young plane-trees upon it, spreading their green round a cemetery chapel.

Passing through the entrance arch, I mounted a dark narrow stone staircase, and looked about for the inhabitants. The house appeared dead and deserted. I passed through dismal bare chambers, from which the spirit of home had departed, until at length, I found an old dame in mourning attire, who was the housekeeper, and a child of eight years, the youngest daughter of the family. It cost me some trouble to win a gracious look from the old dame, till she, little by little, opened out towards me more confidingly.

I put no questions; but little Felicina herself asked me to see her mother's rooms, and told me in her innocence more than enough.

The old lady, Marcantonia, sat down beside me; and what she told me I will faithfully repeat, only concealing the surname and native town of the miserable man.

"In the summer of 1849, many Italians fled from their native country and sought refuge in Corsica. Among them was one who was to be given up; but Signor Pietri, who is kind to all men, took compassion on him, procured him the power of remaining here, and took him into his own house at Isola Rossa. The stranger, who was called Giustiniano, stayed a month with Signor Pietri down at Isola Rossa; and then, as that gentleman had to attend the council of Ajaccio, Signor Mutius and my lady Vittoria took him into their house here. Here he had

all the pleasure he could desire, hunting and horses, a good table, and no end of guests who came to the house in his honour. The Italian was very agreeable and sociable; but he was sad at living in a foreign land. Signora Vittoria was loved by every one, and most of all by the poor; she was indeed like an angel."

"Was she beautiful?"

"She had a delicate complexion, blacker hair than Felicina, and extremely beautiful hands and feet; and she was tall and full-built. The Italian, instead of feeling at ease in a house where he received all possible friendliness and kindness, grew sadder and sadder. He began to speak and eat little, and looked as pale as death. He walked for hours on the mountains, and often sat looking troubled in his mind and without speaking a word."

"Did he never betray his passion for the Signora?"

“He once went into her room after her; but she thrust him out, and told the maid to be silent about it, and say nothing to her master. A few days before the 20th of December, nearly three years ago, Giustiniano became so miserable that we thought he was going to be seriously ill. He was to leave Monticello and go to Bastia for change of scene; he himself wished it. During three days he ate not a morsel. One morning I was taking his coffee to him as usual, but the door was locked. After a while I came again, and called him by his name; he opened to me. I was shocked at his looks. I asked him, Signor, what ails you?' He laid his hand so upon my shoulder, as I lay mine upon yours, and said to me, 'Oh, Marcantonietta! you knew how my heart aches!'-Not a word more he said. On his table I saw a pistol lying, and powder heaped up in a paper, and also bullets. These he had sent Felicina's elder sister to the boltega for, on the previous evening. He now wished to go back to Bastia, and there take ship for another country. He took leave of all and rode down to Isola Rossa; this was the 20th of December. On the morning of that day Signora Vittoria had said to me, 'I had a bad dream last night. I thought my sick compare (godmother) was dying. I will go to-day and take her some refreshment.'-For that was her way; she often went to the sick, and took them oil, wine, or fruit."

if

Here old Marcantonia wept bitterly.

"Signor Malaspina had gone out riding to Speloncato. I was away, and no one was in the house but the sick Madamigella Matilda, a relation of my mistress, the youngest children, and a maid. It was afternoon. As I came back to the house, I heard a shot. I supposed they were hunting on the mountains, or blasting. But soon after there came a second shot, and methought it came from the house. I was trembling in all my limbs as I came to the house, and in great terror I asked the maid, 'Where is the mistress?' and she said also trembling, 'O God! she is upstairs in her room changing her dress, to go to the sick woman.' 'Run,' said I, 'and see after her !'

"The maid dashed down the stairs again, pale as a corpse.'Something must have been doing,' said she; 'for my mistress's door stands wide open, and the room is all in a mess, and the visitor's room is locked.' I ran up-so did the maid, Felicina, and her sister. It looked horrible in my poor mistress's room : the door of the Italian's room was locked. We knocked, we screamed,

we tore it at length off its hinges there, sir, we saw it before our eyes———But now I will not tell you a word more.”

No, not a word more, Marcantonia! Greatly shaken by the narrative, I rose and went out. Little Felicina and the housekeeper came after me, and took me into the chapel. The child and the old woman knelt before the altar and prayed. I took a myrtle branch from the altar, and cast it on the spot beneath which Vittoria is buried. And then I wandered sadly back to Isola Rossa.

It is hard for the thought to grasp such a terrible thing, and words are reluctant to tell it. Giustiniano had suddenly returned after leaving Monticello. He silently ascended the staircase again. The rooms occupied by him and by Vittoria are on the same upper floor; they are separated by a sitting-room. Vittoria was just then in her room, engaged in changing her dress. Giustiniano burst in upon her, armed with a pistol and a dagger, and bereft of sense through the madness of his love. He wrestled fearfully with the strong woman: he threw her to the ground, and dragged her to his room; she was already dying, pierced by the stabs of his dagger. Her beautiful hair was found torn and scattered about, and the room thrown into confusion by the struggle. Giustiniano laid down the hapless dying woman on his bed-shot her through the temples with his pistol-drew the rings from her fingers, and put them on his own-then lay down beside her, and blew his brains out.

Thus they were found by the old woman and poor Felicina, then a child of five years, who cried and exclaimed, “That is my mother's blood!" -an awful sight, and a cruel experience impressed for life upon the soul of a child. The people of Monticello would have torn in pieces Giustiniano's corpse; but Malaspina, who returned unsuspecting from Speloncato, prevented it. It was interred among the rocks of the mountain of Monticello. Vittoria was thirty-six years old, and mother of six children; Giustiniano scarcely twenty-five.

I found Mutius Malaspina a simple plain man, with features expressive of iron steadfastness and calmness. I should have hesitated to tell the sad story here, but it is in every one's mouth, and told even in a little book printed at Bastia, containing sonnets to Vittoria. The memory of Vittoria will live as long as the island lasts. Some centuries hence the noble woman's sad fate, which I heard from the mouth of a member of the family, and in her very rooms, will have become a legend.

Even now I perceived how rapidly a real event begins to transform itself among the people into the legendary. The very

same person, the housekeeper, told me that poor Vittoria's spirit had appeared to some sick people in the paese. And it will soon be said that the murderer rises by night from his rocky grave, pale and restless as he was in life, and glides to the house where he perpetrated the horrible deed.

*

Angry with human nature, I descended the hills, pondering the narrow boundary, the transgression of which may transform the noblest passion, love, into the most frightful fury. How near together are God and the devil in the human soul, and how comes it that one and the same feeling is the matter from which both are produced? I saw neither the mountains nor the calm and merry sea; I cursed all Corsica, and myself that I had ever set my foot upon its bloody soil. Just then the pretty Camillo came running up; he had run over all the rocks after me. He had gathered a handful of blackberries, which he held out to me, his friendly eyes expressing that I must eat them. The sight of this innocent child instantly cheered me up. It seemed as if he had put himself in my way on purpose, to show me how fair and guileless man issues from the hand of nature. Camillo now kept running along beside me, and springing from stone to stone, until at length he said suddenly, "Now I am tired, and I will sit down a little." So he sat still on a piece of rock. I never saw a more beautiful child. When I told his elder brother so, he replied, "Yes, all people love Camilluccio; and at the procession of Corpus Domini he was an angel, and had a snow-white robe on, and held a great palm-branch in his hand." I beheld him with delight as he sat upon the rock, with his fine raven locks flying wildly over his face, and his large eyes looking fixedly before him. His dress was tattered, for he was the child of poor people. All at once, of his own accord, he set up singing the Marseillaise, "Allons, enfants de la patrie contre nous de la tyrannie l'étendard sanglant est levé." It was curious to hear the Marseillaise in the mouth of such a lovely boy, and to see his grave face in singing it. But how historical this bloody song sounds in the mouth of a Corsican boy! And when little Camillo sang, "Against us is Tyranny's bloody standard raised," I thought, "Poor child! Heaven preserve thee, that thou fallest not by the bullet of revenge,

nor be forced to roam over the mountains as an avenger of blood."

As we approached Isola Rossa, we were alarmed by a red glow over the town. I hastened towards it, supposing a fire to have broken out; but it was a fire of joy. In the Paoli square the children had kindled a mighty bonfire, and were dancing round the flame, joining hands in a ring, and laughing and singing. They sang countless little verses invented by themselves, a few of which I still remember :

Amo un presidente,

Sta in letto senza dente.

Amo un officiale,

Sta in letto senza male.

Amo un pastore,

Sta in letto senz' amore.

Amo un cameriere,

Sta in letto senza bere.

I love a president,

He is in bed and has no teeth.

I love an officer,

He is in bed and has nothing amiss.

I love a shepherd,

He is in bed with no one to love.

I love a chamberlain,

He is in bed with nothing to drink.

The little flock never flagged with their verses, and they whisked merrily round the fire the while. The air was charming, naïve, and childish. This extempore juvenile fête delighted me so much that I too volunteered a verse or two, on which the little folk burst out into a laugh of joy that echoed through all Isola Rossa.

The next day I drove by a char-a-bancs to Calvi. Little Camillo stood by the carriage and said sorrowfully, "Non mi piace che tu ci abbandoni." The wanderer takes notes of many things, mountains and rivers, cities, and occurrences in the finenay, and in the ugly-world; why not paint for once also the picture of a beautiful child? Like a lovely song, it will be a delight to the memory after the lapse of years.

CHAPTER IV.

FROM ISOLA ROSSA TO CALVI.

My vetturino told me by way of greeting, that I had the honour of riding in an extraordinary carriage. "For last year," he said, "I drove in this carriage the three great bandits, Arrighi, Massoni, and Xaver. As I was driving along the road, they happened to come this way, all armed to the teeth, and they commanded me to take them to Calvi. I did so without