It is a most incomprehensible state of things to the practical British mind, but a characteristic not confined to Corsica. I cannot resist quoting a passage from Mr. Hamerton's book, "Round My House."
"The contrast between certain races and others," he says, "in regard to the sort of pride which scorns self-help, is very striking, and it is worth remark that a certain form of nobleness appears to be almost incompatible with the watchful activity of really effectual self-help. The Highlanders of Scotland and the Arabs of Algeria have both a certain sentiment about self-help which is far from the English feeling, and still further from American or French feeling upon the subject. The Highlander will, no doubt, work a little when absolutely compelled by what to him appears unavoidable necessity, but he takes no delight in his work, and feels degraded by it. He will submit to any amount of inconvenience sooner than apply himself heartily to remedy it." Mr. Hamerton goes on to quote two cases in point, both of which came under his notice but lately in the Highlands.
One was that of a congregation divided from their parish church, in all but dry weather, by an impassable stream, which it would have been easy enough to span with the simplest of wooden bridges, but which remained for years unregarded, whilst the population preferred, to a few hours' work, the constant trouble of going by a long circuit to their church.
The other case was that of a landing-stage, always dangerous on rough and stormy days, where a little pier might have been easily run out; but where things remained in statu quo year after year, to the destruction of property, by reason of the inertness of the surrounding boat-owners.
But meanwhile we, on our way to Sainte Lucie, were mounting higher and higher towards the clouds, among scenery that was becoming grand. The purple ranges of serrated peaks that stood out against the sky were very fine in their misty outlines; and, on the mountain side just above us, three villages, one beneath the other, caught the last lights of the setting sun. The upper one, called St. Henri, was distinguished by its picturesque church spire standing out among the green trees and grey houses; the lower one was Olmiche, and the middle one, Sainte Lucie di Tallano. On the left of Tallano, rose a fine building like a church, but which, we were informed, was a deserted convent, with a treasured picture within its walls.
As we toiled slowly up the heights, many a small unpretending black cross of wood, half covered by macchie, rose from the hills or stood beside the roadway, marking the place where life had been lost on this dangerous path, or taken by the hand of fellow-man through robbery and revenge.
The situation of Tallano was lovely; but the appearance of the village did not promise luxurious quarters for the night. The entrance to the little inn was not bad for Corsica; but the bare little salle à manger and comfortless bedrooms were uninviting. The floors of the latter were dirty, the furniture broken, and chiefly conspicuous by its absence, and the air within close and muggy.
However, here we were to stay for the night—nolentes volentes—so it was of no use grumbling over the inevitable. There were but two rooms to spare, but a canapie was brought in for No. 3.
As a Corsican traveller, I give this piece of advice strongly: by all means eschew canapies. They are usually one foot wide, and of the consistency of a deal board; and, having been used as couches by the family, their friends, and the children for years, without ever a dusting, or the advantages, possessed by a bed, of changed sheets and counterpanes, are, as a rule, indescribably filthy and unpleasant.
If, however, as at Tallano, a bed is not procurable, and you are very tired, a canapie is perhaps preferable to bare and dirty boards, over which disports the nocturnal beetle; and the best plan then is to shut eyes and nose as closely as possible, and dream of your own dear cot at home.