St. Paul daily globe. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn.) 1884-1896, 1886-06-14
HAPPINESS.

| dust of gold: and the Mediterranean, with
out one wrinkle, without one qulver-
smooth and shining under the dying light
seemed an unreasonable sheet OF pol
| iShed metal.
Far away to the right the denticulated
mountains outlined their dark profile
against the paling purple of the sunset
They were talking about discussing
the old, old subject-telling things that had
been told and retold thousand times be-
FORE The sweet melancholy of the twi-
light lent languor to their wordS-filled
their hearts with vague emotion; and the
old word, ''love," necessarily repeated,
sometimes by the deep voice of man,
sometimes in the lighter timbre of a wOm-
ans speech-seemed to fill all the little
roonl-to fit through it like bird-to
haunt it like ghost.
Was it possible to love on for several
years?
Yes" answered some.
| "NO," declared others.
Then distinctions were made and demar-
cations were established, and examples
were quoted; and all, men and women
moved by suddenly awakened and touching
souvenirs, which were ever rising to their
lips, but which they could not utter
seemed full of excitement, and talked, with
|
that commonplace but all-ruling thing: the
tender and mysterious accord of two human
beings.
But. all at once somebody, looking far
away, cried out:
''Oh! look over there! What is that?"
| From out the sea, at the very verge of the
horizon, lowered up gray shape, enormous
and dim.
| All the women had risen up and were
| looking, without understanding it, at that
extraordinary thing they had never seen
! before.
Some one said:
THAT is CorscaI You can see it like
that just about two or three times year
in certain exceptional conditions of the at
mosphere, when the air is perfectly limpid
and does not contain those yapOry mists
which veil distances"
The mountain crests could be confusedly
discerned-some thought they could even
distinguish the snow upon the SUBMITS, and
everybody felt surprised, affected, almost
frightened by that sudden apparition of
worldly that phantom which had risen
from the sea. Perhaps visions like these
had been seen by those men who, like
Columbus, first sailed away into the IN
known seas.
Then an old gentleman, who had not said
word the whole evening, observed:
Listen! l used to know in that very
island you now perceive before you
which seems to have risen into sight in Or
der to answer our questions itself, and has
called UP to me a very singular reminis-
cence-I used to know in that very island
one remarkable example of constant love
of unspeakable, happy love.
Let ME tell it to you:
~
''F'ive years ago | made trip to Corsica
That wild island is more unknown, and,
after fashion, further away from US. than
America. although it may be seen from the
French coast sometimes as it Is seen to-
day
Imagine world still chaotic-a tempest
OF mountains separated by narrow ravines
where torrents roll-never a plain, but
enormous pillows of granite, giant undula-
| tons of earth covered with thick-growths
or with lofty forests of chestnut and pine
1t is virgin soil-uncultivated. desOlate-
although you sometimes see village look
ing like heap of loose rocks at the summit
OF hill. No agriculture, no industry, no
art. You never find such thing as piece
of carved wood, bit of cut stone-the
least souvenir of ancestral taste, either
naif or refined, for the graceful or the beau
tiful Indeed, this is the very fact which
most impresses one in that superb and
rugged country; the hereditary Indifference
for that research after attractive form,
which we call art.
ltaly-where every palace, full of mas
terpieces. is masterpiece itself-where
marble, wood, bronze, iron, all metals and
tall stones attest the genius of man-where
the smallest antique objects lying about the
lnId
grace-ltaly is for us all the holy father
land which we love because it shows and
proves to us the effort, the grandeur. the
power and the triumph of creative intelli-
gence.
And face to face with her stands Corsica
just as in the earliest ages of the world.
The man lives there in his clumsy dwelling
careless of everything which bears no re-
| latiOn to his existence OF TO his family
| Quarrels. And he has retained all the de-
fects and all the merits of uncivilized races
violent, vindictive, sanguinary without
conjunction; but also hospitable, generous,
devoted, simple, opening his door to every
passer-by, and rendering his loyal friend
| ship in exchange for the least mark of SYM
pathy.
Well, had been wandering over the
magnificent island for about month
with the sensation of finding myself at the
very end of the world. No taverns, no
public houses, no roads. One has to fol-
low the mule-paths in order to reach those
little villages which cling to the TANKS of
the mountains, which overlook tortuous
abysses, whence you hear of evenings,
continually rising, the dull. deep roar of
torrents. You knock at the door of a
house-you ask shelter for the night and
food enough to last you until morning
Then you can sit at the rude table, and
sleep under the humble roof; and in the
morning you can press the extended hand
of your host, who is sure to accompany you
as far as the limits of the village.
Now, one evening, after ten hours walk
ing, 1 came to a little dwelling that stood
alone at the further end of a narrow valley.
which sloped down to the sea a league
away. The two steep sides of the noun
tain. covered with brush, loose rocks and
immense trees, shut in this woefully dismal
valley like two dark walls.
Around the hut few vines were grow
ing, there was little garden, and some
distance off were a few large chestnut
trees-just enough to live upon, in short,
but a fortune in that poverty-strcken
country.
The woman who received me was old.
austere and exceptionally neat The man,
seated upon a straw chair. rose to salute
me, then sat down again. without word.
His companion said to me:
''You must excuse him; he is deaf now.
He is 80 years old.''
She spoke the French of France. was
surprised.
/ asked her:
''You are not Corsican?"
She replied:
mo; we are from the continent. But
then we have been living here for fifty
years"
A sensation of fear and pain came over
me at the mere thought of the fifty years
spent in that darksome nook-so remote
from the cities of men. An aged shepherd
came in, and all sat down to the single
dish which constituted the dinner of the
poor folks-a thick soup of potatoes. lard
a nd cabbages.
When the brief repast was over I went
to sit at the door, feeling depressed by the