as if to symbolise the emigration of this family to subdue Europe.  There is something ludicrous and forlorn in the stiffness of the group—­something even pathetic, when we think how Napoleon gazed seaward from another island, no longer on horseback, no longer laurel-crowned, an unthroned, unseated conqueror, on S. Helena.  His father’s house stands close by.  An old Italian waiting-woman, who had been long in the service of the Murats, keeps it and shows it.  She has the manners of a lady, and can tell many stories of the various members of the Buonaparte family.  Those who fancy that Napoleon was born in a mean dwelling of poor parents will be surprised to find so much space and elegance in these apartments.  Of course his family was not rich by comparison with the riches of French or English nobles.  But for Corsicans they were well-to-do, and their house has an air of antique dignity.  The chairs of the entrance-saloon have been literally stripped of their coverings by enthusiastic visitors; the horse-hair stuffing underneath protrudes itself with a sort of comic pride, as if protesting that it came to be so tattered in an honourable service.  Some of the furniture seems new; but many old presses, inlaid with marbles, agates, and lapis-lazuli, such as Italian families preserve for generations, have an air of respectable antiquity about them.  Nor is there any doubt that the young Napoleon led his minuets beneath the stiff girandoles of the formal dancing-room.  There, too, in a dark back chamber, is the bed in which he was born.  At its foot is a photograph of the Prince Imperial sent by the Empress Eugenie, who, when she visited the room, wept much pianse molto (to use the old lady’s phrase)—­at seeing the place where such lofty destinies began.  On the wall of the same room is a portrait of Napoleon himself as the young general of the republic—­with the citizen’s unkempt hair, the fierce fire of the Revolution in his eyes, a frown upon his forehead, lips compressed, and quivering nostrils; also one of his mother, the pastille of a handsome woman, with Napoleonic eyes and brows and nose, but with a vacant simpering mouth.  Perhaps the provincial artist knew not how to seize the expression of this feature, the most difficult to draw.  For we cannot fancy that Letizia had lips without the firmness or the fulness of a majestic nature.

The whole first story of this house belonged to the Buonaparte family.  The windows look out partly on a little court and partly on narrow streets.  It was, no doubt, the memory of this home that made Napoleon, when emperor, design schemes for the good of Corsica—­schemes that might have brought him more honour than many conquests, but which he had no time or leisure to carry out.  On S. Helena his mind often reverted to them, and he would speak of the gummy odours of the macchi wafted from the hillsides to the seashore.

* * * * *

MONTE GENEROSO