What name so very catchy, O!
Is there a town can match thee, O,
To turn adrift a scratch trio
Of English dames, Ajaccio?"
This verse I took, as a sort of mental pill, last thing before getting into bed, repeating the dose whenever I happened to wake in the night. At breakfast time, and whilst employed at my toilet, I continued the same process, mixing Ajaccio up with coffee and rolls; and, before noon, had the comfort of feeling that the disease was cured, and the national sneeze effectually imitated.
This trifling incident is only named for the benefit of any future English travellers afflicted with a like difficulty.
Ajaccio is one of the most delightful little towns possible for a residence. Both climate and population wear a sunny air that can hardly fail, one would think, to put even the proverbial British grumbler into good spirits and a good temper.
The views on every side are smiling and lovely, without being oppressively grand. For everyday use such a landscape wears best, as, in domestic life, a cheerful comely woman is preferable to a magnificently attired belle.
Soft purple hills, a blue, gently heaving sea, and pretty white villas, nestling amongst groves of trees, are the sights of Ajaccio, all melting and glowing in the glory of the mid-day sun, or gathering, every half-hour, new lights and shadows, till the haze of evening.
The town itself is far cleaner than any other in Corsica; the streets are gay and busy, with a French liveliness; the inhabitants have a remarkable talent for smiling, and the tradespeople are the most civil in the world. Their politeness absolutely knows no bounds. They place the most unbounded confidence in strangers; and you may enter a shop without your purse and carry off an armful of purchases, to the entire satisfaction of the owner, who quite blushes on being told of your name and residence.