There are some scholars who say that the word “Corsica” means the “Land of Woods,” and that this name was given to the island at a very early time by the Phœnicians. Several of the old writers, when mentioning Corsica in their works, describe it in some such terms as “shaggy and almost savage with woods.” At one time Corsican timber was amongst the best known, and there are still a number of fine forests left. But what strikes the visitor most is the way in which the island is clothed with flowering shrubs. These are collectively known as the _maquis_. The maquis is that feature which distinguishes the island of Corsica from all other islands. It is not a forest, but an immense thicket. So closely is it interlaced that a shrub rarely becomes a tree. If the thick tangle be cut down, it grows again with wonderful rapidity. The stems of one kind of flowering shrub have been known to grow as much as 5 feet in a single year, 3½ feet in the spring, and 1½ feet in the following autumn. The chief plants which together form the maquis are the arbutus, which bears white flowers, purple fruit, and shiny leaves; the myrtles, with their snow-white blossoms; the cistus, scenting the air with the odour of honey; and great flowering heaths, with white and rose powdered tufts. This carpet of shrubs stretches from the bottoms of the valleys to the tops of the mountains, rolls over and around the rocks, finds its way into hollows and ravines, and fears neither torrent nor gorge. In spring, when the different shrubs all burst into bloom, the hill-sides are a mass of flowers. As the hot sun beats down upon the blossoms, it causes them to exhale a peculiar smell, strong, but not unpleasant. This odour can even be detected far out at sea when the wind is blowing from the shore. It is so unlike any other odour that, once known, it can never be forgotten. Napoleon is reported to have said, “Put me blindfold on the shore of my native land, and I should recognize it by the perfume of the maquis.” The Corsicans do not admire this beautiful covering. They have little love for Nature, and few of them ever think of travelling in search of the beauties of mountain, moor, or wood. They are fond of the company of their fellow-men, and like to live in towns. They leave to “mad Englishmen” the task and the delight of roaming about on their flower-decked hills. They would rather see a garden of onions than a plantation of pines; they would rather look at a row of carrots than a grove of beech. But though they do not admire the beauty of their surroundings, they do not despise them. If the shrub is a poor thing to look at, yet it has certain uses which they keenly appreciate.