"It is horribly true," said No. 3. And it was impossible not to feel a sense of humiliation in the discovery that the national disgrace had even reached the ears of this little out-of-the-way island in the Mediterranean. "But in England, too, there is now a large band of total abstainers, formed for the sake of helping the drunkards. Have you any in Corsica?"
"No," said Antonio, thoughtfully; "we have not heard of that in our country. But we see that many of the English who come over to Corsica are great drinkers." He then spoke of an English gentleman, with whose name we were well acquainted, whose passion for drink was the astonishment of Corsicans since he came to live amongst them. "Poor man," he said, "he is no man's enemy but his own; he is kind and amiable, but, voila! he will go on now till he kills himself. The English are terrible people to drink when they begin. They drink more than our people do; and they drink brandy. I remember, a short time ago, taking an English party several tours. There were a lady and a gentleman, both quite young, and a little boy; and we drove about to see some of the forests. All the time he was drinking: he never stopped it. Once we stayed a day or two at a village up amongst the hills; and he could not walk in the evenings when he came out of the public-house. I drove him at last to Ajaccio. I knew he could not live long, for he had chest disease, and could not stand the drink. I was only away a few days with another party into the country, and when I returned I asked after the Anglais, but he was already dead."
About a mile before reaching Bocognano we passed a rough pile of broken wood, lying by the road-side. This was where yesterday, a charrette, laden with forest trunks, had upset and broken upon the sharp turn, fortunately, however, without killing either mules or drivers, as is too often the case in these waggon accidents.
Often during our drives we noticed that, in the most precipitous places, at the most awkward turns of a mountain road or of a narrow bridge, the slight protecting parapet had been knocked down and destroyed by the heavy wheels or long timbers of these over-loaded carts.
It is said that the Corsicans know much better how to load a waggon than we English. But certainly, the number and size of the pine-trunks carried down in these charrettes from the mountain-side, drawn by the four or six mules, looked appalling to our eyes.
The charrettiers, or drivers, of the waggons, who work for some contractor on the plains, are badly paid and hardly worked, and their occupation is one of considerable danger. Accidents are frequent upon the narrow bad roads, some of which are made so slightly, of planks jutting out from the steep hill-side, that you can see daylight through to the precipice underneath.
These, of course, often break down. But a still more common misfortune is the upsetting of the charrette at a corner, by the long pieces of timber catching the side of the hill, or by the simple overbalancing of the waggon on the uneven road. In either case, immediate destruction to both waggons and horses is the infallible consequence, as they lurch over into the descending precipice. In some cases, of course, the drivers, walking along beside their waggons, are saved; but, as they are nearly always stretched on the top of their timber, and sometimes have so far forgotten prudence as to fall asleep, they constantly share the fate of their horses, and are hurried to a speedy and certain death. Antonio pointed out to us, near Ghisoni further on, a little awkward wooden bridge at a precipitous turn, where, the last few years, no fewer than five charrettes have fallen over, in every case killing the poor beasts, and in many cases, their drivers.
Bocognano is in a most exquisite situation, completely under the lee of Monte d'Oro, stupendous and purple,—and surrounded on every side by groves of delicate chestnuts, and by picturesque hill and ravine; but it is a hopelessly dirty village, and looked as uninviting in that respect in to-day's sunshine, as it did in the mud and mist of our former visit.
Hôtel Mouvrages, a filthy-looking broken-down tenement in the centre of the village, was the worst in appearance of any we had yet seen. The staircase, dark and ruinous, was redolent of various horrid smells, and both the greasy little salle à manger upstairs, and the two stuffy bedrooms, were most unpleasant to view.
"This is dreadful, Antonio," said I, as he followed, laden with our wraps, into the small foul sitting-room, where a few half-washed garments hung out of the grimy window-sills and assisted to import a general richness to the atmosphere; "we can never stop here. What shall we do?"