Soon afterwards, sauntered up a big, black-eyed, black-bearded man, dressed very poorly, but with a keen intelligent face, who, after wishing us good evening, sat down on the wall beside us for a good chat.
This man was very dirty, and his beard appeared to have a tendency to run down his chest where the ragged open shirt left it bare; but he was a good talker, and had plenty to say for himself.
As usual, he opened the conversation by inquiring our nationality and our destination, asking also the name of our coachman, and approving of our choice of Antonio, dubbing him "un charmant garçon," and a friend of his.
The friendship, however, appeared unreciprocated, as Antonio, next morning, on being questioned about some of the affirmations of our new acquaintance, remarked, with his usual brevity, and with a somewhat scornful lip, "Ah! he said so? Voilà! he is a blagueur!"
But we speedily diverged to more important topics, and it appeared that our companion was a literary and patriotic character. Corsica, he said, was in a bad way, but the abolition of the Jesuits was the best thing that had ever been done for her. He himself had laboured night and day to get a Protestant priest for Vico. He was not a Protestant himself—no; but that was not of so much account. What they wanted was some one who would preach to the people about the evils and necessities of their daily life; some one who had common sense and religious feeling, not a man who could do nothing but beg, and talk about the infallibility of the Pope. He had written a letter to the Patriot newspaper on the subject: he often wrote letters for the papers. In fact, our friend evidently belonged to the liberal party of more advanced thinkers in the island. His remarks were full of shrewdness, not unmixed with conceit and a little bombast; and he was a very different specimen from the ordinary Corsican. He boasted that he was the best guide in Corsica; and pointed out to us a high conical hill rising just above, where he said the wild boar would now be disporting themselves in no mean numbers, and where, last season, he had escorted one or two German gentlemen to first-rate sport.
Below this wooded hill, on the slope of the lower one, hanging above the gorge where winds the silver thread of the Liamone, stands a picturesque white convent, now disused, but making a lovely picture against its background of circling hills and groves of pines.
Leaving this expedition for the morning, we bade adieu to our communicative friend, and turned in the opposite direction, passing through the village, and descending the hill past the tall wooden cross which guarded its entrance, through most lovely scenery. In every direction rose forest-covered hill, snowy Alp and rocky height, while far below, two rivers shone and gurgled through the bastioned valley. The sun was setting over mountains of every hue and form, and casting deep shadows on the rocks below; birds were singing in all the groves, and little mountain streams ran from mossy bed and ferny hollow across the roadway.
The path before us was like some vision of patriarchal times.
Flocks of goats and kids were coming home to shelter, none driven, but all following the master's footsteps, coming to his voice, many a one running alongside like a dog, or putting up a soft nose to be caressed, little kids of every colour danced in and out amongst them, skipping up into the air, or standing playfully on their hind legs to butt at each other.
Every man, as he passed, offered his salutation with the same grave politeness, and only the younger ones so far forgot their manners as to stand still a moment to stare at the strangers.