a quarter, and carelessly toss the rest aside. The
blossoms send forth clouds of perfume, which
overpower and intoxicate your senses. It is
worth while to visit this wood at the time of
fruit-gathering, which is effected by the simplest
of processes. A cloth is spread beneath the tree;
a man, perched amidst the branches, sends the
fruit tumbling down pell-mell. When piled in
heaps three or four feet in height, it sends forth
an inconceivable aroma.

It took M. Delessert two hours to ride round
this forest, at a good pace. He thus came
into the presence of the King of the Orange-
trees, whose trunk a man can scarcely
embrace with his two arms. His Majesty stretches
forth his branches with all the dignity of
an ancient oak, and he bears an inscription
which commemorates a visit paid to him by
his Lord Paramount, King Charles-Albert, in
eighteen hundred and twenty-nine. But orange-
trees are not the sole occupants of this enchanted
spot; there are glades bordered with tall poplars,
which shelter their evergreen friends from violent
winds; there are thickets of clematis and
Virginian creeper; the ground is carpeted with
violets, periwinkle, and forget-me-not. Rare is
the terrestrial paradise whose beauties can rival
with those of Milis Wood. So far, we have
what nature has done; let us now see what man
does:

In this fine island there are but four towns,
such as they are: Sassari, in the north, a
short distance inland from the maritime village
Porto Torres; Alghero, on the west coast, in
whose neighbourhood is a very remarkable
stalactite cavern, which you must enter (weather
permitting) from the sea, by means of a boat,
like Fingal's Cave in Scotland; Oristano, also on
the west coast, productive of salt and fertile in
fevers; and Cagliari, built in terraces up a
hillside, on the south coast, where the French
consul resides, finely situated, and overlooking
a wide-spread bay. Cagliari should be the queen
of Sardinia, furnishing a safe refuge to vessels
coming from Africa, and capable of becoming a
mercantile port which might be the centre of an
immense commerce.

In all Sardinia there is but one carriageable
road, which traverses the island from north to
south, starting from Porto Torres, touching at
Oristano, and terminating at Cagliari. Other
roads have been attempted—a proof at least of
good intentions. The posts of the African
electric telegraph attest an enormous stride
towards real progress. They greatly excited
the wonder of the natives, who believed, in
the simplicity of their hearts, that the practice
of photography was somehow connected with
their functions. But, between the good intentions
of the Sardinian government and their
execution, there interpose wide intervals of time
and mountains of difficulties. Yet nothing
would be easier than to cover the island with
excellent highways: for the soil is strewed with
the necessary materials, and the country seems
to solicit good roads to traverse it by opening of
its own accord convenient valleys to receive
them. All that is required is an energetic will;
but the roadmakers work painfully, as if the loss
of their wild originality were likely to be their
only recompense.

There is one little drawback to moonlight
walks in Sardinia; the instant the sun is
set, your clothes are saturated with
atmospheric moisture to a degree scarcely known
elsewhere. Unfortunately, the phenomenon
brings to your recollection the fevers with which
the island swarms. True, there are mineral
waters, those of Sardara for instance, which are
reputed efficacious in the cure of fever; but it
would be much better for the inhabitants if,
while retaining the remedy, they could banish
the disease. As soon as the month of June sets in,
the fevers commence their invasion, driving out
or killing all who have not paid their footing of
acclimatation. They are not little, gentle, tractable
fevers; they are haughty, tyrannical, aggressive.
But epidemic fevers are often a people's own
fault; certainly they appear to be so in the
present case. Marshes are far from being a scarce
article in Sardinia. Only in taking a jaunt to
Alghero, you traverse a charming, but marshy,
valley. Isolated houses are out of the question;
villages, are excessively remarkable in consequence
of their paucity. At two hours' distance from
Sassari, you would say you were in the wilderness.
A single hamlet, Orru, to the left of a
turn in the path, reflects the rays of the sun
from a few red-tiled roofs; but the only living
creature the anxious eye can see, is a lark
mounting towards the heavens, or a hawk hovering
over its hidden prey. The whole neighbourhood
wears an unmistakably feverish look; tall
reeds shoot up their stems in the midst of
stagnant water, and, from time to time, you feel a hot
puff of moist wind, which makes you shudder.

In the interior are numerous plains, called
campidani, frequently uncultivated. In
traversing one campidano, M. Delessert amused
himself, watch in hand, with noting how long he
travelled without being able to distinguish, on
the horizon, any mark of human existence to
contrast with the surrounding solitude. Two
hours elapsed, during the course of which the
only perceptible object was a microscopic
village on a rising ground to the right. Some
magnificent oxen were enjoying a succulent bite
of grass, under the charge of a ragged herdsman.
And so it continues, with little change,
till you approach Oristano, of insalubrious
repute. You guess the real state of the case on
observing the road to be an embankment raised
above the neighbouring plain, whose aquatic
vegetation attests the presence of bottomless
bogs. It is hard to find a more melancholy
plain than the campidano of Oristano.
Nevertheless, wherever the ground is able to acquire a
little consistence, wherever the marshy element
is excluded, you behold land of inexhaustible
fertility, producing enormous ears of corn,
marvellous lucern, and gigantic rye. Any attempt
at canalisation would surely drain a good part of
the plain. Drainage would banish the fevers, and
agricultural produce would be more than doubled.