Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/1001



O a mild explorer, with a predilection for straying a little from the beaten path, this London newspaper story (which later investigation proved to be inaccurate in its dates) unfolded pleasing opportunities:

The story savored not only of the unusual, but of the improbable, and sufficiently of the unattainable to warrant digging into. Besides, this probing after the truth makes a man feel almost as good as though he were telling it. Easier, too—except when Tavolara is the truth for which one probes. The little boy downstairs brought up his geography and I my atlas; we spread them out on the dining-room table, and there it was—one-thirty-second of an inch from Sardinia on his map, and one-eighth on mine.

After a day's research, I regretted having ever heard of the little republic. The nearer one got to Tavolara, the less one seemed to know about it. That great Italian authority, for instance, whom I consulted. No recollection of the island at all, much less of its wonderful little government. His clerk wasn't so bad; by constant gesticulation and no English, he managed to remember that there was such a place,—not that it was ever a personal experience, but rather as something that came in and went out of his life about the fifth year of his grammar-school. He had a hazy idea of rocks, wild goats, and some export, such as lobsters—which I considered extraneous matter. I went on down to the Astor Library. Neither the English nor Italian encyclopædias had a word on the subject, but one French affair in a gay red binding admitted the island, and claimed it was occupied solely by "bêtes sauvages." I suppose wild goats could be savage beasts. The third and last authority to mention this elusive republic was the Pilot's Guide. It seems by steering nor'-nor'west, or words to that effect, one can avoid the rocks. At the end of the day I felt that I could safely make my first entry under Tavolara:

1. Rocks.

2. Goats—wild.

It was not impressive material, but it was all my note-book ever gleaned.

We steamed out of New York Harbor very gracefully one June morning, accompanied by cheers, tears, and the German band. As soon as I had taken a look round, I hunted up the Italian doctor, and, with some skill and cunning, arranged to sit next to him at table. He wanted a lady, but I couldn't help that. I would sift the story to the bottom if I had to spoil every flirtation on the ship. America had given what it could of Tavolara; it was up to me to set the matter straight! It was great in the smoking-room the first night out. All the men had their maps on the tables, and were talking Paestum, Tunis, and such worn-out spots. "Where are you going?" they asked me. "I think I'll run over to Tavolara," I answered, yawning. That shut them up, and I heard the rustling