The almost inaccessible mountains are still the resort of escaped bandits (outlaws)—pursued by the weak arm of the law—who, occasionally bringing down their gend'arme, are never known to interfere with a stranger. Their object is not robbery, but concealment from justice, and the crime for which it follows them is generally the result of some private feud.
In all this, I speak of the lower orders, the Corsicans purs et simples. The upper classes are not Corsican at all, save in their love for their country.
A Corsican gentleman essays to speak French like a Parisian, and imitates both the French manners and character. He is generally lively and talkative, and has quite cast away the ignorant apathy of his poorer brethren regarding the value of money. He is the advocate of commerce and railways, and all modern improvements, and dreadfully ashamed of such barbarous national customs as the vendetta, generally flatly denying that such a thing exists at the present day, and boldly telling you that not a bandit is now to be found in the mountains.
When we expressed our intention of visiting this unknown land, many were the warning voices raised to intimidate us by alarmed friends, and we felt that we were bold women to stick to our project. One by one, the terrible prophecies poured in, like so many shadows of Job's messengers, until the stoutest heart might have been excused a quiver.
The plague, malaria, sunstroke, serpents, brigands, bugs—these were a few of the horrors held out by sensible people, some of them travellers, for our consideration.
Notwithstanding these reports, however, we persevered; and the result showed how much faith is to be given in such cases to friendly advice.
Each of the threatened perils turned out, more or less, nothing but a phantom.
The truth of the matter is, that Corsica is a remarkably easy country in which to travel, totally without difficulties or dangers of any sort, to the person who is only careful to select a good coachman as his pioneer.
On the other hand, the accommodation is often extremely rough, and it is by no means the place for an invalid or a fastidious person.
The cooking is nearly always good, and the dinners excellent; but the village inns are sometimes filthy, and the bedrooms horrible. There is only one good hotel—really excellent—in the whole island, and that is at Ajaccio; and people who travel in Corsica must be prepared, not only for broken windows, sour bread, and no butter, but for bad smells, black floors, and a total absence of all the decencies of life. They will also occasionally find an army of black beetles in their rooms, and sometimes something worse.