The scenery all round seemed to me to be truly _Sullanian_; a night as still as the grave, a desolate plain under our feet reeking with pestilential vapours, night-wrapt hills behind the fort, and the horizon red as if with the firelight of burning towns, for the copsewoods all round were blazing;—the little town itself dead and dark. At last a dog began to bark and gave us hope, and soon the whole population of Aleria came to meet us—two _doganieri_ namely, who were the only inhabitants of the town. The people had fled to the hills to escape the malaria, and every door was shut except that of the fort, in which the coast-guard lay. We begged hospitality for the night, as the horses were unable to proceed farther and there was no place in the vicinity which could receive us. But these brave Sullanians refused our request, afraid of incurring their captain's displeasure, and having to begin their night-watch in an hour. We conjured them by the heavenly Virgin not to drive us away and expose us to the night miasma, but to grant us shelter in the fort. They were inexorable, however; and we turned back, at our wit's end what to do—my companion very much annoyed, and I far from pleased to think that I had been thus turned out of the first Roman colony which my feet had trodden, and this spite of the two Cæsars[O] who are my most particular friends. At length, the Sullanians were visited by a touch of human pity, and came running after us, calling out, _Entrate pure!_ With great satisfaction we entered the little fort, a square building undefended by battery, rampart, or fosse, and groped up the stone steps into the guardroom. Not long after we had established ourselves here, the poor coast-guardsmen flung their fuciles over their shoulders, and took their way, accompanied by their dogs, to the pond of Diana, to lie in wait for smugglers. Their service is a dangerous one; were they not relieved every fifteen days, they would fall victims to the fever. I lay down on the floor of the room and attempted to sleep, but the stifling sultriness of the atmosphere was intolerable. I preferred returning to the vettura and breathing the noxious air of the plains—it was at least cooling. I spent a truly Sullanian night in this Aleria, in front of the church in which Father Cyrnæus had been deacon, meditating on the greatness of the Romans and their fall, and on those splendid Sullanian banquets, at which there were pasties of fish-livers, and fountains of costly sauces. It was a diabolical night, and more than once I sighed, "_Aleria, Aleria, chi non ammazza vituperia_"—Aleria, Aleria, who but a murderer would not curse thee!—for this is the verse with which the Corsicans have stigmatized the place; and it seems to me highly appropriate to a colony of Sulla.