lazy predecessor had provided a bell-rope close at hand, the only one probably in the village. griffo immediately appeared, carrying some warm water; i saw that this valet had been well drilled. lucien, he said, had twice inquired whether i was awake, and had told him that if i did not ring before half-past nine he would call me. it was now twenty-five minutes past nine, so it would not be long before he came. he soon made his appearance, dressed very elegantly in french style, with a black frock coat and white trowsers. he noticed that i looked at him with some surprise. "i hope you are admiring my dress," he said; "another proof that i am becoming civilized." "yes, indeed," i replied, "and i confess i am considerably astonished to find that you possess such a tailor in ajaccio. i shall look quite the country bumpkin beside you." "i assure you my dress is quite parisian, my dear friend. you see my brother and i being exactly the same height, he for a joke sent me a regular outfit, which i only wear on grand occasions, to receive the prefect, for instance, or when the commandant makes his departmental inspection; or, better still, when i receive a guest like yourself, and when that pleasure is combined with such important business as we are about to accomplish to-day." there was in this young man's manner of speaking a polished irony, and good-nature withal, which at once set people at their ease, and never passed the bounds of perfect politeness. i simply bowed in reply, while he carefully inducted his hands into a pair of kid gloves of paris manufacture. as now attired, he looked a thorough parisian. all this time i was dressing rapidly. a quarter to ten struck. "come along," said lucien, "if you wish to see the play. i think it is time we took our seats, unless, indeed, you would rather have breakfast first, which appears to me only reasonable." "thank you, i seldom eat before eleven or twelve, so i am ready to face both operations." "come along, then." i took up my hat and followed him upstairs. chapter xi. from the top of the steps by which one reached the door of the chateau usually inhabited by madame de franchi and her son, one could look over the square. this square, so silent the night before, was now full of people, but curiously enough there was not a man to be seen, the crowd was composed of women and children under twelve. on the lowest step of the church door we could perceive a man girdled with a tri-coloured sash. this was the mayor. under the portico, another man clothed in black was seated at a table. this was the notary, and the written paper under his hand was the act of reconciliation. i took my place beside the table with the sponsors of the orlandi. on the other sida were the sponsors of the colona faction. lucien stood behind the notary so as to show that he acted for both. in the choir of the church one could perceive the priests ready to solemnize the mass. the clock struck ten. at that moment a shiver pervaded the crowd and all eyes were turned towards the end of the street, if one could so call the unequal interval between the houses. immediately on the mountain side appeared the orlandi, and in the direction of the river was the colona, each followed by his partisans, but as had been arranged neither party carried arms. the two chiefs presented a very vivid contrast. orlandi, as i said, was tall, brown, agile and thin. colona, on the other hand, was short, stoutish, and vigorous; he had red hair and beard, both of which wore short and curly. both men carried olive branches, the symbol of peace, which was the idea of the worthy mayor. but besides this olive branch, the colona held a white fowl by the feet; this bird was destined to replace that which had given rise to the quarrel, and the fowl was alive. this last was a point that had long been discussed, and had very nearly upset the whole arrangement. the colona looked upon it as a double humiliation to have to render back a living fowl for the one which his aunt had thrown dead in the face of the cousin of the orlandi. however, by force of reasoning, lucien had persuaded the colona to provide the fowl, as he had managed to induce the orlandi to accept it. when the two rivals appeared, the bells, which until now had been silent, broke forth into a merry peal. when they caught sight of each other both orlandi and his brother made a similar movement of repulsion, but, nevertheless, they both continued their way. just opposite the church door they stopped, a few paces only dividing them. if three days previously these men had caught sight of each other within a hundred paces, one of the two certainly would have remained on the field. for about five minutes there was a profound silence, a silence which, notwithstanding the peaceful nature of the ceremony, was anything but pacific. then at length the mayor spoke. "well, colona," he said, "do you not know that you have to speak first?" colona made an effort and muttered some words in the corsican patois. i fancied i understood him to say that he regretted having been in vendetta with his good neighbour orlandi, and that he offered in reparation the white hen which he held in his hand. orlandi waited until his adversary had finished speaking, and replied in some words which i took to be a promise that he would forget everything but the solemn reconciliation that had that day taken place in the presence of monsieur lucien and the notary. after that the rivals preserved a dogged silence. "now, gentlemen," said the mayor, "you have only got to shake hands." by a simultaneous movement the rivals clasped their hands behind their backs. the mayor descended from his elevated seat, and seizing the hand of colona sought for the hand of the orlandi, and having possessed himself of both he, with some effort, which he endeavoured to conceal with a smile, succeeded in joining the two hands. the notary seized the moment, while the mayor held the two hands together, to stand up and read the deed declaring the feud to be at an end. the document was as follows:-- "in the presence of us, giuseppe antonia sarrola, notary royal of sullacaro in the province of sartène. "in the grand place of the village opposite the church, in the presence of the mayor, the sponsors, and all the population. "between gaetano orso orlandi, called orlandini. "and marco vincenzio colona, called schioppone. "it is solemnly ratified as follows:-- "from this day, th of march, , the vendetta declared between the families shall cease. "from the same period they shall live together as good neighbours and friends, as their relatives did before the unhappy disunion which has so long alienated their families. "in witness whereof they have signed these presents under the portico of the village church, with monsieur polo arbori, mayor of the commune, monsieur lucien de franchi, arbitrator, the sponsors of the two contracting parties, and ourselves the notary. "sullacaro, th of march, ." i note with admiration that the mayor had very prudently omitted all mention of the hen which had put the colona in such a bad position with the orlandi. so the face of the colona got brighter in proportion as the figure of the orlandi clouded; the latter looked at the hen which he was holding in his hand as if he had a great idea to throw it in the face of the colona. but a glance from lucien de franchi checked this intention in the bud. the mayor saw that he had no time to lose; he stepped back, holding the hands of the rivals, and without loosing them for a moment. then, in order to anticipate any discussion at the moment of signature, in view of each considering it a concession to sign before the other, he took the pen and wrote his own name first, and thus converting the shame into an honour, passed the pen to orlandi, who took it, signed, and passed it to lucien, who in his turn handed it to colona, who made a cross. at that moment the te deum was chanted as if for a victory. we all signed afterwards, without distinction of rank or title, as the nobility of france a hundred years before had signed the protestation against monsieur le due du maine. then the heroes of the day entered the church, and knelt in the places appointed for them. i saw that from this moment lucien appeared perfectly at ease. all had been finished satisfactorily: the reconciliation had taken place not only before man but before heaven. the service terminated without any incident worth recording; and when it was over, orlandi and colona passed out with the same ceremony as before. at the church door, at the instance of the mayor, they once again shook hands; and then each one, attended by his friends and relatives, made his way to his house, which for three years he had not entered. lucien and myself went back to madame de franchi's house, where dinner awaited us. it is not difficult to perceive by the attentions i received that lucien had read my name over my shoulder when i was signing the paper, and the name was not altogether unknown to him. in the morning i had announced to lucien my intention to depart after dinner. i was urgently recalled to paris by the rehearsals of "un mariage sous louis xv.," and notwithstanding the importunities of mother and son, i persisted in adhering to my first determination. lucien then asked permission to take advantage of my offer, and to take a letter to his brother; and madame franchi made me promise that i would hand this letter myself to her son. there was really no trouble in the matter, for louis de franchi, like a true parisian as he was, lived at no. , rue du helder. i asked permission to see lucien's room once again, and he himself conducted me thither, explaining everything to me. "you know," he said, "if anything strikes you i hope you will take it, it is yours." i unhooked a small poignard hanging in an obscure corner, as if to show that it had no value attached to it; and as i had seen lucien notice with some curiosity my hunting-belt and its appurtenances, i begged him to accept it, and he had the good taste to take it without being pressed. at that moment griffo appeared to tell me that the horse was saddled and the guide waiting. i put aside the little present i had intended to give to griffo, which consisted of a hunting-knife and two pistols attached to it, the barrels of which were hidden in the hilt. i never saw anybody so delighted as he was at this present. i descended, and found madame de franchi at the bottom of the staircase, where she was waiting to bid me good-bye, in the same place where she had bade me welcome. i kissed her hand, feeling great respect for such a simple-minded and yet so dignified a woman. lucien accompanied me to the door. "on any other day," he said, "i would saddle my horse, and ride with you beyond the mountain, but to-day i dare not quit sullacaro for fear that one or other of the newly-made friends might commit some folly." "you are quite right," i said; "and for my own part, i am very glad to have assisted at a ceremony so new to corsica." "yes," he said, "you may well congratulate yourself, for you have to-day witnessed a thing which is enough to make our ancestors turn in their graves." "i understand--their word was sufficient; they did not need a notary to reconcile them, i suppose?" "they were never reconciled at all." he then shook me by the hand. "have you no message for your brother?" i said. "yes, certainly, if it will not incommode you to deliver it." "well, then, let us embrace. i can only deliver that which i am able to receive." [see "transcriber's note."] so we embraced each other. "we shall see you again some day?" i said. "yes, if you come to corsica." "no, but won't you come to paris?" "i shall never go there," replied lucien. "in any case, you will find my card on the mantelpiece in your brother's room--do not forget the address." "i will promise you that should any event call me to the continent you shall have my first visit." "very well, that is agreed." we shook hands once again and parted; but i noticed, so long as he could see me, he followed me with his eyes. all was quiet in the village, although, of course, there was the usual agitation which follows the completion of a great public act; and as i went along the street i sought my friend orlandi, who had never addressed a word to me, nor even thanked me; and so i passed the last house in the village, and entered the open country without having seen any one like him. i thought he had entirely forgotten me, and under the circumstances i quite excused him, but before i got very far out of the village i perceived a man stride from the underwood, and place himself in the middle of the road. i recognized him at once as the man who in my great regard for appearances, and in my impatience, i had accused of ingratitude. he was dressed in the same costume as he had appeared in the previous evening in the ruins of vicentello. when i was about twenty paces distant from him he took off his hat; while i spurred my horse so as not to keep orlandi waiting. "monsieur," he said, "i did not wish you to quit sullacaro without accepting my thanks for the kindness you have shown to a poor peasant like myself, and as in the village i had not the heart, and could not command the language, to thank you, i waited for you here." "i am obliged to you," i said; "but it was not necessary to take any trouble about it, and all the honour has been mine." "and after all, monsieur," continued the bandit, "the habit of four years is not easily overcome. the mountain air is strong at first, almost suffocating--but now when i go to sleep in a house i should be afraid the roof would fall upon me." "but surely," i said, "you will now resume your former habits. i understand you have a house, a field, and a vineyard." "yes, but my sister looks after the house; but the lucquois are there to work in the field, and to raise the grapes. we corsicans do not work." "what do you do, then?" "we overlook the labourers. we walk about with a gun upon our shoulders." "well, my dear monsieur orlandi," i said, extending my hand, "i wish you good luck; but recollect that my honour as well as your own will be compromised if you fire at anything but game or wild animals. you must never on any account draw a trigger on the colona family." "ah! your excellency," he replied, with an expression of countenance which i never remarked except amongst the natives of normandy, "that hen they gave us was a very thin one." and without another word he disappeared in the brushwood. i continued my journey thinking that it was very likely that the meagre fowl would be the cause of another rupture between the orlandi and the colona. that evening i slept at albitucia, next day i reached ajaccio. eight days afterwards i was in paris. chapter xii. the day i arrived in paris i called upon m. louis de franchi. he was not at home. i left my card, with an intimation that i had just returned from sullacaro, and that i was the bearer of a letter from m. lucien, his brother. i inquired when he would be at home, as i had undertaken to deliver the letter with my own hand. to conduct me to his master's study, where i wished to write a note, the valet led me through the dining-room and the _salon._ i looked around me as i proceeded with a curiosity which will be understood, and i recognized the influence of the same taste which i had already perceived at sullacaro; only the taste was here set off by true parisian elegance. m. louis de franchi certainly appeared to have a very charming lodging for a bachelor. next morning, about eleven o'clock, my servant announced m. louis de franchi. i told the man to offer my visitor the papers and to say that i would wait on him as soon as i was dressed. in five minutes i presented myself. m. louis do franchi who was, no doubt from a sense of courtesy, reading a tale i had contributed to _la presse,_ raised his head as the door opened, and i entered. i stood perfectly astounded at the resemblance between the two brothers. he rose. "monsieur," he said, "i could scarcely credit my good fortune when i read your note yesterday on my return home. i have pictured you twenty times so as to assure myself that it was in accord with your portraits, and at last i, this morning, determined to present myself at your house without considering the hour, and i fear i have been too early." "i hope you will excuse me if i do not at once acknowledge your kindness in suitable terms, but may i inquire whether i have the honour to address m. louis or m. lucien de franchi?" "are you serious? yes, the resemblance is certainly wonderful, and when i was last at sullacaro nearly every one mistook one of us for the other, yet, if he has not abjured the corsican dress, you have seen him in a costume, which would make a considerable difference in our appearance." "and justly so," i replied; "but as chance would have it, he was, when i left, dressed exactly as you are now, except that he wore white trowsers, so that i was not able to separate your presence from his memory with the difference in dress of which you speak, but," i continued, taking the letter from my pocket-book, "i can quite understand you are anxious to have news from home, so pray read this which i would have left at your house yesterday had i not promised madame de franchi to give it to you myself." "they were all quite well when you left, i hope?" "yes, but somewhat anxious." "on my account?" "yes; but read that letter, i beg of you." "if you will excuse me." so monsieur franchi read the letter while i made some cigarettes. i watched him as his eyes travelled rapidly over the paper, and i heard him murmur, "dear lucien, darling mother----yes----yes----i understand." i had not yet recovered from the surprise the strange resemblance between the brothers had caused me, but now i noticed what lucien had told me, that louis was paler, and spoke french better than he did. "well," i said when he had finished reading the letter, and had lighted the cigarette, "you see, as i told you, that they are anxious about you, and i am glad that their fears are unfounded." "well, no," he said gravely, "not altogether; i have not been ill, it is true, but i have been out of sorts, and my indisposition has been augmented by this feeling that my brother is suffering with me." "monsieur lucien has already told me as much, and had i been sceptical i should now have been quite sure that what he said was a fact. i should require no further proof than i now have. so you, yourself, are convinced, monsieur, that your brother's health depends to a certain extent on your own." "yes, perfectly so." "then," i continued, "as your answer will doubly interest me, may i ask, not from mere curiosity, if this indisposition of which you speak is likely soon to pass away?" "oh, you know, monsieur, that the greatest griefs give way to time, and that my heart, even if seared, will heal. meantime, however, pray accept my thanks once more, and permit me to call on you occasionally to have a chat about sullacaro." "with the greatest pleasure," i replied; "but why not now continue our conversation, which is equally agreeable to both of us. my servant is about to announce breakfast. will you do me the honour to join me, and we can talk at our ease?" "i regret that it is impossible; i have an appointment with the chancellor at twelve o'clock, and you will understand that such a young advocate as i am cannot afford to stay away." "ah, it is probably only about that orlandi and colona affair, as you, no doubt, are aware, and i can re-assure you on that point, for i myself signed the contract as sponsor for this orlandi." "yes, my brother said as much." "but," he added, looking at his watch, "it is nearly twelve o'clock; i must go and inform the chancellor that my brother has redeemed my word." "ah, yes, most religiously, i can answer for that." "dear lucien, i knew quite well, though our sentiments do not agree on this point, that he would do it for me." "yes, and i assure you it cost him something to comply." "we will speak of all this later, for you can well understand how pleasant it is for me to re-visit with your assistance my mother, my brother, and our home surroundings, so if you will tell me when you are disengaged----" "that will be somewhat difficult; for this next few days i shall be very busy, but will you tell me where i am likely to find you." "listen," he said, "to-morrow is mi-careme, is it not?" "to-morrow?" "yes." "well?" "are you going to the opera ball?" "yes and no. yes, if you will meet me there. no, if i have no object in going." "i must go, i am obliged to be there." "ah, yes," i said laughing, "i understand, as you said just now, time heals up the greatest griefs, and your seared heart must be healed." "you are under a misapprehension, for i shall probably sustain new tortures by going." "then do not go." "but what is one to do in this world? we cannot always do what we want; i am dragged thither by fate in spite of myself. i know i had better not go, and nevertheless i shall go." "well, then, to-morrow, at the opera." "yes, agreed." "at what time?" "half-past twelve midnight, if that will suit you." "and whereabouts?" "in the _foyer_--at one, i will be in front of the clock." "that is understood." we then shook hands and he left the house quickly. it was on the stroke of twelve. as for me, i occupied myself all the afternoon and all the next day in those employments as a man is obliged to undertake on his return from a lengthened tour. at half-past twelve o'clock at night i was at the rendezvous. louis had been waiting some time--he had been following a mask which he thought he recognized, but the lady had been lost in the crowd, and he had not been able to rejoin her. i wished to speak of corsica, but louis was too absent to follow out such a grave subject of conversation. his eyes were constantly fixed on the clock, and suddenly he rushed away from my side, exclaiming: "ah, there is my bouquet of violets." he pushed through the crowd to join a woman who, evidently with a purpose, was holding a large bouquet of violets in her hand. there were bouquets of every species in the foyer, and i myself was soon accosted by a bouquet of camellias, which congratulated me upon my safe return to paris. to the camellias succeeded a bouquet of rose-pompons. to these succeeded a bouquet of heliotrope. in fact i was engaged with my fifteenth bouquet when i encountered d----. "ah, is it you, _mon cher?_" he cried. "welcome back; you have returned just in time. i have a little supper party this evening--so-and-so and so-and-so--and we shall count upon you." "a thousand thanks, my dear fellow; but though i am strongly tempted to accept your invitation, i can't. i am engaged to somebody." "yes; but everyone else will bring somebody also," said d----. "it is quite understood that there are to be six water-bottles, whose destiny it is to refresh bouquets." "ah, you are mistaken. i shall have no bouquet to put in a water-bottle; i am with a friend." "well, you know the proverb, 'friends of our friends.'" "it is a young gentleman whom you do not know." "well, then, we will make his acquaintance." "i will tell him of his good fortune." "yes, and if he decline, bring him by force." "i will do what i can, i promise you. at what time?" "three o'clock; but as supper will remain on table till six you have ample margin." "very well." a bouquet of myosotis, which perhaps had heard the latter portion of our conversation, then took d----'s arm and walked on with him. shortly afterwards i met louis, who had by this time got rid of his violets. as the lady who honoured me with her attention just then was a trifle dull, i despatched her to one of my friends, and took louis' arm. "well," i said, "have you learnt what you wanted to know?" "oh, yes! you know that at a masked ball people talk of the very things they ought to leave you in ignorance of." "my poor friend," i said, "pardon me for thus addressing you; but it appears to me that i know you since i have known your brother. look here--you are unhappy, are not you? now what is it?" "oh, my goodness! nothing worth talking about." i saw that he did not wish to speak on the subject, so i said no more. we took two or three turns in silence.--i was quite indifferent, for i expected nobody, but he was anxiously examining every domino that passed. at length i said, "do you know what you might do to-night?" he started like a man suddenly aroused. "i! no. i beg your pardon; what did you say?" "i was about to propose a distraction which it seems to me you need." "what is it?" "come to supper with a friend of mine, with me." "oh, no--i am not in a festive humour." "bah! they will talk nothing but nonsense, and that will amuse you." "well--but i am not invited!" "you mistake--for you are." "it is very kind on your part--but 'pon my word i am not worthy of--" just then we crossed d----. he seemed very much engaged with his bouquet of myosotis. nevertheless he saw me. "well," he said, "is it settled? three o'clock." "less settled than ever," i replied--"i cannot join you." "go to the devil, then!" and with this pious ejaculation he continued his course. "who is that gentleman?" inquired louis. "that is d----, one of my friends; a very cheerful youth, though he is the manager of one of our most respectable papers." "monsieur d----!" exclaimed louis. "do you know _him?_" "certainly. i have known him for some years." "and is he the person with whom you are invited to sup this evening?" "yes, the same." "then it was to his house you intended to take me?" "yes." "then that alters the case. i accept, and with very great pleasure." "all right. that settles the question." "perhaps, after all, i ought not to go," muttered louis, smiling sadly. "but you remember what i said yesterday about my destiny. here is the proof. i should have done better not to have come here this evening." at this moment we again encountered d----. "my dear fellow," i said, "i have changed my mind!" "and you will join us?" "yes." "bravo! but i ought to mention one thing." "that is?" "that whoever sups with us to-night, sups with us again to-morrow evening." "by what law of society is that?" "by the laws of the wager made with chateau renaud." i felt louis' arm quiver as it rested on mine--i turned round; but though his face was deadly pale, it was impassable. "what is the wager?" i inquired. "oh, it would occupy too much time to repeat here, and, besides, some one interested might overhear, and it might thus be lost." "what wonderful discretion you possess! at three, then." "at three!" once more we separated, and as i glanced at the clock i saw it then was thirty-five minutes past two. "do you know this m. de chateau renaud?" asked louis, who vainly attempted to command his voice, and to conceal his emotion. "only by sight. i have met him occasionally in society." "then he is not a friend of yours?" "not even an acquaintance." "ah, so much the better," replied louis. "why so?" "for no particular reason." "but do you know him?" "indirectly." notwithstanding this evasive answer, it was easy to perceive that between louis and chateau renaud there existed one of those mysterious bonds which could only be forged by a woman. an instinctive feeling assured me that it would be best for all if he and i returned home quietly. "will you take my advice, monsieur de franchi," i said. "about what? tell me!" "do not go to supper at d----'s house." "why not? does he not expect us. have you not told him that you will bring a friend?" "yes, but that is not the point." "what is the point then?" "i am sure you had better not go, that is all!" "but surely you have some reason to give for your change of opinion; just now you were insisting on my presence at d----'s against my will." "i did not then know that we should meet chateau renaud." "but that is all the better. i believe he is a very pleasant companion, and i shall be glad to make his acquaintance." "very well," i replied--"so be it. shall we go now?" we accordingly went downstairs for our paletots. d---- lived within a short distance of the opera house, the morning was very fine, and i hoped that the open air would enliven my companion. so i proposed that we should walk, and this he agreed to. chapter xiii. we found many of my friends assembled--habitués of the opera lobbies and of the greenroom, and, as i had expected, a few unmasked "bouquets" anxious for the time to come when the water-bottles would be used--supper time! i introduced louis to several friends, and it is needless to say that he was politely received and welcomed. ten minutes after our arrival d---- entered, accompanied by his bouquet of myosotis, who unmasked herself with a freedom and precision which argued a long acquaintance with these sort of parties. i introduced louis to d----. "now," said b----, "if all the presentations have been made, i suggest that we present ourselves at table." "all the presentations are made, but all the guests have not arrived," replied d----. "who is expected then?" "chateau renaud is still wanting to complete the party." "ah, just so. by-the-by, was there not some bet?" "yes. we laid a wager of a supper for twelve, that he would not bring a certain lady here to-night." "and who is the lady," asked the bouquet of myosotis, "who is so very shy as to be made the subject of a bet?" i looked at louis de franchi. he was outwardly composed, but pale as a corpse. "faith, i don't know that there is any great harm in telling you her name, especially as none of you know her i think. she is madame----" louis placed his hand upon d----'s arm. "monsieur," he said; "will you grant me a favour? as a new acquaintance i venture to ask it!" "what is it, monsieur?" "do not name the lady who is expected with m. de chateau renaud, you know she is a married woman!" "oh yes, but her husband is at smyrna, in the east indies, in mexico, or some such place. when a husband lives so far away it is nearly the same as having no husband at all." "her husband will return in a few days. i know him. he is a gallant fellow. i would wish, if possible, to spare him the chagrin of learning on his return that his wife had made one at this supper-party." "excuse me, monsieur," said d----, "i was not aware that you are acquainted with the lady, and i did not think she was married. but since you know her and her husband----" "i do know them." "then we must exercise greater discretion. ladies and gentlemen, whether chateau renaud comes or not--whether he wins or loses his bet, i must beg of you all to keep this adventure secret." we all promised, not because our moral senses were offended, but because we were hungry and wished to begin our supper. "thank you, monsieur," said louis to d----, holding out his hand to him. "i assure you you are acting like a thorough gentleman in this matter." we then passed into the supper-room, and each one took his allotted place. two chairs were vacant, those reserved for chateau renaud and his expected companion. the servant was about to remove them. "no," said the master, "let them remain; chateau renaud has got until four o'clock to decide his wager. at four o'clock if he is not here he will have lost." i could not keep my eyes from louis de franchi; i saw him watching the timepiece anxiously. it was then . a.m. "is that clock right?" asked louis. "that is not my concern," said d----, laughing. "i set it by chateau renaud's watch, so that there may be no mistake." "well, gentlemen," said the bouquet of myosotis, "it seems we cannot talk of anything but chateau renaud and his unknown fair one. we are getting horribly 'slow,' i think." "you are quite right, my dear," replied v----. "there are so many women of whom we can speak, and who are only waiting to be spoken to----" "let us drink their health," cried d----. so we did, and then the champagne went round briskly; every guest had a bottle at his or her elbow. i noticed that louis scarcely tasted his wine; "drink, man!" i whispered: "don't you see that she will not come?" "it still wants a quarter to four," said he; "at four o'clock, even though i shall be late in commencing, i promise you i will overtake some of you." "oh, very well!" i replied. while we had been exchanging these few words in a low tone, the conversation had become general around the table. occasionally d---- and louis glanced at the clock, which ticked regularly on without any care for the impatience of the two men who were so intent upon its movements. at five minutes to four i looked at louis. "to your health," i said. he took his glass, smiled, and raised it to his lips. he had drunk about half its contents when a ring was heard at the front door. i did not think it possible that louis could become any paler than he was, but i saw my mistake then. "'tis he," he muttered. "yes, but perhaps he may have come alone," i replied. "we shall see in a moment." the sound of the bell had attracted everybody's attention, and the most profound silence suddenly succeeded the buzz of conversation which had till then prevailed. then the sound of talking was heard in the anteroom. d---- rose and opened the door. "i can recognize her voice," said louis, as he grasped my arm with a vice-like grip. "we shall see! wait! be a man!" i answered. "it must be evident that if she has thus come to supper with a man, of her own will, to the house of a stranger, she is not worthy your sympathy." "i beg, madam, that you will enter," said d----'s voice in the outer room. "we are all friends here i assure you." "yes, come in, my dear emily," said m. de chateau renaud, "you need not take off your mask if you do not wish to do so." "the wretch," muttered louis. at that moment a lady entered, dragged in rather than assisted by d----, who fancied he was doing the honours, and by chateau renaud. "three minutes to four," said chateau renaud to d----, in a low voice. "quite right, my dear fellow, you have won." "not yet, monsieur," said the young unknown addressing chateau renaud, and drawing herself up to her full height. "i can now understand your persistence. you laid a wager that i would sup here. is that so?" chateau renaud was silent. then addressing d----, she continued. "since this man cannot answer, will you, monsieur, reply. did not m. de chateau renaud wager that he would bring me here to supper to-night?" "i will not hide from you, madame, that he flattered us with that hope," replied d----. "well, then, m. de chateau renaud has lost, for i was quite unaware he was bringing me here. i believed we were to sup at the house of a friend of my own. so it appears to me that m. de chateau renaud has not won his wager." "but now you are here, my dear emily, you may as well remain; won't you? see, we have a good company and some pleasant young ladies too!" "now that i am here," replied the unknown, "i will thank the gentleman who appears to be the master of the house for the courtesy with which he has treated me. but as, unfortunately, i cannot accept his polite invitation i will beg m. louis de franchi to see me home." louis with a bound placed himself between the speaker and chateau renaud. "i beg to observe, madam," said the latter between his shut teeth, "that i brought you hither and consequently i am the proper person to conduct you home." "gentlemen," said the unknown, "you are five, i put myself into your honourable care. i trust you will defend me from the violence of m. de chateau renaud!" chateau renaud made a movement. we all rose at once. "very good, madame," he said. "you are at liberty. i know with whom i have to reckon." "if you refer to me, sir," replied louis de franchi with an air of hauteur impossible to describe, "you will find me all day to-morrow at the rue du helder, no. ." "very well, monsieur. perhaps i shall not have the pleasure to call upon you myself, but i hope that two friends of mine may be as cordially received in my place." "that was all that was necessary," said louis, shrugging his shoulders disdainfully. "a challenge before a lady! come, madame," he continued, offering his arm. "believe me, i thank you from the bottom of my heart for the honour you do me." and then they left the room, amidst the most profound silence. "well, gentlemen, so it seems i have lost," said chateau renaud, when the door closed. "that's all settled! to-morrow evening all of you sup with me at the frères provençaux." chapter xiv. the next day, or rather the same day, at ten o'clock, i called upon m. louis de franchi. as i was ascending the staircase, i met two young men coming down. one was evidently a civilian, the other wore the legion of honour, and though in _mufti_ i could see he was an officer. i had, no doubt, that these gentlemen had just been with m. de franchi, and i watched them downstairs. then i continued my way to louis' apartments and rang the bell. the servant opened the door. his master was in his study. when the man announced me, louis, who was writing, looked up and exclaimed-- "ah, welcome! i was just writing to you. i am very glad to see you. joseph, i am not at home to any one." the servant went out and left us alone. "didn't you meet two gentlemen upon the stairs?" asked louis, as he placed a chair. "yes, one of them was decorated." "the same." "i fancied they had called upon you." "you are quite right." "did they come on behalf of m. de chateau renaud?" "they are his seconds." "ah! so he has taken this matter seriously it seems." "he could scarcely do otherwise," replied louis. "so they came to----." "to request me to name two friends who would confer with them; i thought of you." "i am really honoured by your kindness. but i cannot go alone." "i have also written to ask an old friend, the baron giordano martelli, to breakfast here. he will come at eleven. we will breakfast together, and at twelve, perhaps, you will be kind enough to go and see these gentlemen who have promised to remain at home until three o'clock. here are their names and addresses." louis handed me two cards as he spoke. one card represented the baron rené de chateaugrand, the other m. adrien de boissy. the former lived in the rue de la paix, no. . the latter, who i now saw, belonged to the army, was a lieutenant of chasseurs d'afrique, and lived in the rue de lille, no. . i turned the cards over and over in my fingers. "well, what embarrasses you?" asked louis. "i should like to be told frankly if you look upon this as a serious matter. you know we must mould our conduct upon that." "indeed, i do consider it a very serious matter. you heard me place myself at m. de chateau renaud's disposal, he has sent to me. i must now go with the current." "yes, of course, but after all----" "go on," said louis, smilingly. "after all," i continued, "we must know what you are going to fight for. we cannot put two men up to cut and slash each other without having some ground for the encounter." "very well, let me tell you in as few words as possible, the head and front of the offending. "when i first arrived in paris i was introduced by a friend of mine, a captain in the navy, to his wife. she was young and beautiful. she made a deep impression upon me, and as i was really afraid i might end by falling in love with her, i very rarely went to my friend's house, although frequently pressed to do so. "my friend was rather piqued at my absence, and at last i frankly told him the truth, that his wife being so charming i was rather afraid to go to his house. he laughed, shook hands with me, and asked me, even pressed me, to dine with him that same evening. "'my dear louis,' said he, after dinner. 'in a few weeks i shall sail for mexico. i may be absent three months, perhaps six--or longer. we sailors sometimes know when we shall sail, but never when we may return. to you, i commend emily during my absence. emily, i beg of you to look upon m. louis de franchi as a brother.' "the lady gave me her hand in token of agreement. i was stupefied! i did not know what to say, and i daresay i appeared very stupid to my future sister. "three weeks after this my friend sailed. "during those three weeks he insisted that i should dine at least once a week with them _en famille._ "emily's mother then came to live with her. i need scarcely say that her husband's confidence was not abused, and though i loved her dearly i regarded her simply as a sister. "six months elapsed. "emily's mother still remained with her, but when he went away, her husband had entreated her to receive as usual. there was nothing my poor friend had a greater horror of than to appear as a jealous husband. he adored emily and had every confidence in her. "so emily continued to receive, and they were very friendly receptions. but her mother's presence silenced all scandal or cause for it, and no one could say a word against her reputation. "at the end of three months or so m. de chateau renaud appeared. "you believe in presentiments, i daresay. when i first saw that man i disliked him and would not speak to him. i hated him. "but why i disliked him i cannot tell you. i did! "most likely because i saw that even at his first appearance emily seemed inclined to like him, and he evidently admired her. perhaps i am mistaken, but, as at the bottom of my heart i had never ceased to love emily, i suspect i was jealous. "so on the next occasion i did not lose sight of m. de chateau renaud. perhaps he noticed my looks and it seemed to me that he was chatting in undertones to emily and holding me up to ridicule. "had i yielded to my feelings i would have challenged him that evening, but i reflected that such conduct would be absurd, and restrained myself. "every wednesday thenceforth was a greater trial than the last. "m. de chateau renaud is quite a man of the world, a dandy--a lion--i know how superior he is to me in many respects. but it seems to me that emily values him more highly than he deserves. "soon i found out that i was not the only one who remarked her preference for m. de chateau renaud, and this preference increased to such an extent and became so obvious that one day giordano, who like me was an habitué of the house, spoke to me about it. "from that moment my resolution was taken. i determined to speak to emily on the subject, convinced that she was only acting thoughtlessly and i had but to call her attention to the matter to have it remedied. "but to my great astonishment she took my remonstrances in joke, pretended that i was mad, and that those who agreed with me were as stupid as i was. "however, i insisted. "emily only replied, that she would leave to my own decision as to whether a man in love was not necessarily a prejudiced judge. "i remained perfectly stupefied; her husband must have told her everything. "now you will understand that under these circumstances, and being an unhappy and jealous lover, and only making myself objectionable to the lady, i ceased to visit at the house. "but although i did not go to her parties i did not the less hear the gossip that was afloat, nor was i the less unhappy, for these reports were assuming a tangible shape. "i resolved therefore to write to her, and beg her in the strongest language of which i was capable, for her own and her husband's sake, to be careful. she never answered my letter. "some time afterwards i heard it publicly stated that emily was actually the mistress of chateau renaud. what i suffered i cannot express. "it was then my poor brother became conscious of my grief. "then, after about a fortnight, you came back to paris. the very day you called upon me i received an anonymous letter from a lady unknown appointing a meeting at the opera ball. "this woman said that she had certain information to convey to me respecting a lady friend of mine, whose christian name only she would mention. "the name was emily. "my correspondent said i should recognize her by her carrying a bouquet of violets. "i told you at the time that i did not wish to go to the ball, but i repeat i was hurried thither by fate. "i went as you know. i found my domino at the place at the hour indicated. she confirmed what i had already heard respecting chateau renaud and emily, and if i wished proof, she would give it me, for chateau renaud had made a bet that he would take his new mistress to supper at m. d----'s house that evening. "chance revealed to me that you knew m. d----, you suggested that i should accompany you. i accepted, you know the rest." "now, what more could i do but await and accept the proposals that were made to me?" "but," i said, at length, as a sensation of fear crossed my mind, "i am afraid i heard your brother say that you had never handled a sword or a pistol." "that is quite true!" "then you are absolutely at the mercy of your adversary!" "i cannot help it. i am in the hands of providence." chapter xv. as louis was speaking, the servant announced the baron giordano martelli. he was a young corsican from sartène. he had served in the th regiment, in which his gallantry had secured him promotion at the age of twenty-three. "well," he said, after having bowed to me, "so things have come to a crisis, and no doubt you will soon have a visit from the seconds of monsieur de chateau renaud." "they have been here already." "i suppose they have left their names and addresses?" "here are their cards." "good." "well, your servant has just told me that breakfast is waiting. suppose we sit down, and after breakfast we can return their visit." we entered the _salle à manger,_ and put aside all business for the present. during the meal louis questioned me closely concerning my journey in corsica, and i told him all the incidents with which the reader is acquainted. he made me repeat, over and over again, all that his mother and brother had said. he was quite touched, knowing the true corsican instincts of lucien, with the care he had taken to reconcile the orlandi and the colona. the clock struck twelve. "i do not wish to hurry you, gentlemen," said louis, "but i think you should return the visit of those gentlemen. it will not do to put ourselves in the wrong." "oh, you may be quite easy on that point," i said, "we have plenty of time before us." "no matter," said the baron giordano, "louis is right." "now," said i, "we must know whether you prefer to fight with sword or pistol?" "ah," he replied, "it is all the same to me; i know as little about one as the other. besides, monsieur de chateau renaud will save me all trouble in choosing; he looks upon himself, no doubt, as the offended party, and as such will retain the choice of weapons." "however, the offence is doubtful, you only offered your arm, as you were asked to do." "my opinion is," said louis, "that all discussion should tend towards a peaceable arrangement of this matter. my tastes are not warlike, as you know. far from being a duellist, this is the first affair of the kind i have had, and just for this very reason i wish to come well out of it." "that is very easy to say, my friend, but you have to play for your life, and you leave to us and before your family the responsibility of the result." "ah, as to that you may make your mind quite easy, i know my mother and brother well enough; they would only ask whether i had conducted myself as a brave man, and if you replied in the affirmative they would be satisfied." "but, hang it, we must know which arm you prefer." "well, if they propose pistols, accept them at once." "that is my advice, also," said the baron. "very well, then, the pistol be it," i replied, "since that is the advice of both of you, but the pistol is a horrible weapon." "have i time to learn to fence between this and to-morrow?" "no, unless, perhaps, you studied grissier, and then you might learn enough to defend yourself." louis smiled. "believe me," said he, "that what will happen tomorrow is already written on high, and whatever we may do we cannot alter that." we then shook hands with him and went downstairs. our first visit was naturally to the nearer of the two gentlemen who had called on behalf of our adversary. we, therefore, visited monsieur rené de chateaugrand, who lived, as we have said, at , rue de la paix. any other visitors were forbidden while we were calling, and we were at once introduced to his presence. we found monsieur de chateaugrand a perfect man of the world--he would not for one moment give us the trouble of calling upon monsieur de boissy--he sent his own servant for him. while we were waiting his appearance, we spoke of everything but the subject which had brought us thither, and in about ten minutes monsieur de boissy arrived. the two gentlemen did not advance any pretensions to the choice of arms, the sword or pistol was equally familiar to m. de chateau renaud. they were quite willing to leave the selection to m. de franchi, or to toss up. a louis was thrown into the air, face for sword, reverse for pistols. the coin came down reverse. so it was decided. the combat was arranged to take place next morning at nine o'clock, in the wood of vincennes, where the adversaries would be placed at twenty paces, and after the third signal given by clapping the hands they were to fire. we returned to convey this decision to louis de franchi. on my return home the same evening, i found the cards of mm. de chateaugrand and de boissy. chapter xvi. at eight o'clock that evening i called upon m. louis de franchi, to inquire whether he had anything to confide to me. but he begged me to wait till next morning, saying: "the night will bring counsel with it." next morning, therefore, instead of calling at eight, which would have given us plenty of time to go to the meeting, i called at half-past seven. louis was already writing in his study. he looked up as i entered, and i noticed how very pale he was. "excuse me," he said, "i am writing to my mother. you will find the morning papers there; if you can amuse yourself with them you will see a charming feuilleton by m. mèry in the _presse._" i took the paper thus indicated, and contrasted the livid pallor of the speaker with his calm and sweet voice. i endeavoured to read, but i could not fix my attention, the letters brought no meaning with them. in about five minutes louis said, "there, i have finished." and he rang for his valet. "joseph," said he, "i am at home to no one, not even to the baron giordano. if he calls, ask him to wait in the _salon._ i wish to be alone with this gentlemen for ten minutes." the valet shut the door and disappeared. "now, my dear alexander, listen. giordano is a corsican, and has corsican ideas. i cannot, therefore, confide all i desire to him. i will ask him to keep the secret, that's all. but as regards yourself, i wish you, if you will permit me, to request that you will promise to observe my instructions." "certainly. is not that the duty of a second?" "a duty more real than you imagine, for you can save our family a second misfortune if you will." "a second misfortune!" i exclaimed. "wait. read this letter." i took the letter addressed to madame de franchi, and read as follows, with growing astonishment:-- "my dearest mother,-- "if i did not know that you possessed spartan fortitude allied with christian submission, i would have used means to prepare you for the blow in store for you--for when you receive this letter you will have but one son! "lucien, my dear brother, love our mother for _both_ in future. "for some time i have been suffering from brain fever. i paid no attention to the premonitory symptoms--the doctor came too late. darling mother, there is no hope for me now. i cannot be saved but by a miracle, and what right have i to suppose that providence will work a miracle on my behalf? "i am writing to you in a lucid interval. if i die, this letter will be posted immediately after my death; for in the selfishness of my love for you i wish that you should know that i am dead without regretting anything in the world except your tenderness and my brother's. "adieu, mother! "do not weep for me. it is the soul that lives, not the body, and when the latter perishes the former will still live and love you. "adieu, lucien! never leave our mother; and remember that she has you only to look to now. "your son, "your brother, "louis de franchi." when i had finished the letter i turned to the writer and said-- "well, and what does this mean?" "do you not understand?" he said. "no!" "i am going to be shot at ten minutes past nine." "you are going to be shot?" "yes." "you are mad! why, what has put such an idea into your head?" "i am not mad, my dear friend. i have been warned--that's all." "warned! by whom?" "my brother has already told you, i think, that the male members of our family enjoy a singular privilege?" "true," i replied, shuddering, in spite of myself. "he spoke to me about apparitions." "quite so. well, then, my father appeared to me last night. that is why you find me so pallid. the sight of the dead pales the living!" i gazed at him with astonishment, not unmixed with terror. "you saw your father last night, you say?" "yes." "and he spoke to you?" "he announced my death!" "oh, it was some terrible dream!" "it was a terrible _reality._" "you were asleep, my friend." "i was wide awake. do you not believe that a father can appear to his son?" i hung my head, for at the bottom of my heart i _did_ believe in the possibility. "what passed between you?" i asked. "it is a very simple and very natural story. i was reading, expecting my father--for i knew if any danger threatened that he would appear to me--and at midnight the lamp burnt low, the door opened slowly, and my father appeared." "in what form?" i asked. "just as if he were alive--dressed in his usual manner--only he was very pale, and his eyes were without expression." "good heavens!" i ejaculated. "he slowly approached my bed. i raised myself with my elbow, and said, 'you are welcome, father.' "he came close, and regarded me fixedly, and it then appeared to me as if some sort of paternal solicitude was expressed in his face." "go on," i said; "this is terrible!" "then his lips moved, and, though i could hear no sound, i seemed to hear his words distinctly, though distant as an echo." "what did he say?" "'think of god, my son!' "'i shall be killed in this duel, then?' i asked. "i saw the tears roll down the pallid visage of the spectre. "'and at what hour?' "he pointed towards the timepiece. i followed the direction of his finger. the clock showed ten minutes past nine. "'so be it, my father,' i said; 'god's will be done. i leave my mother, but i rejoin you.' "then a faint smile passed over his face, he waved me a sign of farewell and glided away. "the door opened as he advanced towards it, and when he had disappeared it shut of its own accord." this recital was so simply and so naturally told, that it was evident to me the event had occurred just as de franchi had related it, or he was the victim of an illusion, which he had believed to be real in consequence of the pre-occupation of his mind, and was therefore all the more terrible. i wiped the perspiration from my forehead. "now," continued louis; "you know my brother, don't you?" "yes." "what do you think he will do when he learns that i have been killed in a duel?" "he will leave sullacaro at once to challenge the man who has killed you." "just so, and if he is killed in his turn, my mother will be thrice a widow; widowed by the loss of her husband, widowed by the loss of her two sons." "ah! i understand. this is fearful!" "well, this must be avoided, and that is why i have written this letter. believing that i have died from brain fever my brother will not seek to avenge me, and my mother will be the more easily consoled, knowing it was the will of god, and that i did not fall by the hand of man. at least----" "at least what?" i repeated. "oh, nothing," replied louis. "i hope that will not come to pass." i saw that he was referring to some personal fear, and i did not insist farther. at this moment the door opened, and the baron de giordano entered. "my dear de franchi," he said, "i respect your privacy more than anything, but it is past eight, and the meeting is appointed for nine; we have quite a league and a half to drive, and we should start at once." "i am ready, my dear fellow," said louis. "i have told my friend here all i had to say to him." he put his finger on his lips as our eyes met. "for you, my friend," he continued, turning to the table and taking up a sealed letter, "there is this; if anything should happen to me read this letter, and i pray you to carry out my request contained in it." "to the very letter," replied the baron. "you were to provide the arms," said louis. "yes," i replied, "but just as i was coming away i found that one of the dogs did not bark properly, so we shall be obliged to get a case of pistols from devisme." louis looked at me, smiled, and held out his hand. he knew quite well that i did not wish to see him killed with my pistols. "have you a carriage?" he asked; "if not i will send joseph for one." "my coupé is here," said the baron, "and can carry three at a pinch; besides, my horses will take us more quickly than a _fiacre._" "let us go," said louis. we went downstairs. joseph was waiting at the door. "shall i accompany you, sir?" he said. "no, joseph," replied his master, "i shall not require your services to-day." then, stepping back a pace and pressing a roll of gold into the man's hand, he said, "take this, and if at any time i have appeared brusque to you, pardon my ill-humour." "oh, monsieur!" said joseph, with tears in his eyes, "what is the meaning of this?" "chut!" said louis, and he sprang into the carriage. "he is a good servant," he murmured, "and if either of you can ever be of use to him i shall be obliged." "is he about to leave you?" said the baron. "no," said louis, smiling; "i am leaving him, that is all!" we stopped at devismes just long enough to secure a case of pistols, powder and bullets, and then resumed our way at a brisk trot. chapter xvii. we reached vincennes at five minutes to nine. another carriage, that of chateau renaud, arrived at the same time. we proceeded into the wood by different paths. our carriages were to await us in the broad avenue. a few minutes later we met at the rendezvous. "gentlemen," said louis, "recollect that no arrangement is possible now." "nevertheless----," i said "oh, my dear sir," he replied, "after what i have told you, you should be the last person to think that any reconciliation is possible." i bowed before this absolute will, which for me was supreme. we left louis near the carriages, and advanced towards m. de boissy and m. de chateaugrand. the baron de giordano carried the case of pistols. the seconds exchanged salutes. "gentlemen," said the baron, "under these circumstances the shortest compliments are the best, for we may be interrupted any moment. we were requested to provide weapons--here they are. examine them if you please. we have just procured them from the gunsmith, and we give you our word of honour that m. louis de franchi has not even seen them." "such an assurance is unnecessary, gentlemen," replied chateaugrand, "we know with whom we have to deal," and taking one pistol, while m. de boissy took the other, the seconds examined the bore. "these are ordinary pistols, and have never been used," said the baron; "now the question is, how shall the principals fire." "my advice," said m. de boissy, "is that they should fire just as they are accustomed to do, together." "very well," said the baron giordano, "then all chances are equalized." "will you advise m. de franchi, then, and we will tell m. de chateau renaud, monsieur." "now that is settled, will you have the goodness to load the pistols?" each one took a pistol, measured carefully the charges of powder, took two bullets at hazard, and rammed them home. while the weapons were being loaded, i approached louis, who received me with a smile. "you won't forget what i asked you?" he said, "and you will obtain from giordano a promise that he will say nothing to my mother, or even to my brother. will you take care, also, that this affair does not get into the papers, or, if it does, that no names are mentioned." "you are still of opinion, then, this duel will prove fatal to you?" i said. "i am more than ever convinced of it," he replied, "but you will do me this justice at least, that i met death like a true corsican." "my dear de franchi, your calmness is so astounding that it gives me hopes that you yourself are not convinced on this point." louis took out his watch. "i have but seven minutes to live," he said; "here is my watch, keep it, i beg of you, in remembrance of me." i took the watch, and shook my friend's hand. "in eight minutes i hope to restore it to you," i said. "don't speak of that," he replied. "see, here are the others." "gentlemen," said the viscount de chateaugrand, "a little distance from here, on the right, is an open space where i had a little practice of my own last year; shall we proceed thither--we shall be less liable to interruption." "if you will lead the way," said the baron giordano, "we will follow." the viscount preceded us to the spot indicated. it was about thirty paces distant, at the bottom of a gentle slope surrounded on all sides by a screen of brushwood, and seemed fitted by nature as the theatre of such an event as was about to take place. "m. martelli," said the viscount, "will you measure the distance by me?" the baron assented, and thus side by side he and m. de chateaugrand measured twenty ordinary paces. i was then left for a few seconds alone with m. de franchi. "_apropos,_" he said, "you will find my will on the table where i was writing when you came in this morning." "good," i replied, "you may rest quite easy on that score." "when you are ready, gentlemen," said the viscount de chateaugrand. "i am here," replied louis. "adieu, dear friend! thank you for all the trouble you have taken for me, without counting all you will have to do for me later on." i pressed his hand. it was cold, but perfectly steady. "now," i said, "forget the apparition of last night, and aim your best." "you remember de freyschutz?" "yes." "well, you know, then, that every bullet has its billet. adieu!" he met the baron giordano, who handed him the pistol; he took it, and, without looking at it, went and placed himself at the spot marked by the handkerchief. m. de chateau renaud had already taken up his position. there was a moment of mournful silence, during which the young men saluted their seconds, then their adversary's seconds, and finally each other. m. de chateau renaud appeared perfectly accustomed to these affairs, and was smiling like a man sure of success; perhaps, also, he was aware that louis de franchi never had fired a pistol in his life. louis was calm and collected, his fine head looked almost like a marble bust. "well, gentlemen," said chateau renaud, "you see we are waiting." louis gave me one last glance, and smiling, raised his eyes to heaven. "now, gentlemen, make ready," said chateaugrand. then, striking his hands one against the other, he cried-- "one! two! three!" the two shots made but one detonation. an instant afterwards i saw louis de franchi turn round twice and then fall upon one knee. m. de chateau renaud remained upright. the lappel of his coat had been shot through. i rushed towards louis de franchi. "you are wounded?" i said. he attempted to reply, but in vain. a red froth appeared upon his lips. at the same moment he let fall his pistol, and pressed his hand against his right side. on looking closely, we perceived a tiny hole not large enough for the point of a little finger. i begged the baron to hasten to the barracks, and bring the surgeon of the regiment. but de franchi collected all his strength, and stopping giordano, signed that all assistance would be useless. this exertion caused him to fall on both knees. m. de chateau renaud kept at a distance, but his seconds now approached the wounded man. meanwhile, we had opened his coat and torn away his waistcoat and shirt. the ball had entered the right side, below the sixth rib, and had come out a little above the left hip. at each breath the wounded man drew, the blood welled out. it was evident he was mortally hurt. "m. de franchi," said the viscount de chateaugrand, "we regret extremely the issue of this sad affair. we trust you bear no malice against m. de chateau renaud." "yes, yes," murmured the wounded man, "i forgive him." then turning towards me with an effort he said, "remember your promise!" "i swear to you i will do all you wish." "and now," he said, smiling, "look at the watch!" he breathed a long sigh, and fell back. that sigh was his last. i looked at the watch, it was exactly ten minutes past nine. i turned to louis de franchi--he was dead. we took back the body to the rue de helder, and while the baron went to make the usual declaration to the commissary of police, i went upstairs with joseph. the poor lad was weeping bitterly. as i entered, my eyes unconsciously turned towards the timepiece; it marked ten minutes past nine. no doubt he had forgotten to wind it, and it had stopped at that hour. the baron giordano returned almost immediately with the officers, who put the seals on the property. the baron wished to advise the relatives and friends of the affair, but i begged him, before he did so, to read the letter that louis had handed to him before we set out that morning. the letter contained his request that the cause of his death should be concealed from his brother, and that his funeral should be as quiet as possible. the baron giordano charged himself with these details, and i sought mm. de boissy and de chateaugrand, to request their silence respecting the unhappy affair, and to induce chateau renaud to leave paris for a time, without mentioning my reason for this last suggestion. they promised me to do all they could to meet my views, and as i walked to chateau renaud's house i posted the letter to madame de franchi, informing her that her son had died of brain fever. chapter xviii. contrary to custom, the duel was very little talked about; even the papers were silent on the subject. a few intimate friends followed the body to père la chaise. chateau renaud refused to quit paris, although pressed to do so. at one time i thought of following louis' letter to corsica with one from myself, but although my intentions were good, the misleading statements i should have to make were so repugnant to me that i did not do so. besides, i was quite convinced that louis himself had fully weighed before he had decided upon his course of action. so at the risk of being thought indifferent, or even ungrateful, i kept silence, and i was sure that the baron giordano had done as much. five days after the duel, at about eleven o'clock in the evening, i was seated by my table in a rather melancholy frame of mind, when my servant entered and shutting the door quickly behind him said, in an agitated whisper, that m. de franchi desired to speak with me. i looked at him steadily; he was quite pale. "whom did you say, victor?" i asked. "oh, monsieur, in truth i hardly know myself." "what m. de franchi wishes to speak to me?" "monsieur's friend. the gentleman who was here two or three times." "you are mad, my good man. do you not know that i had the misfortune to lose my friend five days ago?" "yes, sir; and that is the reason i am so upset. he rang, i was in the ante-chamber, and opened the door, but recoiled at his appearance. however, he entered, and asked if you were at home. i replied that you were, and then he said, 'go and announce m. de franchi, who wishes to speak with your master,' and so i came." "you are stupid, victor, the ante-chamber is not properly lighted. you were asleep, no doubt, and did not hear correctly. go, and ask the gentleman his name." "it would be useless, sir. i swear to you i am not deceived. i heard him, and saw him, distinctly." "then go and show him in." victor turned tremblingly to the door, opened it, and then standing still in the room, said-- "will monsieur be kind enough to come in?" i immediately heard the footsteps of my visitor crossing the ante-chamber, and sure enough, at the door there appeared m. de franchi. i confess that i was terrified, and took a step backwards as he approached. "i trust you will excuse my appearance so late," said my visitor; "i only arrived ten minutes ago, and you will understand that i could not wait till tomorrow without seeing you." "oh, my dear lucien," i exclaimed, advancing quickly, and embracing him. "then it is really you." and, in spite of myself, tears really came into my eyes. "yes," he said, "it is i." i made a calculation of the time that had elapsed, and could scarcely imagine that he had received the letter--it could hardly have reached ajaccio yet. "good heavens! then you do not know what has happened?" i exclaimed. "i know all," was his reply. "victor," i said, turning towards my servant, who was still rather embarrassed, "leave us, and return in a quarter of an hour with some supper. you will have something to eat, and will sleep here of course." "with great pleasure," he replied. "i have eaten nothing since we left auxerre. then, as to lodgings, as nobody knew me in the rue de helder, or rather," he added, with a sad smile, "as everybody recognized me there, they declined to let me in, so i left the whole house in a state of alarm." "in fact, my dear lucien, your resemblance to louis is so very striking that even i myself was just now taken aback." "how," exclaimed victor, who had not yet ventured to leave us. "is monsieur the brother----" "yes," i replied, "go and get supper." victor went out, and we found ourselves alone. i took lucien by the hand, and leading him to an easy chair seated myself near him. "i suppose (i began) you were on your way to paris when the fatal news met you?" "no, i was at sullacaro!" "impossible! why your brother's letter could not have reached you." "you forget the ballad of _burger,_ my dear alexander--_the dead travel fast!_" i shuddered! "i do not understand," i said. "have you forgotten what i told you about the apparitions familiar to our family?" "do you mean to say that you have _seen_ your dead brother?"-- "yes."--"when?" "on the night of the th inst." "and he told you everything?"--"all!" "that he was dead?" "he told me that he had been killed. the dead never lie!" "and he said in what way?" "in a duel." "by whom?" "by m. de chateau renaud." "oh no, lucien, that cannot be," i exclaimed, "you have obtained your information in some other way." "do you think i am likely to joke at such a time?" "i beg your pardon. but truly what you tell me is so strange, and everything that relates to you and your brother so out of ordinary nature, that----" "that you hesitate to believe it. well, i can understand the feeling. but wait. my brother was hit here," he continued, as he opened his shirt and showed me the blue mark of the bullet on his flesh, "he was wounded above the sixth rib on the right side--do you believe that?" "as a matter of fact," i replied, "that is the very spot where he was hit." "and the bullet went out here," continued lucien, putting his finger just above his left hip. "it is miraculous," i exclaimed. "and now," he went on, "do you wish me to tell you the time he died?" "tell me!" "at ten minutes past nine." "that will do, lucien;" i said, "but i lose myself in questions. give me a connected narrative of the events. i should prefer it." chapter xix. lucien settled himself comfortably in his arm-chair and looking at me fixedly, resumed:-- "it is very simple. the day my brother was killed i was riding very early, and went out to visit the shepherds, when soon after i had looked at my watch and replaced it in my pocket, i received a blow in the side, so violent that i fainted. when i recovered i found myself lying on the ground in the arms of the orlandini, who was bathing my face with water. my horse was close by. "'well,' said orlandini, 'what has happened?' "'i know no more about it than you do. did you not hear a gun fired?' "'no.' "'it appears to me that i have received a ball in the side,' and i put my hand upon the place where i felt pain. "'in the first place,' replied he 'there has been no shot fired, and besides, there is no mark of a bullet on your clothes.' "'then,' i replied, 'it must be my brother who is killed.' "'ah, indeed,' he replied, 'that is a different thing.' i opened my coat and i found a mark, only at first it was quite red and not blue as i showed you just now. "for an instant i was tempted to return to sullacaro, feeling so upset both mentally and bodily, but i thought of my mother, who did not expect me before supper time, and i should be obliged to give her a reason for my return, and i had no reason to give. "on the other hand, i did not wish to announce my brother's death to her until i was absolutely certain of it. so i continued my way, and returned home about six o'clock in the evening. "my poor mother received me as usual. she evidently had no suspicion that anything was wrong. "immediately after supper, i went upstairs, and as i passed through the corridor the wind blew my candle out. "i was going downstairs to get a light when, passing my brother's room, i noticed a gleam within. "i thought that griffo had been there and left a lamp burning. "i pushed open the door; i saw a taper burning near my brother's bed, and on the bed my brother lay extended, naked and bleeding. "i remained for an instant, i confess, motionless with terror, then i approached. "i touched the body, he was already dead. "he had received a ball through the body, which had struck in the same place where i had felt the blow, and some drops of blood were still falling from the wound. "it was evident to me that my brother had been shot. "i fell on my knees, and leaning my head against the bed, i prayed fervently. "when i opened my eyes again the room was in total darkness, the taper had been extinguished, the vision had disappeared. "i felt all over the bed, it was empty. "now i believe i am as brave as most people, but when i tottered out of that room i declare to you my hair was standing on end and the perspiration pouring from my forehead. "i went downstairs for another candle. my mother noticed me, and uttered a cry of surprise. "'what is the matter with you,' she said, 'and why are you so pale?' "'there is nothing the matter,' i replied, as i returned upstairs. "this time the candle was not extinguished. i looked into my brother's room; it was empty. "the taper had completely disappeared, nor was there any trace of the body on the bed. "on the ground was my first candle, which i now relighted. "notwithstanding this absence of proof, i had seen enough to be convinced that at ten minutes past nine that morning my brother had been killed. i went to bed in a very agitated frame of mind. "as you may imagine, i did not sleep very well, but at length fatigue conquered my agitation and i got a little rest. "then all the circumstances came before me in the form of a dream. i saw the scene as it had passed. i saw the man who had killed him. i heard his name. he is called m. de chateau renaud." "alas! that is all too true," i replied; "but what have you come to paris for?" "i have come to kill the man who has killed my brother." "to kill him?" "oh, you may rest assured, not in the corsican fashion from behind a wall or through a hedge, but in the french manner, with white gloves on, a frilled shirt, and white cuffs." "and does madame de franchi know you have come to paris with this intention?" "she does." "and she has let you come?" "she kissed me, and said, 'go.' my mother is a true corsican." "and so you came." "here i am." "but your brother would not wish to be avenged were he alive." "well, then," replied lucien, smiling bitterly, "he must have changed his mind since he died." at this moment the valet entered, carrying the supper tray. lucien ate like a man without a care in the world. after supper i showed him to his room. he thanked me, shook me by the hand, and wished me good-night. next morning he came into my room as soon as the servant told him i was up. "will you accompany me to vincennes?" he said. "if you are engaged i will go alone." "alone!" i replied. "how will you be able to find the spot?" "oh, i shall easily recognize it. do you not remember that i saw it in my dream?" i was curious to know how far he was correct in this. "very well," i said, "i will go with you." "get ready, then, while i write to giordano. you will let victor take the note for me, will you not?" "he is at your disposal." "thank you." ten minutes afterwards the letter was despatched. i then sent for a cabriolet and we drove to vincennes. when we reached the cross-paths lucien said, "we are not far off now, i think." "no; twenty paces further on we shall be at the spot where we entered the forest." "here we are," said the young man, as he stopped the carriage. it was, indeed, the very spot! lucien entered the wood without the least hesitation, and as if he had known the place for years. he walked straight to the dell, and when there turned to the eastward, and then advancing he stopped at the place where his brother had fallen: stooping down he perceived the grass wore the red tinge of blood. "this is the place," he said. then he lightly kissed the spot where his brother had lain. rising with flashing eyes he paced the dell to the spot whence chateau renaud had fired. "this is where he stood," he said, stamping his foot, "and here he shall lie to-morrow." "how!" i exclaimed. "to-morrow!" "yes, unless he is a coward. for to-morrow he shall give me my revenge." "but, my dear lucien," i said, "the custom in france is, as you are aware, that a duel cannot take place without a certain reason. chateau renaud called out your brother who had provoked him, but he has had nothing to do with you." "ah, really! so chateau renaud had the right to quarrel with my brother because he offered his arm to a woman whom chateau renaud had scandalously deceived, and according to you he had the right to challenge my brother. m. de chateau renaud killed my brother, who had never handled a pistol: he shot him with the same sense of security that a man would shoot a hare; and yet you say i have no right to challenge chateau renaud. nonsense!" i bowed without speaking. "besides," he continued, "you have nothing to do with it. you may be quite easy. i wrote to giordano this morning, and when we return to paris all will have been arranged. do you think that m. de chateau renaud will refuse?" "m. de chateau renaud has unfortunately a reputation for courage which may serve to remove any doubt you may entertain on that score." "all the better," said lucien. "let us go to breakfast." we returned to the road, and entering the cabriolet, i told the man to drive to the rue rivoli. "no," said lucien, "you shall breakfast with me. coachman, the _café de paris;_ is not that the place where my brother usually dined?" "i believe so," i replied. "well, that is where i requested giordano to meet us." "to the café de paris, then." in half an hour we were set down at the restaurant. chapter xx. lucien's appearance created quite a sensation in consequence of his remarkable likeness to his brother. the news of louis' death had gone abroad--not, perhaps, in all its details, but it was known, and lucien's appearance astonished many. i requested a private room, saying that we were expecting the baron giordano, and we got a room at the end. lucien began to read the papers carelessly, as if he were oblivious of everything. while we were seated at breakfast giordano arrived. the two young men had not met for four or five years, nevertheless, a firm clasp of the hand was the only demonstration they permitted themselves. "well, everything is settled," he said. "then m. de chateau renaud has accepted?" "yes, on condition, however, that after he has fought you he shall be left in peace." "oh, he may be quite easy; i am the last of the de franchi. have you seen him, or his seconds?" "i saw him; he will notify mm. de boissy and de chateaugrand. the weapons, the hour and the place will be the same." "capital, sit down and have some breakfast." the baron seated himself, and we spoke on indifferent topics. after breakfast lucien begged us to introduce him to the commissioner of police, who had sealed up his brother's property, and to the proprietors of the house at which his brother had lived, for he wished to sleep that night, the last night that separated him from his vengeance, in louis' room. all these arrangements took up time, so it was not till five o'clock that lucien entered his brother's apartment. respecting his grief, we left him there alone. we had arranged to meet him again next morning at eight o'clock, and he begged me to bring the same pistols, and to buy them if they were for sale. i went to devismes and purchased the weapons. next morning, at eight o'clock i was with lucien. when i entered, he was seated writing at the same table, where his brother had sat writing. he smiled when he saw me, but he was very pale. "good morning," he said, "i am writing to my mother." "i hope you will be able to write her a less doleful letter than poor louis wrote eight days ago." "i have told her that she may rest happy, for her son is avenged." "how are you able to speak with such certainty?" "did not my brother announce to you his own approaching death? well, then, i announce to you the death of m. de chateau renaud." he rose as he spoke, and touching me on the temple, said-- "there, that's where i shall put my bullet." "and yourself?" "i shall not be touched." "but, at least, wait for the issue of the duel, before you send your letter." "it would be perfectly useless." he rang, the servant appeared. "joseph," said he, "take this letter to the post." "but have you seen your dead brother?" "yes," he answered. it is a very strange thing the occurrence of these two duels so close together, and in each of which one of the two combatants was doomed. while we were talking the baron giordano arrived. it was eight o'clock, so we started. lucien was very anxious to arrive first, so we were on the field ten minutes before the hour. our adversaries arrived at nine o'clock punctually. they came on horseback, followed by a groom also on horseback. m. de chateau renaud had his hand in the breast of his coat. i at first thought he was carrying his arm in a sling. the gentlemen dismounted twenty paces from us, and gave their bridles to the groom. monsieur de chateau renaud remained apart, but looked steadfastly at lucien, and i thought he became paler. he turned aside and amused himself knocking off the little flowers with his riding whip. "well, gentlemen, here we are!" said mm. de chateaugrand and de boissy, "but you know our conditions. this duel is to be the last, and no matter what the issue may be, m. de chateau renaud shall not have to answer to any one for the double result." "that is understood," we replied. then lucien bowed assent. "you have the weapons, gentlemen?" said the viscount. "here are the same pistols." "and they are unknown to m. de franchi?" "less known to him than to m. de chateau renaud who has already used them once. m. de franchi has not even seen them." "that is sufficient, gentlemen. come, chateau renaud!" we immediately entered the wood, and each one felt, as he revisited the fatal spot, that a tragedy more terrible still was about to be enacted. we soon arrived in the little dell. m. de chateau renaud, thanks to his great self-command, appeared quite calm, but those who had seen both encounters could appreciate the difference. from time to time he glanced under his lids at lucien, and his furtive looks denoted a disquietude approaching to fear. perhaps it was the great resemblance between the brothers that struck him, and he thought he saw in lucien the avenging shade of louis. while they were loading the pistols i saw him draw his hand from the breast of his coat. the fingers were enveloped in a handkerchief as if to prevent their twitching. lucien waited calmly, like a man who was sure of his vengeance. without being told, lucien walked to the place his brother had occupied, which compelled chateau renaud to take up his position as before. lucien received his weapon with a joyous smile. when chateau renaud took his pistol he became deadly pale. then he passed his hand between his cravat and his neck as if he were suffocating. no one can conceive with what feelings of terror i regarded this young man, handsome, rich, and elegant, who but yesterday believed he had many years still before him, and who to-day, with the sweat on his brow and agony at his heart, felt he was condemned. "are you ready, gentlemen?" asked m. de chateaugrand. "yes," replied lucien. m. de chateau renaud made a sign in the affirmative. as for me i was obliged to turn away, not daring to look upon the scene. i heard the two successive clappings of the hands, and at the third the simultaneous reports of the pistols. i turned round. chateau renaud was lying on the ground, stark dead; he had not uttered a sound nor made a movement. i approached the body, impelled by that invincible curiosity which compels one to see the end of a catastrophe. the bullet had entered the dead man's temple, at the very spot that lucien had indicated to me previously. i ran to him, he was calm and motionless, but seeing me coming towards him he let fall the pistol, and threw himself into my arms. "ah, my brother, my poor brother!" he cried as he burst into a passion of sobs. these were the first tears that the young man had shed. __________ woodfall & kinder, printers, milford lane, strand, london, w.c. transcriber's note this transcription is based on images scanned by google from a copy in the bodleian library: dbooks.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/books/pdfs/ .pdf the scanned images (without the original cover image) are also available through google: books.google.com/books?id=g gnaaaaqaaj variant spellings such as "trowsers" and "examing" have been retained, and in general, inconsistencies of punctuation and italicization were also not changed. however, when the punctuation seemed problematic, a copy of the french text was consulted, and in a few cases the punctuation was changed as noted below. the copy consulted, which was printed in paris in by michel lévy frères, is posted by the internet archive: archive.org/details/lesfrrescorses dumagoog the following changes were noted: - p. : "yes," he repled, "to a rendezvous."--changed "repled" to "replied". - p. : "do you rembember on what occasion?"--changed "rembember" to "remember". - p. : two lines of dialogue ("yes, i." and "do you wish me to tell you why you have come into this province of sartène?") have been combined into one line. the french text, which does not have a line break, reads: "eh! mon dieu, oui, moi. voulez-vous que je vous dise ce que vous êtes venu chercher dans la province de sartène?" - p. : ...you can tell us when you leave, if you wish, if not, you need not inform us...--changed comma after "wish" to a semicolon in keeping with the french text. - p. : "...the mischief arose between the orlandi and the colona.--added a closing double quotation mark. - p. : ...and flew into that of the colona."--deleted closing quotation mark because character continues speaking in the next paragraph. - p. : "...one of these two parties this evening; no doubt?"--changed semicolon to a comma in keeping with french text. - p. : '"giudice,' she would say, 'how do you expect...--reversed order of quotation marks at beginning of sentence. - p. : "well, then," said he, "let us embrace. i can only deliver that which i am able to receive."--the quoted dialogue appears to be spoken by the narrator even though the translation ascribes it to lucien. the french text reads: "eh bien, alors, embrassons-nous; je ne puis rendre que ce que j'aurai reçu." the dialogue tag "said he" and the punctuation marks used to set off the dialogue tag have been deleted so that the translation more accurately reflects the french text. - p. : "then" i continued...--inserted a comma after "then". - p. : "well."--changed period to a question mark in keeping with the french text. - p. : "at what time."--changed period to a question mark in keeping with the french text. - p. : "what is the point then."--changed period to a question mark in keeping with the french text. - p. : "but surely you have some reason to give for your change of opinion? just now you were insisting..."--changed question mark to a semicolon in keeping with french text. - p. : "i did not then know that we should meet chateau renaud,"--changed comma to a period. - p. : ...replied v----. there are so...--inserted an opening double quotation mark before "there". - p. : "m. de cahteau renaud is quite a man of the world...--changed "cahteau" to "chateau". - p. : "...you had never handled a sword or a pistol.--added a closing quotation mark. - p. : we entered the _salle à manger,_ and put aside...--changed _salle_ to all lower case to be consistent with elsewhere in the text. - p. : "well, if they propose pistols, accept them at once?"--changed question mark to a period in keeping with french text. - p. : ...and said, 'you are welcome, father.'"--deleted closing quotation mark because character continues speaking in the next paragraph. - p. : "just so," and if he is killed in his turn...--deleted closing double quotation mark after "so,". - p. : ...so we shall be obliged to get a case of pistols from devisme.--added closing quotation mark to end of sentence. - p. : ...nor was there any trace of the body on the bed,--changed comma at end of sentence to a period. - p. : lucien eat like a man...--changed "eat" to "ate". - p. : the two young men had not met for four or five years, nevertheless, a firm clasp...--changed comma after "years" to a semicolon in keeping with french text. - p. : "and yourself."--changed period to a question mark in keeping with french text.