view of the Corsican rocks, and of the wide sea panorama of historic islands, each telling in silent grandeur its own history of adventure, heroism, or the stern freaks of fortune. The very name of Monte Christo seemed to launch one into dim dreams of wild peril and desperate attempt; whilst the dark cliffs of Elba frowned in a stern harmony to their tale of the despotic emperor, whose heart for a time beat in impotent resistance against its prison walls.

What a satire it seemed, to place that proud, all-conquering Corsican on an island from whose heights he could plainly see the rugged mountains of his native land—almost smell the sweet odours of the macchie-covered hills, wafted across his childhood's sea, from her to him!

At last, in a blue bay where little breakers dashed merrily, the red ponies were suddenly reined up. Bigemark came to the carriage door to offer his congratulations, and our taciturn coachman informed us we were at Brando. At the same time he obligingly pointed out to us, up the side of the steep hill, a stony watercourse, down which ran a lively little stream, and which, he told us, was the "path" to the grotto.

Up this we accordingly went, with one hand keeping a desperate clutch on our straw hats (which evinced a strong disposition to obey the invitation of the sirocco, and fly away for a nearer view of Capraya), and, with the other, rescuing what garments we could from the running stream.

About half-way up the hill we were met by an aged but lively crone, who with another woman escorted us to the caves, informing us, as we supposed (for it was quite impossible to understand her toothless jumble of bad French and Italian patois), that she was the custodian of the place. The grottos belong to a private family, of the name of Ferdinandi, who have made the winding staircases, and whose name, on the stone slab fixed in the rock outside, is appended to the intimation that this their work is devoted to the enjoyment of all lovers of beauty.

Leading us by the hand, and laughing much at our evident want of comprehension of all the interesting facts with which she was beguiling the short way, our cavern crone opened a little wooden door in the face of the cliff, and ushered us straight into a Gothic-roofed hall of limestone, the reception room in this winding gallery of nature's building. Here we were told (by gesture) to remain until our guides returned. We accordingly sat down on a block of limestone, which constituted the one chair in this chilly, half-stuffy hall, semi-darkness revealing the grey white walls and roof, and the rude staircase up which had gone our two companions to light up the many hanging lamps necessary to illuminate the caves.

In about ten minutes they returned, and we then proceeded up the same staircase, cut roughly out of the rock, into the heart of the cliff. Overhead hung countless glittering stalactites, whilst on each side the most fantastic walls enclosed us, the dim rays of the oil lamps throwing open tracery and arched roof into weirdest shadows and gleams of sparry radiance.

Here and there the path was broken, and in some places we had to bow humbly beneath the drooping arch; sometimes up, and sometimes down, we went on in this airy labyrinth for about ten minutes before we turned and came back by another path. The limestone formations probably extend much further into the cliff; but the winding pathway goes no further, and one can only be thankful that Corsican energy has effected so much. The forms of some of the stalagmites were most curious, rising like Alpine ranges, with an infinity of Matterhorns, above many a little hollowed nook, or like the carved screen behind some marble altar; some so delicate in tracery and so transparent that a light, held behind them, lit them up like finely veined cream-coloured glass; whilst the stalactites overhead were countless and most graceful, often passing below their stalagmitic brethren and falling between them in a rich confusion of spiral carving.

What a glare it seemed when we emerged again from fairyland, out among the arbutus and the foxgloves on the green hillside, overlooking the dazzling sea!

The old woman was merrier than ever after her short incarceration in Mother Earth, and held out her capacious apron to receive our fees; sending after us many good wishes, which I have no doubt were as sincere as her witticisms were pungent, but which unfortunately were quite lost upon us.

The stipulated sum to see the caves of Brando is a franc and a half each person. It seems a good deal at first; but the visitors are no doubt few, and the expense of so many lights rather heavy.

In a minute or two more, we and the red ponies and Bigemark were off again, trotting on to the marina, or little sea hamlet of Sisco. A mile or two past Brando, we came in sight of Erbalunga, a most picturesque little village lying on a low tongue of land right out into the Mediterranean, a Genoese round tower at its furthest end, standing on black rocks washed incessantly by the breaking waves.

Towards one o'clock we reached our baiting place, a seashore village which appeared to consist of one house, namely, the dirty and unpretentious inn before which we stopped. Since leaving Brando, the road had become sterner, the rocks barer, and the flowers more scanty; the green groves disappearing from the waterside, and being replaced by great blocks of granite and porphyry.

Feeling a little doubtful as regarded lunch, we entered the inn door, and picking our way across the very dirty floor of the outer room, in which were assembled some half dozen or so of peasant men and women, with the usual accompaniment of dogs and guns, we were shown by the host into an inner apartment, and supplied with two rickety chairs.

The floor of this apartment was not much cleaner than the other, and a bedstead lately in use filled one end of it. But a capital smell of cooking came from the kitchen on the other side, and through the grimy little window gleamed the bluest sweep of sea and sky. After some conversation with our host, a hairy, black bearded man of polite and sociable proclivities, smoking a short pipe, we discovered that the culinary resources of the establishment consisted of an omelette. But, sniffing again incredulously, and stating our conviction that something better was secreted in the little kitchen, after some hesitation, a soup tureen, containing the most savoury smelling soup, was brought to us.

"Look here, mesdames," said the landlord confidentially, "I have two more ladies upstairs, lodging here; young ladies, whose home is in the Cap, and this is their soup. But, if you will not take too much, you shall have some. The ladies have also my best room, or you would not have had to put up with this poor apartment."

Whilst making his polite speeches, and they were many, our host constantly half raised his fur cap from his bushy hair; but he continued to smoke his short black pipe.

Whilst we were eating our soup, he drew a chair up to the table, and continued the conversation.

"You are Continentales, ladies, are you not? Are you Frenchwomen?"

"No, monsieur, we are English," we replied, feeling gently flattered by the compliment to the purity of our French accent.

It was not until some time later that I discovered that the Corsican lower orders, although often speaking the French tongue tolerably fluently, yet were not very correct judges of the French accent. And I confess my vanity received a shock when a young Corsican gentleman at Corte, who had travelled a good deal and