223 lighted up his lifeless features, told her, even in the dark, that it was he. Maria took the dead man on her shoulders-she grew as strong as a man. She bore the body into the church of St. Francis.

There she sat down exhausted on the steps of an altar, over which burned the lamp of the Virgin. The dead Bernardo lay on her knees, as the dead Christ on the knees of Mary! This picture is in the south called Pietà.

Not a sound in the church. The Virgin's lamp flickers— without, a gust of wind hisses by.

Then Maria raised herself. She let the dead Bernardo glide down on the steps of the altar. She went to the spot where the tomb of Bernardo's fathers was situated. She opened the grave. Then she took the dead, kissed him, and let him down into the grave, and closed it up again. Maria knelt long before the image of the Virgin, and prayed that Bernardo's soul might have peace in heaven, and then she went quietly back to her house and her chamber.

When day broke, Bernardo's corpse was missed from the bodies in the convent square. The news fled through the village that it had disappeared, and the soldiers beat an alarm. No one doubted but that the family Leccia had taken down their kinsman by night from the scaffold; and their house was immediately entered, and they arrested and thrown, hung with chains, into the dungeon. Condemned to death by the law, they were to suffer death, although they denied the deed.

Maria Gentili heard in her chamber what had happened. Without saying a word, she hurried out of the house to Count De Vaux, who was come to Oletta. She threw herself at his feet, and prayed for the release of the prisoners. She avowed the deed. "I have buried my lover," said she; "my life is forfeit here is my head; but leave in freedom those who suffer innocently."

The Count would not at first believe what he heard; for he considered it equally impossible that a weak maiden should possess such heroism, as that she should have the power to accomplish what Maria had. When he had convinced himself of the truth of her assertion, he was deeply affected, and moved to tears. "Go," said he, "magnanimous girl, and thyself release thy bridegroom's kinsmen, and may God reward thy heroism !" On the same day they took the six bodies from the scaffold, gave them all Christian burial.

and

CHAPTER VII.

A RIDE THROUGH THE LAND OF OREZZA TO MOROSAGLIA.

I WISHED to go from Oreto, through the land of Orezza, to Morosaglia, the native place of Paoli. Marc Antonio had promised to accompany me, and to engage good horses. So he called me early in the morning, and got ready to start. He put on his best suit, and wore a velvet jacket, and had shaved very smooth, The women gave us a good breakfast by way of preparation for the journey; and we then mounted our Corsican ponies, and rode off in style.

The

My heart leaps for joy even now when I recall that Sunday morning, and the ride through this beautiful romantic country, over the verdant mountains, through the cool glens, past dashing streams, and through gloomy oak forests. As far as the eye can reach, it meets every where these shady, fragrant chestnut-groves, and mighty gigantic trees, such as I never saw any where else. Nature has done every thing here, and man-how little! chestnuts are often the only treasure man possesses here; and the Corsican frequently possesses nothing but his six goats and six chestnut-trees, which give him his polenta. The government. has sometimes had an idea of cutting down the chestnut-woods, in order to drive the Corsicans to agriculture, but this would starve them downright. Many of these trees have trunks twelve feet thick; the thick, fragrant foliage, the long, broad, and dark green leaves, and the fibrous light-green capsules, present a beautiful spectacle.

Beyond the paese of Casalto we came into a perfectly romantic glen, watered by the Finmalto. There is serpentine and the valuable marble, Verde antico, all about here. The engineers call the district of Orezza the very elysium of geology; the valuable stone is carried down by the waters of the river. on and on through balmy groves, up hill and down hill, to Piedicroce, the chief place of Orezza, renowned for its medicinal waters. For Orezza is rich in mineral waters as well as in minerals.

We rode

Francesco Marmocchi says in his geography of the island,

“Mineral waters are every where the characteristic indications of countries elevated by internal forces. Corsica, wonderfully displaying in a small compass the thousandfold workings of this old battle between the heated interior and the cooled-down crust of the earth, forms no exception to this general rule."

Corsica has, then, its cold and warm mineral springs; and, though the springs of this kind that have been counted are numerous, there are undoubtedly many more as yet unknown.

As to natural history, and especially mineralogy, this large and beautiful island has not been any thing like completely investigated.

Only fourteen. mineral waters, both warm and cold, are as yet accurately and completely known. The distribution of these beneficial waters over the surface of the island is very unequal, especially in respect of their degree of warmth. The region of primary granite has eight, all warm, and more or less sulphureous except one; whereas the region of the primary ophiolitic and calcareous formations possesses only six, of which not more than one is warm.

The wells of Orezza, breaking forth at many places, are situated on the right bank of the Fiumalto. The main well alone, which is cold and chalybeate, is used. It gushes out with great strength from a stone basin in a mountain below Piedicroce. No steps have been taken to provide any accommodation for the visitors to the waters, who have to walk or ride down the mountains, under their parasols, into the shady woods where they have set up their tents, After a ride of many hours in the burning sun without a parasol, this sparkling water tasted excellent.

Piedicroce lies high. Its slender church-steeple looks down free and airy from the green hill it stands upon. The situation of the Corsican churches in the mountain-villages is often enchantingly beautiful and bold. They seem to stand at the very entrance of heaven; and when the church doors are opened, the clouds and the angels can walk in among the congregation.

A majestic thunder-storm lowered over Piedicroce, and the thunder echoed with mighty tones from the mountains around. We rode into the paese to escape the rain. A young man in spruce town attire darted out of a house, and invited us to dismount and step into his locanda. There were two gentlemen there besides, with cavalier beards and very adroit demeanour, who immediately asked for my orders. They were brisk too in

carrying them out; one beat up eggs, another put wood on the fire, and the third minced the meat. The oldest of them had a finely chiselled but fevered face, and a long Slavonic moustache. So many and such gentlemanly cooks for a humble meal I had never seen, and I was utterly bewildered till they told me what they were. They were two exiled Modenese and a Hungarian. Whilst the Magyar was cooking the meat, he informed me that he had been a first lieutenant for seven years. "And now I stand here and cook,” he added; "but so things go in the world. When one has become a poor devil without a home, one must take things easy. We have set up a locanda here for the season of the watercure, and have hardly laid by any thing." I was deeply touched by the aspect of this wan-faced man, who had caught a fever at Aleria.

We sat down together-Magyar, Lombard, Corsican, and German—and discoursed on many old topics, and mentioned many a name renowned in the most recent times. How many of these names must keep a reverential silence before the single great name of Paoli! I may not mention them together; the noble citizen and the strong man of action must stand alone.

The

The storm had blown over, but the mountains were still suspended in dense mist. We mounted our horses again, to ride on over the ridge of San Pietro to Ampugnani. The thunder still growled and rolled in the misty glens, and the clouds drove along with the wind. The mountains seemed to have put on a wild, dismal, and tearful air, startled by an occasional flash; some appearing immersed in the sea of clouds, others working themselves out of it like giants. Wherever the veil was rent, appeared a rich landscape, with green woods and black villages; and all this flies past the rider like a dream, peaks and valleys, convents and towers, mountains, and mountains hanging in the clouds. wild elemental forces that sleep enchained in the human soul would now fain burst their bonds and break forth. Who has not known such moods of mind when sailing on the tempestuous sea, or travelling through the storm? What we feel at such seasons is the same natural chaotic force, which, when crystallized into a certain definite form, we call a passion. On goes Marc Antonio, and on we gallop on our bay ponies along the misty mountain side, young and vigorous as we are, and clouds, mountains, convents, towers, every thing flies past us. Oh! it is glorious to fly! There is a black church-tower poised high in the clouds

up yonder, and the bells are pealing and pealing Ave Maria, to compose the soul to peace.

The hamlets are very small here, dotted picturesquely over the mountains on all sides, lying high or in charming green dales. From one spot I counted seventeen around me, with as many slender black church-towers. We met many men from the old historical region of Orezza and Rostino, powerful heroic-looking figures. Their fathers of old formed Paoli's guard.

The

Near Polveroso there was a glorious view into a gorge, in the middle of which lies Porta, the chief place of the district of Ampugnani, quite surrounded by chestnut-trees, now dripping with rain. Here lay the old bishopric of Accia, which has disappeared without leaving a trace. Porta has an uncommonly smart aspect, and many of its houses resemble elegant villas. little yellow church has a neat façade ; and a remarkably graceful bell-tower stands beside it, according to the Tuscan custom, as a separate campanile. From the mountain San Pietro one looks down into these streets and rows of houses grouped around the church, as into a gay theatre. Porta is the native place of Sebastiani.

The mountains now become more bare and laconic, and lose the chestnut-trees that set them off so beautifully. I found immense thistles on the path, with splendid broad leaves, and bearing the character of arboreous shrubs, with hard woody stems. Marc Antonio had relapsed into total silence. The Corsicans, like the Spartans, speak little; mine host of Oreto was generally as mute as Harpocrates. I had ridden over the hills with him for a whole day, from morning till evening, and yet I could keep no conversation afloat. He only occasionally threw out a naïve question, "Have you cannon in your country?"-" Have you bells?"- "Do fruits grow with you?"—"Are you rich ?”

At length, after vespers, we reached the canton of Rostino, or Morosaglia, the native place of the Paolis, the most glorious scene of Corsican history, and the centre of the old democratic Terra del Commune. Marc Antonio took leave of me in the Campagna; he intended to pass the night in a house in the open country, and to return with the horses on the morrow. He gave me a fraternal kiss, and then turned back, silent and grave; and I, rejoiced to be in this land of free men and heroes, wandered on alone to gain the convent of Morosaglia. It is a walk of an hour, over a rather desolate plain; so before I reach Paoli's house, I will take up his and his country's history where I broke it off.