Rambles in the islands of Corsica and Sardinia
by Thomas Forester · English · Gutenberg #28510 · 765,113 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Rambles in the islands of Corsica and Sardinia
with notices of their history, antiquities, and present condition
Author: Thomas Forester
Release date: April 6, 2009 [eBook #28510]
Language: English
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Credits: Produced by Carlo Traverso, Barbara Magni and the Online
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Produced by Carlo Traverso, Barbara Magni and the Online
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file was produced from images generously made available
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RAMBLES
IN
CORSICA AND SARDINIA.
WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
I.
RAMBLES IN NORWAY, 1848-1849; including Remarks on its Political,
Military, Ecclesiastical, and Social Organization. With a Map,
Wood Engravings, and Lithographic Illustrations. 1 vol. 8vo.
Longman and Co., 1860.
* * A few copies only of this Edition are on hand.
*
II.
THE SAME, in 1 vol. post 8vo. without the Illustrations.
(_Traveller's Library._) Longman and Co., 1855.
III.
EVERARD TUNSTALL: A South-African Tale. Bentley, 1851.
* * A New Edition is in preparation.
*
IV.
THE DANUBE AND THE BLACK SEA. A Memoir on their Junction by a
Railway and Port; with Remarks on the Navigation of the Danube,
the Danubian Provinces, the Corn Trade, the Antient and Present
Commerce of the Euxine; and Notices of History, Antiquities,
&c. With a Map and Sketch of the Town and Harbour of
Kustendjie. 1 vol. 8vo. E. Stanford, 6 Charing Cross, 1857.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO.
NEW-STREET SQUARE.
[Illustration]
RAMBLES
IN THE ISLANDS OF
CORSICA AND SARDINIA.
WITH
NOTICES OF THEIR HISTORY, ANTIQUITIES, AND PRESENT CONDITION.
BY THOMAS FORESTER
AUTHOR OF “NORWAY IN 1818-1819,” ETC.
LONDON
LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, LONGMANS, AND ROBERTS.
1858
PREFACE
Nearly a century ago, James Boswell made an expedition to Corsica, and
was entertained with distinction by Pascal Paoli. Next to conducting
Samuel Johnson to the Hebrides, the exploit of penetrating to what was
then considered a sort of _Ultima Thule_ in southern Europe, was the
greatest event in the famous biographer's life; and, next to his
devotion to the English sage, was the homage he paid to the Corsican
chief.
Soon after his return from this expedition, in 1767, Boswell printed his
Journal, with a valuable account of the island; but from that time to
the present, no Englishman has written on Corsica except Mr. Robert
Benson, who published some short “Sketches” of its history, scenery, and
people in 1825. During the war of the revolution, Nelson's squadron hung
like a thunder-cloud round the coast, and for some time an
expeditionary force of British troops held possession of the island. Our
George the Third accepted the Corsican crown, but his reign was as
ephemeral as that of King Theodore, the aspiring adventurer, who ended
his days in the Fleet Prison.
These occurrences, with any knowledge of the country and people arising
out of them, have passed from the memory of the present generation; and
it may be affirmed, without exaggeration, that when the tour forming the
subject of the present work was projected and carried out, Corsica was
less known in England than New Zealand. The general impression
concerning it was tolerably correct. Imagination painted it as a wild
and romantic country,—romantic in its scenery and the character of its
inhabitants; a very region of romance and sentiment; a fine field for
the novelist and the dramatist; and to that class of writers it was
abandoned.
Corsica had yet to be faithfully pictured to the just apprehension of
the discerning inquirer. Naturally therefore the author, whose
narratives of his wanderings in more than one quarter of the globe had
been favourably received, was not indisposed to commit to the press the
result of his observations during his Corsican rambles. Just then,
translations of an account of a Tour in the island by a German
traveller, appeared in England, and being written in an attractive
style, the work commanded considerable attention. It seemed to fill the
gap in English literature on the subject of Corsica; and though the
writer of these pages felt that M. Gregorovius' pictures of Corsican
life were too highly coloured, he was inclined to leave the field in the
hands which had cultivated it with talent and success. Eventually,
however, being led to think that Corsica was still open to survey from
an English point of view, and that it possessed sufficient legitimate
attractions to sustain the interest of such a work as he had designed,
the author was induced to undertake it.
If the field of literature connected with Corsica was found barren when
examined in prospect of this expedition, that of Sardinia presented an
_embarras de richesses_. The works of La Marmora, Captain, now Admiral,
Smyth, and Mr. Warre Tyndale, had seemingly exhausted the subject, with
a success the mere Rambler can make no pretensions to rival; but the
former being a foreign work, and the two latter out of print, neither of
them is easily accessible. They have been sometimes used, in the
following pages, to throw light on subjects which came under the
author's own observation. He has also consulted a valuable work,
recently published at Naples, by F. Antonio Bresciani, of the Society
of Jesus[1], on the manners and habits of the Sardes compared with those
of the oldest Oriental nations. The comparisons are chiefly gathered
from scenes and usages depicted in the narratives of Homer and the
Bible, still singularly reflected in the habits and traditions of the
primitive and insular people of Sardinia.
Some of these are noticed in the present volume, and the author intended
to draw more largely on the rich stores accumulated by the researches of
the learned Jesuit; but time and space failed. Like truant boys, the
Ramblers had loitered on their early path, idly amusing themselves with
very trifles, or stopping to gather the wild flowers that fell in their
way, till the harvest-field was reached too late to be carefully
gleaned. For a work, however, of this description, attention enough has
perhaps been paid to the subject of Sarde antiquities; it being intended
to be amusing as well as instructive, to convey information on the
character of the people on whom it treats, as well as on their
institutions and monuments.
If, in conclusion, it be mentioned that the delay in bringing out the
volume, long since announced, has been caused by ill health and other
painful circumstances, the Author is only anxious that it should not be
misinterpreted, as attaching to the work an importance to which it does
not pretend. But there is the less reason for regretting this delay, as
it has afforded him another opportunity of visiting Sardinia, as well as
of witnessing the operation of laying down the submarine electric
telegraph cable between Cagliari and the African coast; an event in
Sardinian history, some notice of which, with the accompanying trip to
Algeria, may form a not uninteresting episode to the Rambles in that
island.
May, 1858.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Inducements to the Expedition.—Early impressions concerning
Corsica.—Plan of the Tour.—Routes to Marseilles.—Meeting
there Page 1
CHAP. II.
Marseilles.—Cafe de l'Orient.—Cannebière and Port.—Sail to the
Islands in the Gulf.—The Château-d'If and Count de
Monte-Cristo.—A sudden Squall 8
CHAP. III.
Embark for Corsica.—Coast of France and Italy.—Toulon.—Hyères
Islands, Frejus, &c.—A stormy Night.—Crossing the Tuscan Sea
21
CHAP. IV.
Coast of Capo Corso.—Peculiarity of Scenery.—Verdure, and
Mountain Villages.—Il Torre di Seneca.—Land at Bastia 28
CHAP. V.
Bastia.—Territorial Divisions.—Plan of the Rambles.—Hiring
Mules.—The Start 38
CHAP. VI.
Leave Bastia.—The Road.—View of Elba, Pianosa, and
Monte-Cristo.—The Littorale.—An Adventure.—The Stagna di
Biguglia 44
CHAP. VII.
Evergreen Thickets.—Their remarkable Character.—A fortunate
Rencontre.—Moonlight in the Mountains.—Cross a high
Col.—Corsican Shepherds.—The Vendetta.—Village Quarters 53
CHAP. VIII.
The Littorale.—Corsican Agriculture.—Greek and Roman
Colonies.—Sketch of Mediæval and Modern History.—Memoirs of
King Theodore de Neuhoff 65
CHAP. IX.
Environs of Olmeta.—Bandit-Life and the Vendetta.—Its
Atrocities.—The Population disarmed.—The Bandits exterminated
77
CHAP. X.
The Basin of Oletta.—The Olive.—Corsican Tales.—The Heroine of
Oletta.—Zones of Climate and Vegetation 90
CHAP. XI.
Pisan Church at Murato.—Chestnut Woods.—Gulf of San
Fiorenzo.—Nelson's Exploit there.—He conducts the Siege of
Bastia.—Ilex Woods.—Mountain Pastures.—The Corsican Shepherd
102
CHAP. XII.
Chain of the Serra di Tenda.—A Night at Bigorno.—A hospitable
Priest.—Descent to the Golo 117
CHAP. XIII.
Ponte Nuovo.—The Battle-field.—Antoine's Story 129
CHAP. XIV.
Filial Duty, Love, and Revenge: a Corsican Tale 134
CHAP. XV.
Morosaglia, Seat of the Paolis.—Higher Valley of the
Golo.—Orography of Corsica.—Its Geology 145
CHAP. XVI.
Approach to Corte.—Our “Man of the Woods.”—Casa Paoli.—The
Gaffori.—Citadel.—An Evening Stroll 156
CHAP. XVII.
Pascal Paoli more honoured than Napoleon Buonaparte.—His
Memoirs.—George III. King of Corsica.—Remarks on the
Union.—Paoli's Death and Tomb 164
CHAP. XVIII.
Excursion to a Forest.—Borders of the
Niolo.—Adventures.—Corsican Pines.—The Pinus Maritima and
Pinus Lariccio.—Government Forests 179
CHAP. XIX.
The Forest of Asco.—Corsican Beasts of Chase.—The
Moufflon.—Increase of Wild Animals.—The last of the Banditti
191
CHAP. XX.
Leave Corte for Ajaccio.—A Legend of Venaco.—Arrival at
Vivario 200
CHAP. XXI.
Leave Vivario.—Forest of Vizzavona.—A roadside
Adventure.—Bocagnono.—Arrive late at Ajaccio 205
CHAP. XXII.
Ajaccio.—Collège-Fesch.—Reminiscences of the Buonaparte
Family.—Excursion in the Gulf.—Chapel of the Greeks.—Evening
Scenes.—Council-General of the Department.—Statistics.—State
of Agriculture in Corsica.—Her Prospects 213
CHAP. XXIII.
Leave Ajaccio.—Neighbourhood of Olmeto.—Sollacaró.—James
Boswell's Residence there.—Scene in the “Corsican Brothers”
laid there.—Quarrel of the Vincenti and Grimaldi.—Road to
Sartene.—Corsican Marbles.—Arrive at Bonifacio 227
CHAP. XXIV.
Bonifacio.—Foundation and History.—Besieged by Alfonso of
Arragon.—By Dragut and the Turks.—Singularity of the
Place.—Its Medieval Aspect.—The
Post-office.—Passports.—Detention.—Marine Grottoes.—Ruined
Convent of St. Julian 242
CHAP. XXV.
ISLAND OF SARDINIA.—Cross the Straits of Bonifacio.—The
Town and Harbour of La Madelena.—Agincourt Sound, the Station
of the British Fleet in 1803.—Anecdotes of Nelson.—Napoleon
Bonaparte repulsed at La Madelena 258
CHAP. XXVI.
Ferried over to the Main Island.—Start for the Mountain Passes
of the Gallura.—Sarde Horses and Cavallante.—Valley of the
Liscia.—Pass some Holy Places on the Hills.—Festivals held
there.—Usages of the Sardes indicating their Eastern Origin
272
CHAP. XXVII.
The Valley narrows.—Romantic Glen.—Al fresco Meal.—Forest of
Cork Trees.—Salvator Rosa Scenery.—Haunts of Outlaws.—Their
Atrocities.—Anecdotes of them in a better Spirit.—The Defile
in the Mountains.—Elevated Plateau.—A Night March.—Arrival
at Tempio, the Capital of Gallura.—Our Reception 280
CHAP. XXVIII.
Tempio.—The Town and Environs.—The Limbara
Mountains.—Vineyards.—The Governor or Intendente of the
Province.—Deadly Feuds.—Sarde Girls at the
Fountains.—Hunting in Sardinia.—Singular Conference with the
Tempiese Hunters.—Society at the Casino.—Description of a
Boar Hunt 295
CHAP. XXIX.
Leave Tempio.—Sunrise.—Light Wreaths of Mist across the
Valley.—A Pass of the Limbara.—View from the Summit.—Dense
Vapour over the Plain beneath.—The Lowlands unhealthy.—The
deadly Intempérie.—It recently carried off an English
Traveller.—Descend a romantic Glen to the Level of the
Campidano.—Its peculiar Character.—Gallop over it.—Reach
Ozieri 310
CHAP. XXX.
Effects of vast Levels as compared with Mountain
Scenery.—Sketches of Sardinian Geology.—The primitive Chains
and other Formations.—Traces of extensive Volcanic
action.—The “Campidani,” or Plains.—Mineral Products 320
CHAP. XXXI.
Ozieri.—A Refugee Colonel turned Cook and Traiteur.—Traces of
Phenician Superstitions in Sarde Usages.—The Rites of
Adonis.—Passing through the Fire to Moloch 331
CHAP. XXXII.
Expedition to the Mountains.—Environs of Ozieri.—First View of
the Peaks of Genargentu.—Forests.—Value of the Oak
Timber.—Cork Trees; their Produce, and Statistics of the
Trade.—Hunting the Wild Boar, &c.—The Hunters' Feast.—A
Bivouac in the Woods.—Notices of the Province of
Barbagia.—Independence of the Mountaineers 344
CHAP. XXXIII.
Leave Ozieri.—The New Road, and Travelling in the
Campagna.—Monte Santo.—Scenes at the Halfway House.—Volcanic
Hills.—Sassari; its History.—Liberal Opinions of the
Sassarese.—Constitutional Government.—Reforms wanted in
Sardinia.—Means for its Improvement 358
CHAP. XXXIV.
Alghero—Notice of.—The Cathedral of
Sassari.—University.—Museum.—A Student's private
Cabinet.—Excursion to a Nuraghe.—Description of.—Remarks on
the Origin and Design of these Structures 376
CHAP. XXXV.
Sardinian Monoliths.—The Sepolture, or “Tombs of the
Giants.”—Traditions regarding Giant Races.—The Anakim, &c.,
of Canaan.—Their supposed Migration to Sardinia.—Remarks on
Aboriginal Races.—Antiquity of the Nuraghe and
Sepolture.—Their Founders unknown 389
CHAP. XXXVI.
Oristano.—Orange-groves of Milis.—Cagliari.—Description
of.—The Cathedral and Churches.—Religious
Laxity.—Ecclesiastical Statistics.—Vegetable and Fruit
Market.—Royal Museum.—Antiquities.—Coins found in
Sardinia.—Phenician Remains.—The Sarde Idols 407
CHAP. XXXVII.
Porto-Torres.—Another Italian Refugee.—Embark for Genoa.—West
Coast of Corsica.—Turin.—The Sardinian Electric
Telegraph.—The Wires laid to Cagliari 422
CHAP. XXXVIII.
Sardinian Electric Telegraph.—The Land Line completed.—Failures
in Attempts to lay a Submarine Cable to Algeria.—The Work
resumed.—A Trip to Bona on the African Coast.—The Cable
laid.—Importance of Cagliari as a Telegraph Station.—Its
Commerce.—The return Voyage.—CONCLUSION 432
INDEX TO THE ILLUSTRATIONS.
LITHOGRAPHS.
AJACCIO _frontispiece_
MAP OF CORSICA AND SARDINIA _facing p._ 1
ERSA, CAPO CORSO “ 33
CORTE “ 157
VIVARIO “ 205
BONIFACIO “ 242
VALLEY OF THE LISCIA, SARDINIA “ 275
THE LIMBARA, FROM TEMPIO “ 296
THE PLAN OF OZIERI “ 318
WOOD ENGRAVINGS.
CORSICA.
MARSEILLES, FROM THE RAILWAY 7
ISLETS OFF MARSEILLES 12
CHÂTEAU-D'IF 14
MARSEILLES, FROM THE CHÂTEAU-D'IF 17
FRENCH COAST, OFF CIOTAT 23
OFF TOULON 24
IL TORRE DI SENECA 34
ISLE OF MONTE-CRISTO 47
MEETING OF MOUNTAIN AND PLAIN NEAR BASTIA 48
OLMETA 77
ISLE OF MONTE-CRISTO, THROUGH A GORGE 91
BETWEEN OLMETA AND BIGORNO 95
PONTE MURATO 103
CAPO CORSO, FROM CHESTNUT WOODS 107
NEAR BIGORNO 122
CITADEL OF CORTE 161
PINUS MARITIMA 185
PINUS LARICCIO 185
CONE OF THE PINUS LARICCIO 186
BARK OF THE PINUS LARICCIO 186
BOCAGNONO 209
HARBOUR OF AJACCIO 217
BONIFACIO, ON THE SEA-SIDE 240
OUTLINE OF SARDINIA, FROM BONIFACIO 253
CAVES UNDER BONIFACIO 255
BONIFACIO, FROM THE CONVENT IN THE VALLEY 256
SARDINIA.
LOOKING BACK ON CORSICA 259
A SALVATOR ROSA SCENE 282
DESCENT TO THE CAMPIDANO 313
THE CAMPIDANO 321
EXTERIOR OF A NURAGHE 379
ENTRANCE TO A NURAGHE 381
INTERIOR OF A NURAGHE 381
SEPOLTURA DE IS GIGANTES 390
THE SAME 391
SARDO-ROMAN COIN 417
CARTHAGINEAN COIN 418
SARACEN COIN 418
PORTO-TORRES 425
[Illustration: CORSICA AND SARDINIA (MAP)]
RAMBLES
IN
CORSICA AND SARDINIA.
CHAPTER I.
_Inducements to the Expedition.—Early impressions concerning
Corsica.—Plan of the Tour.—Routes to Marseilles.—Meeting
there._
It would be difficult to say, and it matters little, what principally
led to the selection of two islands in the Mediterranean, not generally
supposed to possess any particular attractions for the tourist, as the
object for an autumn's expedition with the companion of former rambles.
At any rate, we should break fresh ground; and I imagine the hope of
shooting _moufflons_ was no small inducement to my friend, who had
succeeded in the wild sport of hunting reindeer on the high Fjelds of
Norway. If, too, his comrade should fail in climbing to the vast
solitudes in which the bounding _moufflon_ harbours, there were boar
hunts in the prospect for him; not such courtly pageants as one sees in
the pictures of Velasquez, but more stirring, and in nobler covers.
Should these prove to be false hopes, the enthusiastic sketcher, and the
lover of the grand and beautiful in nature, must find ample compensation
in the scenery of mountains lifting their snowy peaks from bases washed
by the sunny Mediterranean,—mountain systems of a character yet
unvisited, and with which we could at least compare those of Norway and
Switzerland. This power of comparison is what imparts the most lively
interest to travelling; and thus it becomes, for the time,
all-engrossing, the eyes and the memory alike employed at every turn on
contrasts of form, colour, and clothing.
Not less attractive, to any one desirous of extending his knowledge of
human kind, would be the prospect of studying the races inhabiting
islands as yet unknown to him. The oldest writer of travels, bringing on
the stage his hero-wanderer along the shores of the Mediterranean, gives
the finishing touch to his character in two significant words, νόον
ἐγνῶ.[2] Not only did he “visit the abodes of many people,” but he
“studied their Νοῦς;” all that the term involves of its impress on
character, habits, and institutions was keenly investigated by the
accomplished navigator. And what studies must be afforded by these
singular islanders, who, we were informed, in the centre of the
Mediterranean, at the very threshold of civilisation, combined many of
the virtues, with more than the ferocity, of barbarous tribes!
My own impressions regarding Corsica were early received. In my younger
days, there was the same sort of sympathy with the Corsicans which we
now find more noisily, and sometimes absurdly, displayed for the Poles.
I had seen Pascal Paoli, and talked with General Dumouriez about his
first campaign against the Corsican mountaineers, of which his
recollections were by no means agreeable. Pascal Paoli had found an
asylum in England, where he maintained a dignified seclusion, not always
imitated by patriot exiles. His memory has almost passed away, and it is
quite imaginable that some stump orator may reckon him among the exiled
Poles of former days. Pascal Paoli was, however, a truly great man. In
my boyish enthusiasm—all “Grecians” are in the heroics about patriots
who have fought and struggled for their country's liberty—I compared him
with Aristides or Themistocles; the Corsicans were heroes; the country
which rudely nursed those brave mountaineers—I had also a touch of
sentiment for the sublime and beautiful in nature which a schoolboy does
not always get from books,—such a country must be romantic. Should I
ever ramble among its mountains, forests, and sunny valleys?
At last, long after the chimera, for such it inevitably was, of Corsican
independence had vanished, my cherished hopes have been realised,—with
what success will appear in the following pages. I will only say for
myself, and I believe my fellow-traveller participates the feeling, a
more delightful tour I never made.
Corsica had an ugly reputation for _banditisme_, and Sardinia for a
deadly _intempérie_; but we did not attach much importance to such
rumours. The enthusiastic traveller disregards danger. If told that
there is “a lion in his path,” he only goes the more resolutely forward.
As for the banditti, we would fraternise with them if they, best knowing
the mountain paths, would track the moufflons for us.
The true traveller must “become all things to all men,” if he desires to
familiarise himself with the habits and characters of other races.
Without forgetting that he is an Englishman, he will cast off that
self-conceit and cold exclusiveness which make so many of your
countrymen ridiculous in the eyes of foreigners, and, adapting himself
to the situation, become, if needs be, a bandit in Corsica, a bonder in
Norway, drink sour milk without a wry face in a Caffre's kraal, take
snuff with his wives—be any thing except a Turk in Turkey; though even
there, when he comes to talk the language, he will adopt the eastern
custom of taking his pipe, his coffee, and his repose, not chattering,
but sententiously uttering his words between whiffs of smoke, which,
meanwhile, he _drinks_, as the Turks well express it.
We envy not the man, the T. G. (travelling gent.) of society, whose
principal aim in travelling is to gratify a miserable vanity; to be able
to boast of crossing or climbing such a mountain; to have to say, “I
have been here, I have been there; I have done Bagdad; I have seen the
Nile,” or such and such a place. The true traveller is unselfish. Though
to him it is food, breath, a renewal of life, a fresh existence, to
travel,—half his pleasure is to carry home from his wanderings, to an
English fireside, a tale of other lands. That happy English home is ever
present to his mind, and, with all his enthusiasm, he meets with nothing
in his rambles he would exchange for its blessings.
Being strongly recommended to defer our visit to Sardinia until the
latest possible period of the autumn, the plan finally laid was to take
Corsica in detail from Capo Corso to Bonifaccio, and then cross the
straits, as best we might, there being no regular communication. Having
landed in Sardinia, we should continue the tour through that island as
long as circumstances permitted; leaving it by one of the Sardinian
government's steam-boats which ply between the island and Genoa and so
take the route by Turin, over the Mont-Cenis, to Lyons, Paris, and
Boulogne.
As these islands lie on the same parallel of longitude (11° 50' E.
nearly cutting the centre of both), by the route thus chalked out, we
should make a straight course from north to south, with no considerable
deviations, the islands being, as every one knows, in the form of
parallelograms of much greater length than breadth.
Marseilles was finally arranged to be our port of embarkation, and the
postponement of the visit to Sardinia till November leaving time on our
hands, we had ample leisure for the accomplishment of some secondary
projects, which brought us into training for the _grand coup_. My friend
pushed through the more frequented parts of Switzerland for Zermatt and
the Matterhorn. He was much struck by the remarkable contrast of that
stupendous obelisk of rock, piercing the clouds, with the vast, but
still sublime, expanse of the high Fjelds of snow we had seen in Norway;
and the remark applies generally to the grand distinctive features of
the two countries. Descending the valley of Aosta, my friend travelled
by Genoa and Nice through the Maritime Alps to Marseilles, going on to
Avignon with some friends he happened to fall in with on the way;—such
meetings with those we know, and sometimes with those we do not know,
being among the pleasures of travelling in the more frequented routes.
Agreeable acquaintances are made or renewed; perhaps a day or two is
spent in travelling together, with a charm that is very delightful; and
you part with the hope of meeting again.
Meanwhile the author, who had been delving in the Norman Chronicles till
every castle and abbey through the length and depth of the old Duchy
were become familiar names, feeling a strong desire to revisit scenes
thus brought fresh to his memory, shouldered his knapsack at Dieppe, and
spent a most delightful fortnight in rambling through that fine
province.
Many a pleasant story he could tell of wayside greetings and fireside
hospitalities among the Norman peasantry. The old soldier of the empire
stopped his _camarade_, as something in our _tenue_ led him to imagine,
asking eager questions about the coming war and the united service, both
which seemed to be popular; while market and fair, and the communal
school, each in their turn, drew forth amusing companions for the road.
But these episodes, and more serious talk of Norman abbeys buried in the
depths of forests or girded round by the winding Seine—rich in memories
of the past, but ruins all—and of Norman churches and cathedrals, in all
their ancient grandeur, or well restored, are beside the present
purpose.
Hastening southward by _diligence_ and _chemin-de-fer_, the first
vineyards appeared between Chartres and Orleans, with an effect much
inferior, as it seemed, to that produced by the orchards of Normandy,
loaded as they were with ruddy fruit; but this may be the prejudice of a
native of the West of England. From Lyons, one of the long narrow
steamboats afforded a most agreeable passage down the stream of the
rapid Rhone to Avignon. The autumn rains, which sometimes caused a weary
march through the byroads of Normandy, had cooled the air, freshened
vegetation, and made travelling in the south of France pleasant. While
journeying on, every hour and every league bringing me nearer to the
intended meeting, it was natural to feel some anxiety lest in such great
distances to be traversed, with little or no intermediate communication,
something might go wrong, and our plans, however well laid, be delayed
or frustrated. The last stage of the journey commenced—should I be first
at the rendezvous, or was my companion for the future waiting my
arrival?
[Illustration: MARSEILLES FROM THE RAILWAY.]
At last, after spending the warm noon of an unclouded day amongst the
noble ruins of Arles, the train landed me at the station at Marseilles,
and my friend was on the platform. The pleasure of casual meetings _en
route_ has been just adverted to. How joyous was that of two travellers,
wanderers together in times gone by, who now met so far from home, after
their separate courses, with a fresh field opening before them!—the
recognition, doubt and uncertainty vanishing, the glorious chat,—all
this the warm-hearted reader will easily imagine.
CHAP. II.
_Marseilles.—Café de l'Orient.—Cannebière and Port.—Sail to the
Islands in the Gulf.—The Château d'If and Count de
Monte-Cristo.—A sudden Squall._
We met then at Marseilles in the second week of October, punctual to the
appointed day. Our several lines of route had well converged. Want of
companionship was the only drawback on the pleasure they had afforded;
but they were only preludes to the joint undertaking on which we now
entered. Each recounted his past adventures, and measures were concerted
for the future.
Steamboats leave Marseilles three times every week for Corsica;—I like
to be particular, especially when one gets beyond Murray's beat. One of
these boats calls at Bastia on its way to Leghorn; the others make each
a voyage direct to Calvi, or l'Isle de Rousse, and Ajaccio.
It suited us best to land at Bastia, but we were detained three days at
Marseilles waiting for the boat. That also happened to suit us. We had
hitherto travelled in the lightest possible marching order, and some
heavier baggage, containing equipments for our expedition in the
islands, had not yet turned up. Knapsack tours are not the style beyond
the Alps. In the south and east, all above the lowest grade ride. It is
so in Corsica; still more in Sardinia,—where all is eastern. We trudged
on foot sometimes in Corsica, to get into the country, and should have
been considered mad; but, as Englishmen, we were only eccentric. We
waited then for our baggage, which contained, among other things,
English saddles,—a great luxury. My companion thought it a professional
duty to reconnoitre the fortifications of Toulon. By travelling in the
night, going and returning, he contrived to get a clear day for the
purpose.
Marseilles had interest enough to occupy my attention during his
absence. Being the great _entrepôt_ of commerce, and centre of
communication, in the Mediterranean, all the races dwelling on its
shores, and many others, are represented there.
“Let us go to the _Grand Café_,”—I think it is called _Café de
l'Orient_—said my companion, the evening we met.
Any one who has merely visited Paris may imagine the brilliance of this
vast _salon_, the lights reflected on a hundred mirrors. But where else
than at Marseilles could be found such an assemblage as now crowded it?
See that Turk, with the magnificent beard. What yards of snowy
gauze-like cambric, with gold-embroidered ends, are wound in graceful
folds round the fez, contrasting with the dark mahogany colour of his
sun-burnt brow. And what a rich crimson caftan! Perhaps he is from Tunis
or Barbary. He sits alone, smoking, with eyes half-closed, grave and
taciturn.
They must be Greeks,—those two figures in dark-flowing robes. They too
wear the red fez. Mark the neat moustache, the clean chiselled outline
of their features, the active eye. They are eagerly conversing over that
round marble table while they sip their coffee. Their talk must be of
the corn markets. Now is their opportunity, as the harvest in France
has failed. And see that man with the olive complexion, keen features,
and ringlets of black hair and pendent ear-rings under his dark
_barrette_. He may be the _padróne_ of some felucca from Leghorn or
Naples. Beside him is a Spaniard. He, too, seems a seafaring man; and no
felucca-rigged vessels in the Mediterranean are smarter, finer-looking
craft than the Spanish.
There are plenty of Arabs, swarthy, high-cheeked-boned, keen-eyed
fellows, in snowy bournouses, with hair and moustache of almost
unnatural blackness. French officers of every arm in the service are
grouped round the tables, drinking _eau-sucré_ and playing at dominoes
or cards, or lounge on the sofas reading the gazettes. The _garçons_ in
scarlet tunics, relieved by their white turbans and cambric trowsers,
are hurrying to and fro at the call of the motley guests.
“Those two gentlemen just entering are Americans, not of the Yankee
type, with free and easy air, and tall lanky forms. I made their
acquaintance in the steam-boat down the Rhone. They are men of great
intelligence, perfect _savoir-vivre_, and calm dignity of manner,
patrician citizens of a republic. One of them wore his plaid as
gracefully as a toga. I set him down for a senator from one of the
Southern states.”
“I have seen no English here,” said my companion. Next day he met his
friend Captain H—— returning on leave from Malta to England. Marseilles
is on the highway to all the East, and on the arrival or departure of
the packets connected with the “Overland Route” there must be a strong
muster of our countrymen, and women too.
Turning out of the shady avenue of the Corso on a sultry afternoon, I
sauntered down the _Rue de la Cannebière_ towards the port. It was the
busiest part of the day, for there seemed to be no idle time for the
_siesta_ here. The streets and quays were thronged with people of the
same varieties of race we had seen in the _café_; most of them, of
course, of an inferior class. There can be no mistaking that
wild-looking creature, bare-legged, and in a white bournouse, who is
staring with curious eyes at the splendid array of jewellery and plate
displayed to his eager gaze in that shop window. Again he pauses before
that elegant assortment of silks and shawls. What tales of European
luxury will the child of the desert carry back to the tents of the
Bedouins!
I found the port crowded with ships of all nations, the quays encumbered
with piles of _barriques_ and mountains of Egyptian wheat discharged in
bulk. What blinding dust as they shovel it up! What a suffocating heat!
What smells in this hollow trough which receives the filth of all the
town! How curiously names on the sterns of vessels, and _annonces_ over
the shops of _traiteurs_ and ship-chandlers, in very readable Greek,
carry the mind back to the Phocæan founders of this great emporium of
commerce!
It was a cooler walk along the _Rue de Rome_, and by the
_Marché-aux-Capucins_, gay with fruits and flowers, to the Museum
library, in search of books relating to Corsica. There was some
difficulty in discovering it. Literature and science do not appear to be
much in vogue in this seat of commerce. The Museum was closed, the
_custode_ absent, but a good-humoured porter allowed me a stranger's
privilege, and took me into the library; giving me also some details of
Corsican roads from his personal knowledge. The only book I discovered
was Vallery's Travels. I made a few extracts, and found no reason to
desire more. Few foreigners write travels in a style suited to the
English taste. They are at home among cities, and galleries, and works
of art, but have little real feeling for natural objects, and ill
disguise it by pompous phrases, glitter, and sentiment.
“Let us take a boat and sail over to the islands lying off the harbour,”
said my fellow-traveller one afternoon.
“With all my heart.”
[Illustration: ISLETS OFF MARSEILLES.]
These islets, most of them mere rocks, form a sort of sheltered strait,
or roadstead, of which the island of Rion, with Cape Morgion on the
mainland opposite, are the extreme points. Pomègue and Ratoneau are
connected by a breakwater.
“_Garçon_, put a roast fowl and some _pâtés_, with a loaf of bread and a
bottle of Bordeaux, into a _corbeille_ and send it down to the port.”
We bought some grapes as we went along. There are landing-stairs at the
upper end of the harbour, where pleasure-boats lie. We stepped into one,
and were rowed down in a narrow channel between four or five tiers of
ships, loading and unloading at the quays on each side. An arm of the
Mediterranean, a thousand yards long, forms a noble harbour; but, foul,
black, and stagnant, how different were its waters from the bright sea
without! After passing the forts defending the narrow entrance, we
hoisted sail. On the right was the new harbour of _La Joliette_,
connected with the old port by a canal. At present it did not appear to
be much frequented, but, during the war in the East, both scarcely
sufficed for the vast flotilla employed in conveying troops and stores.
It must be difficult for any one who has not witnessed it to conceive
the scene Marseilles then presented.
We now discussed the contents of our hamper with great _goût_, the
boatman occasionally pulling an oar as the wind was scant. But we had
sufficiently receded from the shore to command a view of the basin in
which Marseilles stands, and the amphitheatre of hills surrounding it,
studded with the country-houses of the citizens; small cottages, called
_bastides_, thousands of which spot the slopes of the hills like white
specks.
High upon a rocky summit stands the chapel of _Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde_,
held in great reverence, and much resorted to, by mariners and
fishermen; the walls and roof being hung with votive offerings,
commemorating deliverances from shipwreck and other ills to which
mariner-flesh is heir.
Seaward lay the islands for which we were bound, but without any
immediate prospect of reaching them, as the wind died away. It was
pleasant enough to lie listlessly floating on the blue Mediterranean,
with such charming views of the coast and the islands, and the
picturesque craft in every direction becalmed like our own skiff: but we
had another object in our evening's excursion; so, lowering the lateen
sail, my companion took one of the oars, and the boatman, reinforced by
a strong and steady stroke, pulling with a will, we soon landed at the
foot of the black and frowning rock, crowned on the summit by the square
massive donjon of the _Château d'If_.
[Illustration: CHÂTEAU D'IF.]
The whole circuit of the cliffs, containing an area of, perhaps, two
acres, is surrounded by fortifications. Climbing some rocky steps, we
waited in the guardroom till the _concièrge_ brought the keys of the
castle. It was formerly used as a state prison; and the vaulted
passages, echoing to the clang of keys and bolts, and deep and gloomy
dungeons, from which air and light were almost excluded by the thick
walls, reminded one of the unhappy wretches, victims of despotic or
revolutionary tyranny, who had been immured there without trial and
without hope. The island now serves as a depôt for recruits to fill up
the regiments serving in Algiers; and some of the larger apartments of
the château are used as a caserne.
But the _Château d'If_ is probably best known to many of my readers as
connected with a remarkable incident in the adventures of the Count de
Monte-Cristo, the hero of the celebrated novel of Alexandre Dumas. The
story is shortly this:
Dantès (the count) being thrown into one of the dungeons, remains in
hopeless captivity for a great number of years. In the end, by working
his way through the massive walls, he establishes a communication with
the cell of another prisoner, who was in a still more deplorable
condition. His fellow-prisoner dies, and Dantès effects his escape by
contriving to insert himself in the sack in which the corpse of his
friend was deposited; having first dressed the body in his own clothes,
and placed it in his bed, to deceive the gaolers. In the dead of the
night the sack is thrown into the sea from the castle walls, and Dantès
sinks with a thirty-two-pound shot fastened to his feet. He cuts the
cord with a knife he had secreted, and, disengaged from the sack, rises
to the surface and swims to a neighbouring island.
We were looking over the battlements towards these islands. One of them
is covered by a vast lazzeretto,—a place, for the time, only a few
degrees worse than the prison. The isles of Ratoneau and Pomègue lay
nearest. Farther off was Lémaire, to which Dantès is described as
swimming. They are all mere rocky islets washed by the sea, the group
being very picturesque.
“_Mon ami_,” said I, pointing to the isle of Lémaire, “do you think you
could do what the count is represented to have done.”
“What! swim from hence to that island? I would try, if I was shut up in
this horrid place, and had the chance.”
The distance I reckoned to be about three miles; and as my friend has
since swum across the Bosphorus, where the current is strong, he would
probably have found no difficulty in that part of the affair.
“But how about cutting the cord to get rid of the thirty-two-pound shot,
and extricating yourself from the sack?”
“_Ça dépend!_ All this is not impossible for a strong man in good
health; for a prisoner, exhausted by fourteen years' captivity in a
dungeon—_c'est autre chose_. Have you read the book?”
“Not much of it; I tried, but could not get on. That class of works is
by no means to my taste.”
“French literature of this school is, I admit, bad for the weak: it is
pastime to the strong, and serves to wile away an idle hour. This work
exhibits great genius, and a powerful imagination.”
“So, indeed, it seems; but may not the _vraisemblable_ be preserved even
in works of fiction? Let us have a story which, _se non è vero, è ben
trovato_. Writers of this school, my dear fellow, create, or pander to,
a vicious taste.”
“In a play or novel, I grant you, the plot, characters, and incidents,
in order to enlist our sympathies, should be true to nature and real
life. But who looks for this in a romance? such works are not read for
profit, and the boldest nights of fancy, and some extravagance, are
fairly admissible.”
“_Ah, mon cher_, my age is double yours, and that makes a great
difference in our views on such subjects.”
The recruits flocked round us, asking for _eau-de-vie_. Many of them
were Italians, deserters from the armies in Lombardy, Piedmont, and
the Papal states, glad to change their service for better pay and
treatment under the French flag, even on the burning plains of Africa.
Perhaps some of them were drafted into that “foreign legion” which
rivalled the Zouaves in the Crimea,—_âmes perdus_, the most reckless
before the enemy, the most licentious in the camp. These were merry
fellows, launching witty shafts against Austrians, Pope, and
Cardinals,—_maladetti tutti_, and good-humoured gibes at their
comrade, who, standing in an embrasure, bent his back with laudable
patience to the right angle for an easel, while my friend was making
sketches of the rocky islets and lateen-sail vessels reflected on the
mirror-like sea, or of the amphitheatre of mountains at the foot of
which Marseilles stands.
[Illustration: MARSEILLES FROM THE CHÂTEAU D'IF.]
Others, leaning over the battlements, whiled away the listless evening
hours, watching fishermen drawing the seine at the foot of the rocks.
We pulled round to the cove and watched them too; a very different set
of fellows from the _malbigatti_ stationed above. Fine, athletic,
muscular men, their heads bare, except that a few wore the red cap so
common in the Mediterranean,—in woollen shirts, with naked feet planted
on the slippery rocks, they were hauling up and coiling the rope,
singing cheerily.
The wind had shifted some points while we were on the island, and it now
freshened to a stiff breeze,—one of those sudden squalls for which these
seas are remarkable. The craft, which an hour before lay sleeping on the
waters, had caught the breeze. A brigantine came dashing up the straits
under all sail, her topgallants still set, though the poles quivered;
and smaller craft, with their long, pointed sails, like sea-fowl with
expanded wings, were crossing in all directions on their several tacks,
making for the harbour or inlets along the coast.
The sea was already lashed into foam, and tiny waves broke on the rocks.
Loud and hoarse rung the fishermen's voices as they hauled away to save
their nets. It was time for us to make for the port. A few strokes
shoved the boat from under the lee of the island; the oars were shipped,
and the lateen sail run up by all hands. Hauling close to the wind, my
friend seized the tiller: it was doubtful if we could make the harbour,
which the little craft, struggling with the breeze, just headed; the
towers of St. Victor being the point of sight in the increasing haze.
“_Comme les Anglais font des braves marins_,” said the _padróne_, as he
stood by the halyards, looking out ahead, after all was made snug.
We were, indeed, in our element. The sudden squall had stirred our
blood. Many such rough cruises we had shared together in old times.
The boat flew through the water, which roared and broke over the bows.
“It will be a short run,” said the steersman, “if the wind holds on.”
“_Port, monsieur, port!_” cried the _padróne_, who had learnt some
English nautical phrases.
But it would not do. Approaching the land, the wind veered and headed
us.
“We must make a short tack to gain the harbour.”
“_Je l'ai prévu_,” said the _padróne_.
“About” it was. She stayed beautifully, even under the single sail, and
in a trice was lying well upon the other tack, as we stood out to sea.
In five minutes we went about again, fetching under the stern of a
felucca, also beating into the port; perhaps from Algiers or the Spanish
coast. It was now a dead race with the felucca, which had forged ahead
while we were in stays.
“_Nous gagnerons, j'en gagerais une bouteille de vin!_” cried the
_padróne_, much excited, for he was proud of his boat.
“_Vous l'aurez, toutefois, pour boire à la santé de vos camarades
Anglais._”
Again we flew through the water, making a straight course for the
harbour. The felucca had much the advantage of us in breadth of canvas
and her high-peaked sails; but being heavily laden, she was deep in the
water. As it turned out, we did not overhaul her till just before she
lowered her foresail at the _consigne_ office, to wait for her _permis
d'entrer_, when we shot ahead right into the port.
We made out the evening at the theatre, well entertained by a _petite
comédie_. “One is sure to be amused,” said my companion; “and it is good
practice. It helps to get up one's French.”
“_Monsieur ne manque que d'être plus habitué_,” as it is politely
suggested when one is at a loss for a phrase.
CHAP. III.
_Embark for Corsica—Coast of France and Italy.—Toulon.—Hyères
Islands, Frejus, &c.—A Stormy night.—Crossing the Tuscan Sea._
Once more we are at the water stairs. A stout boat is ready to convey us
with our baggage to _L'Industrie_, one of Messrs. Vallery's fine
steam-boats, in turn for Bastia. Just as we are pushing off, a carriage
drives to the quay, with a niece of General the Count di Rivarola,
formerly in the British service. She is returning to Corsica. We do the
civil, spread plaids, and place her in the stern sheets; and she is very
agreeable.
It is Sunday morning. The bells of the old church of St. Victor are
ringing at early mass. The ships in the port have hoisted their colours.
There is our dear, time-honoured jack, “the flag that has braved,” &c.,
as we say on all occasions; and the stars and stripes, the crescent and
star, and the towers of Castille; with crosses of all shapes and
colours, in as great variety as the costumes we saw in the _café_. The
tricolor floated on the forts of St. Jean and St. Nicholas, as well as
on French craft of all descriptions.
All was gay, but not more joyous than our own buoyant spirits. Time had
been spent pleasantly enough at Marseilles, but it was a delay; and
there is nothing an Englishman hates more than delays in travelling.
Thwarted in his humour, he becomes quite childish, and frets and chafes
more at having to wait two or three days for a steamboat than at any
other hindrance I know. Now, when _L'Industrie_, with her ensign at the
peak, had, somehow or other, with a din of unutterable cries in maritime
French, been extricated from the dense tiers of vessels along the quay,
and hauling out of the harbour, we were at last fairly on the high road
to Corsica, never did the sun appear to shine more brightly; the
Mediterranean looked more blue than any blue one had seen before, there
was a ripple from the fresh breeze, the waves sparkled, and seemed
positively to laugh and partake of our joy.
We hardly cared to speculate on our fellow-passengers, as one is apt to
do when there is nothing else to engross the thoughts; and yet there
were some among them we should wish to sketch. Besides French officers
joining their regiments in the island, there was one, a Corsican, who
had served in Algeria, returning home on sick leave. It was to be feared
that it had come too late, for the poor invalid was so feeble, worn, and
emaciated that it seemed his native country could offer him nothing but
a grave. There was a Corsican priest on board, a pleasant, well-informed
man, who met our advances to an acquaintance with great readiness, and
was delighted with our proposed visit to his island. Some Corsican
gentlemen, a lady or two, and commercial men _en route_ for Leghorn,
completed the party. We seemed to be the only English. I was mistaken.
“After all, there is a countryman of ours on board,” I said, pointing to
a pair of broad shoulders, disappearing under the companion-hatch. I
caught sight of him just now; a fine, hale man, rather advanced in
years, with a fair complexion, ruddy, and a profusion of grey hair. He
wears a suit of drab; very plain, but well turned out.
“Unmistakeably English, as you say; it may be pleasant. I wonder we did
not make him out before among these sallow-faced and rather
dirty-looking gentry in green and sky-blue trousers.”
We were soon abreast of the group of rocky islets off the harbour,
passing close under the _Château d'If_. The sea was smooth, the sky
unclouded, but a gentle breeze deliciously tempered the heat, and
vessels of every description—square-rigged ships, and coasting feluccas
and xebecs—on their different courses, gave life to the scene. Thus
pleasantly we ran along the French coast, here much indented and
swelling into rocky hills of considerable elevation.
[Illustration: FRENCH COAST OFF CIOTAT.]
We had an excellent _déjeûner_, for which we were quite ready, having
only taken the usual early cup of coffee. The genial influence of this
meal had the effect of putting us on the best footing with our
fellow-voyagers. Pacing the deck afterwards with the Corsican priest, we
were joined by the stout Englishman. Observing our disappointment at
hearing we should be probably baulked of shooting in Corsica, he
expressed a hope that we would extend our excursion to Tuscany, where,
he was good enough to say, he would show us sport. He had been settled
there many years, and was now returning to his family by way of Leghorn.
Under a somewhat homely exterior, which had puzzled us at first as to
his position, we found our new acquaintance to be a man of refined
taste, great simplicity, as well as urbanity, of manners, and keenly
alive to the beautiful in nature and art. Such a specimen of the hearty
old English gentleman, unchanged—I was about to say uncontaminated—by
long residence abroad, it has been rarely my lot to meet with.
On rounding a projecting headland, we peeped into the mouth of Toulon
harbour, and every eye and glass were directed to the heights crowned
with forts, and the bold mountain masses towering above them.
[Illustration: OFF TOULON.]
Presently, we were threading the channel between the main land and the
Hyères Islands. They appeared to us a paradise of verdure, on which the
eye, weary of gazing at the bare and furrowed mountain-sides bounding
this coast, rested with delight. One imagined orange groves and myrtle
bowers, impervious to the summer's sun and sheltered by the lofty ridges
from the northern blasts—all this verdure fringing the edge of a bright
and tideless sea. Elsewhere, except rarely in the hollows, the mountain
ranges extending along this coast exhibit no signs of vegetation; the
whole mass appearing, with the sun full on them, not only scorched but
actually burnt to the colour of kiln-dried bricks.
All the afternoon we continued running at the steamer's full speed along
the shores of France and Italy. Notwithstanding their arid and sterile
aspect, nothing can be finer than the mountain ranges which bound this
coast, as every one who has crossed them in travelling from Nice well
knows. Glimpses, too, successively of Frejus, Cannes, and Nice, more or
less distant, as, crossing the Gulf of Genoa, we gradually increased our
distance from the shore, together with a capital dinner, were pleasant
interludes to the grand spectacle of Alps piled on Alps in endless
succession, and glowing a fiery red, which all the waters over which we
flew—deep, dark, or azure—could not quench.
Towards evening there were evident tokens in the sky, on the water, and
in the vessel's motion, of a change of weather. We were threatened with
a stormy night; and as we now began to lose the shelter of the land,
holding a course somewhat to the S.E. in order to round the northern
point of Corsica, there was no reason to regret that the passage across
the Tuscan sea would be performed while we were in our berths.
However, we walked the deck long after the other passengers had gone
below; enjoying the fresh breeze, though it was no soft zephyr wafting
sweet odours from the Ausonian shore. It is a sublime thing to stand on
the poop of a good ship when she is surging through the waves at ten
knots an hour in utter darkness, whether impelled by wind or steam;
especially when the elements are in strife. Nothing can give a higher
idea of the power of man to control them. With no horizon, not a star
visible in the vault above, and only the white curl on the crest of the
boiling waves, glimmering in our wake, on—on, we rush, the ship dipping
and rising over the long swells, and dashing floods of water and clouds
of spray from her bows.
But whither are we driving through these dark waters, and this
impenetrable, and seemingly boundless, gloom? The eye rests on the light
in the binnacle. We stoop to examine the compass; the card marks S.S.E.
Imagination expands the dark horizon. It is not boundless: the island
mountain-tops loom in the distance. They beckon us on; we realise them
now; at dawn the grey peaks of Cape Corso will be unveiled; we shall
dream of them to-night.
One of the watch struck the hour on the bell. “It is ten o'clock; let us
turn in.” There is an inviting glimmer through the cabin skylights. We
are better off in this floating hotel than has often been our lot,
baffling with storm and tempest, benighted, weary, cold and wet, in
rough roads, forest or desert waste, with dubious hopes of shelter and
comfort at the end of our march.
We paused for a moment, leaning over the brass rail which protected the
quarter deck. Below, on the main deck, a number of French soldiers,
wrapped in their grey coats, were huddled together, cowering under the
bulwarks, or wherever they could find shelter from the bitter night
wind.
The cabin lamps shed a cheerful light, reflected by the highly-polished
furniture and fittings. All the passengers were in their berths. We had
chosen ours near the door for fresher air. My companion climbed to his
cot in the upper tier, above mine.
“If you wake first, call me at daylight. We shall be off the coast of
Corsica. _Felicissima notte!_”
CHAP. IV.
_Coast of Capo Corso.—Peculiarity of Scenery.—Verdure, and
Mountain Villages.—Il Torre di Seneca.—Land at Bastia._
The voyage from Marseilles to Bastia is performed, under favourable
circumstances, in eighteen hours; but we had only just made the extreme
northern point of Corsica when I was hastily roused, at six o'clock,
from a blissful state of unconsciousness of the gale of wind and rough
sea which had retarded our progress during the night.
Hurrying on deck, the first objects which met the eye were a rocky islet
with a lighthouse on a projecting point, and then it rested on the
glorious mountains of Capo Corso, lifting their grey summits to the
clouds, and stretching away to the southward in endless variety of
outline. We were abreast of the rocky island of Capraja; on the other
hand lay Elba, with its mountain peaks; Pianosa and Monte-Cristo rose
out of the Tuscan sea further on. Behind these picturesque islands, the
distant range of the Apennines hung like a cloud in the horizon. The sun
rose over them in unclouded glory, no trace being left of the
night-storm, but a fresh breeze, and the heaving and swelling of the
deep waters.
Banging along the eastern coast of Capo Corso, at a short distance from
the shore, with the early light now thrown upon it, the natural
features of the country—groups of houses, villages, and even single
buildings of a marked character—were distinctly visible. We were not
long in discovering that Corsican scenery is of a peculiar and highly
interesting character.
The infinite variety existing in all the Creator's works is remarkably
exhibited in the physical aspect of different countries, though the
landscape be formed of the same materials, whether mountains, forests,
wood, water, and extended plains, or a composition of all or any of
these features on a greater or less scale. The change is sometimes very
abrupt. Thus, the character of Sardinian scenery is essentially
different from the Corsican, notwithstanding the two islands are only
separated by a strait twenty miles broad. Climate, atmosphere,
geological formation, and vegetable growth, all contribute to this
variety. The impress given to the face of nature by the hand of man,
whether by cultivation, or in the forms, and, as we shall presently see,
the position, of the various buildings which betoken his presence, give,
of course, in a secondary degree, a difference of character to the
landscape.
Remarks of this kind occurred in a conversation with our stout English
friend and my fellow-traveller, while they were sketching the coast of
Capo Corso from the deck of the _Industrie_. Trite as they may appear,
it is surprising how little even many persons who have travelled are
alive to such distinctions. What more natural than to say, “I have seen
Alpine scenery in Switzerland; why should I encounter the difficulties
of a northern tour to witness the same thing on a smaller scale in
Norway? What can the islands in the Tuscan sea have to offer
essentially different from Italian scenery with which I am already
familiar?”
Only a practised eye can make the discrimination, and it requires some
knowledge of physical geography, and the vegetable kingdom, to be able
to analyse causes producing these diversified effects. Every class of
rock, every species of tree, the various elevations of the surface of
the globe, and the plants which clothe its different regions, have each
their own forms and characteristics; and, of course, a landscape, being
an aggregate of these several parts, ought to reflect the varieties of
the materials composing it. An artist must have carefully studied from
nature to have acquired a nice perception of these varied effects, and
even should he be able to grasp the result, he may not succeed in
transferring it to his sketch. Far less can words convey an adequate
idea of the varied effects of natural scenery; so that one does not
wonder when the reader complains of the sameness of the representation.
In the present instance, were there pictured to his imagination the
distant peaks of Elba on the one hand, and on the other the long
mountain ranges of Capo Corso, bathed in purple light, as the sun rose
in the eastern horizon, the grey cliffs of rocks and promontories
bordering the coast, contrasted with the verdure of the valleys and
lower elevations, vineyards and olive grounds on the hill-sides, and the
landscape dotted with villages, churches, and ancient towers, we should
doubtless have a very charming sketch, but it would not convey a
distinct idea of the peculiarities of Corsican scenery.
What struck us most, independently of the general effect, was the
extraordinary verdure and exuberance of the vegetation which overspread
the surface of the country far up the mountain sides, not only as
contrasted with the sterile aspect of the coasts of the continent we had
just left, but as being, in itself, different from anything which had
before fallen under our observation in other countries, whether forest,
underwood, or grassy slope. For the moment, we were unable to conjecture
of what it consisted; but we had not long set foot on shore before we
were at no loss to account for our admiration of this singular feature
in Corsican, and in this particular, also, of Sardinian scenery.
Not to dwell now on the peculiar character of the mountain ranges of
Corsica, I will only mention one other peculiarity in the landscape
which strikes the eye throughout the island, but is nowhere more
remarkable than in the views presented as we ranged along the coast of
Capo Corso. As the former instance belongs to the department of physical
geography, this comes under the class of effects produced by the works
of man. The peculiarity consists in the villages being all placed at
high elevations. They are seen perched far up the mountain sides,
straggling along the scarp of a narrow terrace, or crowded together on
the platform of some projecting spur; churches, convents, towers, and
hamlets crowning the peaked summits of lower eminences almost equally
inaccessible. The only extensive plains in the island are so
insalubrious as to be almost uninhabitable, and this has been their
character from the time the island was first colonised. For this reason,
probably, in some measure, but more especially for defence, in the
hostilities to which the island has been exposed from foreign invaders
during many ages, as well as by internal feuds hardly yet extinct,
nearly the whole population is collected in the elevated villages or
_paese_ forming this singular and picturesque feature in Corsican
scenery. They are visible from a great distance, and sometimes ten or a
dozen of them are in sight at one time.
Capo Corso is not, as might be supposed, a mere cape or headland, but a
narrow peninsula, containing a number of villages, and washed on both
sides by the Tuscan sea; being about twenty-five miles long, though only
from five to ten miles broad. Nearly the whole area is occupied by a
continuation of the central chain which traverses the island from north
to south. The average height of the range through Capo Corso, where it
is called _La Serra_, does not exceed 1500 feet above the level of the
sea, but it swells into lofty peaks; the highest, _Monte Stella_,
between Brando and Nonza, rising 5180 feet above the shore of the
Mediterranean.
[Illustration: ERSA, CAPO CORSO.]
From the central chain spurs branch off to the sea on both coasts,
forming narrow valleys at the base and in the gorges of the mountains,
of which the principal on the eastern side are Lota, Cagnano, and Luri;
the last-named being the most fertile and picturesque, as well as the
largest of these mountain valleys, though only six miles long and three
wide. On the western side lie the valleys of Olmeta, Olcani, and
Ogliastro; Olmeta being the largest. The valleys are watered by mountain
torrents, often diverted to irrigate the lands under tillage, as well as
gardens and vine and olive plantations. Each _paese_ has its small tract
of more fertile land, marked by a deeper verdure, where the valleys open
out and the streams discharge their waters into the Mediterranean. At
this point, called the _Marino_, there is generally a little port, with
a hamlet inhabited by a hardy race of sailors engaged in the traffic
carried on coastwise between the villages of the interior and the
seaports.
This mountainous district contains a considerable population, and the
inhabitants are distinguished for their industry and economy. They live
in much comfort on the produce obtained by persevering labour from the
small portions of cultivated soil. Numerous flocks of sheep are herded
on the vast wastes overhanging the valleys. The olive and vine flourish,
and extensive chestnut woods supply at some seasons the staple diet of
the poorer classes. The slopes of the hills about the villages are
converted into gardens and orchards, in which we find figs, peaches,
apples, pears,—with oranges and lemons in the more sheltered spots. The
wines are in general sound, and we found them excellent where special
care had been bestowed on the manufacture.
The Corsicans are generally indolent, but it is said that there are no
less than a hundred families in the mountainous province of Capo Corso
who are considered rich, some of them wealthy; and all these owe their
improved fortunes to the enterprising spirit of some relative who left
it poor, and after years of toil in Mexico, in Brazil, or some other
part of South America, returned with his savings to his native village.
One valley after another opened as the steamer ran down the coast, each
with its _Marino_ distinguished by a fresher verdure, and its cluster of
white houses on the beach. The night mists still filled the hollows, and
villages and hamlets hung like cloud-wreaths on the mountain-sides and
the summits of the hills; the most inaccessible of which were crowned
with ruins of castles and towers.
Tradition asserts that one of these towers was the prison of Seneca the
Philosopher. _Il Torre di Seneca_, as it is called, stands on an
escarped pinnacle of rock, terminating one of the loftiest of the
detached sugar-loaf hills.
[Illustration: IL TORRE DI SENECA.]
Seneca spent seven years in exile, having been banished to Corsica by
the emperor Claudius, on suspicion of an illicit intercourse with the
profligate Julia. The islands in the Tuscan sea were the Tasmania of the
Roman empire, places of transportation for political offenders, and
those who fell under the imperial frown—which was the same thing. Some
smaller islands off the Italian coast, Procida, Ischia, &c., served the
same purpose. _Relegatio ad insulam_ was the legal phrase for this
punishment. Augustus banished his grandson Agrippa to the desolate
island of _Planosa_, the Pianosa mentioned just before in connection
with Elba. There he was strangled by order of Tiberius.
In some of his Epigrams, and the Books _de Consolatione_, composed
during his exile, Seneca paints the country and the climate in the
darkest colours. There is no doubt but these islands, though in sight of
the coast of Italy, appeared to the polished Romans as barbarous and
full of horrors as our penal settlements at the antipodes were
considered long after their first occupation; so that the picture of
Corsica, drawn by Seneca, may have been much exaggerated by his
distempered and splenetic state of mind. The probability is, that he
resided during his exile at one of the Roman colonies on the eastern
coast, Aleria or Mariana. What is called the _Torre di Seneca_ is the
ruin of a stronghold or watch-tower of the middle ages; and it is not
likely that the spot was occupied by the Romans at any period of their
dominion in Corsica, their possessions consisting only of the two
colonies, and some harbours on the coast.
But those lonely towers standing close to the shore, which we see from
time to time as we coast along—massive, round, and grey with lichens as
the rocks at their base; what do their ruins tell of times past? Were
they a chain of forts for the defence of the coast against Saracen, or
other invaders, in the middle ages? They appear too small to hold a
garrison, and too insulated for mutual support. More probably they were
watch-towers, from which signals were made when the vessels of the
corsairs hovered on the coast, that the inhabitants might betake
themselves, with their cattle and goods, to the fortified villages and
castles on the hills. We are told that, at the beginning of the
eighteenth century, there were fifteen of those towers on the north
coast of the island, and eighty-five in its whole circuit; but many of
them are now fallen to ruin.
At length, Bastia appeared in sight, rising in an amphitheatre to a
ridge studded with villas; the houses of the old town being crowded
about the port. Sweeping round the mole, we found ourselves in a
diminutive harbour, among vessels of small burthen. This basin is
surrounded on three sides by tall gloomy buildings, of the roughest
construction, piled up, tier above tier, to a great height. A
man-of-war's boat shoves off from the shore in good style, and lands the
Count's niece with due honours. Other boats come alongside the steamer,
and all is confusion.
“Did you see the meeting between the two Corsican brothers—the sallow,
fever-worn soldier from Algiers, our poor fellow-traveller, and the
hearty mountaineer?”
“No; I was paying my last _devoirs_ to _madame_.”
“The contrast between the two was striking. I shall never forget the way
they were laced in each other's arms, and the glance of keen anxiety
with which the mountaineer looked into his sick brother's face, marking
the ravages which time and disease had worked on those much-loved
features.”
In the air of his mountain-village that brother, we would hope, grew
strong again. Perhaps, having rejoined his regiment, his bones are left
in the Crimea; perhaps, he again survives, and breathes once more his
native air. Who can tell?
Our hale English friend remained on board to pursue the voyage to
Leghorn. What a din, what frantic gestures, what a rush of these
irascible Corsicans at our baggage! It is borne off to the
custom-house, and undergoes an examination far from rigorous. We mount
several flights of steps, leading from one narrow street to another in
this old quarter of the town, and are led to an hotel, which had much
the air of a second or third-rate Italian _locanda_—lofty and spacious
apartments, neither clean nor well arranged; and the _déjeûner_ was a
sorry affair. _N'importe_; we shall not stay longer in Bastia than is
necessary, and we may go further and fare worse. Meanwhile, a battalion
of French infantry were on parade, with the band playing in the
barrack-yard under our windows. We threw them open to enjoy the fresh
breeze and sweeten the room. They commanded a fine view of the coast we
had passed, now seen in profile under the effect of a bright sunshine,
with the waves washing in wreaths of foam on every jutting point and
rock.
CHAP. V.
_Bastia.—Territorial Divisions.—Plan of the Rambles.—Hiring
Mules.—The Start._
I cannot imagine any one's loitering in Bastia longer than he can help.
Its only attractions are the sea and the mountain views from the
environs; and those are commanded equally well from many points along
the coast. What the old town is we have already seen—narrow and crooked
streets, with gaunt houses piled up about the port; and there is the old
Genoese fortress frowning over it, and the church of St. John, of Pisan
architecture, the interior rich in marbles and gilding, but the _façade_
below notice as a work of art. A new quarter has been added to the town,
higher up, in which there are some handsome houses, particularly in the
_Rue de la Traverse_.
In early times a few poor traders from Cardo, a _paese_ on the heights,
settled at the mouth of a stream which formed here a small harbour. It
was their _Marino_, so that Cardo may be said to be in some sort the
Fiesole of Bastia. About the close of the fourteenth century, the
Genoese built the Donjon, which is still standing, to defend the port,
then becoming of importance. From this _bastióne_, the new town derived
its name. It was the capital of the island during the Pisan and Genoese
occupation, and so continued under the French government till 1811, when
the prefecture and general administration of affairs were transferred
to Ajaccio, where also the Council-general of Corsica, now forming a
department of France, holds its sessions. Bastia, however, is still the
_Quartier-général_ of the military in the island, and the seat of the
_Cour de Cassation_ and _Cour d'Appel_, tribunals exercising superior
jurisdiction over all the other courts. It is also the most populous
town in Corsica (14,000 souls being the return of the last census), and
has by far the largest commerce, exporting olive-oil and wine, fruits
and fish; and importing _corn_, groceries, tobacco, and manufactured
articles of all kinds.
Bastia was the standing point from which the old division of Corsica
into the _di quà_ and the _di là dei monti_—the country on this side and
the country on the other side of the mountains—was made; the line of
intersection commencing at the point of Gargalo, below Aleria, on the
eastern coast, and following a range of mountains westward to the
_Marino_ of Solenzara. The division was by no means equal; the country
_di quà_, including the present arrondissements of Bastia, Corte, and
Calve, being one-third larger than the _di là_, comprising the
arrondissements of Ajaccio and Sartene.
Another ancient division of Corsica was into _pieves_, originally
ecclesiastical districts,—and _paeses_, which, I imagine, are equivalent
to parishes, including the village and the hamlets belonging to them. A
detached farm-house, such as are scattered everywhere in England, is
hardly to be seen in Corsica, the inhabitants being gathered in these
villages and hamlets, invariably built, as already observed, on elevated
points. By what corruption these were called _paeses_, _countries_, one
does not understand; but it sounds rather droll to a stranger, when he
is told in Corsica, that he may travel many miles, _senza vedère uno
paése_, without seeing a country.
Bastia must, doubtless, from the circumstances mentioned, have good
society; but we thought Ajaccio a much pleasanter place, and Corte, in
its rudeness, has a nobler aspect than either, and is associated with
glorious recollections. We were for escaping the _di quà_ of Bastia and
the _littorale_, and getting as soon as possible _di là_ the mountains,
not, however, according to the old political division of the island, but
in the sense of crossing the central chain by one of the nearest passes.
The plan we sketched, after consulting our maps, was to cross the Serra
by a _col_ leading into the valleys in the south-west of Capo Corso,
and, after rambling through that district, to descend into the upper
valley of the Golo, and pursue it in the direction of Corte, making
Ajaccio our next point. There are good highroads throughout the island,
with regular _diligences_ all the way from Bastia to Bonifaccio; but to
avail ourselves of these, taking up our quarters in the towns and making
excursions in the neighbourhood, was not to our taste. We proposed,
therefore, to hire mules for the expedition, sending our heavier baggage
forward to Ajaccio by _voiture_, and retaining only the indispensables
for a journey of more than 150 miles, in the course of which not a
single decent _albergo_ was to be met with, except at Corte.
The horses in Corsica are diminutive and of an inferior breed, mules
being almost exclusively employed for draught on the great roads, and as
beasts of burthen in the byways and mountain tracks. In Sardinia, on the
contrary, though lying so much further south, the mules disappeared, and
were replaced by hardy and active horses.
We inquired for mules. There are generally to be found hanging about
foreign hotels people ready to undertake anything the traveller may
require, little as they may be competent to fulfil their engagements.
One of this class presented himself, his appearance by no means
prepossessing; but the view he took of our present scheme afforded us
some amusement.
“Are you well acquainted with the roads in Corsica?”
“I have had the honour to conduct _signore forestiere_ throughout the
island from Bastia to Bonifaccio.”
“We shall not travel _en voiture_. We require mules for the baggage and
riding. Can you supply them?”
“_Ça serait possible, mais, à l'improviste, un peu difficile_.”
“It is indispensable, as we mean to cross the mountains and make a
_détour, en route_ to Corte by slow stages, resting in the villages.”
The man's countenance assumed a rueful expression. He had probably been
used to make easy work of it from town to town, and there was evidently
a ludicrous struggle between the temptation of a profitable job and his
disinclination for rugged roads and a spare diet.
“Are _messieurs_ aware that there are no _auberges_ in the villages
offering accommodations fit for them?”
“It is very possible; that does not occasion us any uneasiness.”
“_Les chemins sont affreux._”
“_N'importe_; we have travelled in worse.”
“In some places they are dangerous, absolutely precipitous.”
“We shall walk; _en effet_, it is possible we may walk great part of the
journey.”
That our muleteer could not understand at all: “_la fatigue serait
pénible_;” and with true Corsican indolence, he protested against being
included in that part of our plan.
“Then you can ride.”
So far all objections were dismissed. The banditti had not been
mentioned among the lions in our path, but I imagined they were darkly
shadowed forth in the guide's picture of horrors; so I put the question
to him point blank.
“Are the roads safe in these districts? Are there no bad people
(_mauvais gens_—_cattive genti_) abroad?”
His only reply was a shrug of the shoulders, the foreign substitute for
a Burleigh shake of the head; leaving us to infer that we must not make
too sure of coming off with a whole skin. Knowing well enough that all
apprehensions of that kind were imaginary, we had been only amusing
ourselves with him. If there had been any danger, he seemed just the
fellow to be in league with the brigands.
All topics of intimidation being now exhausted, our muleteer, with the
best grace he could, professed himself ready to comply with our wishes.
The hire demanded for the mules was five francs per day each, exclusive
of their keep; and their return journey was to be paid for at the same
rate. The latter part of the demand was an imposition, but we had only
“Hobson's choice,” and made no difficulties.
When would it be our pleasure to depart? As early in the afternoon as
possible. “It would be late;” and a last effort was made to induce us to
remain at the hotel till the next morning, but we were inexorable.
“Would there be time for us to reach the first village on the road
before dark?”—“We might.”—“Then we will go. Our baggage will be ready by
three o'clock. Be punctual.”
We disliked the man, and determined to discharge him at Corte unless
things turned out better than we expected. As it happened, we were under
his convoy for a much shorter space. We found the Sard _cavallante_, a
much finer race, trudging on foot through all the roughest part of the
tracks, and perching themselves at the top of a much heavier load of
baggage on the pack-horse, when they were tired of walking.
It was a strange “turn out,” that, by unusual exertions, appeared at the
door within an hour of the time appointed. The mules were no bigger than
donkeys.
“_Queste bestie non sono muli; sono dei asini._”
It was vexatious; but we laughed too much to be seriously angry; the
muleteer, too, deprecating our wrath by assuring us that his mules had
first-rate qualities for scrambling up and down precipices. So we took
it all in good part, and, more amused than annoyed, assisted in
contriving to adjust the girths of the English saddles to the poor
beasts' wizened sides; and then, declining a march through Coventry with
such a cavalcade, walked forward, leaving the guide to load the baggage
and follow with the mules.
CHAP. VI.
_Leave Bastia.—The Road.—View of Elba, Pianosa, and
Monte-Cristo.—The_ Littorale.—_An Adventure.—The Stagna di
Biguglia._
The Corsicans are apt to say, that the national roads were the only
benefit Napoleon conferred on his native country. Like all his great
works of construction, they are worthy of his genius. One of these
traverses the whole eastern coast of the island from Bastia, by Cervione
and Porto-Vecchio, to Bonifaccio. Another line branches off near
Vescovato, about ten miles from Bastia, and following the valley of the
Golo, is carried among the mountains to Corte, whence it is continued
through a wild and mountainous district to Ajaccio. Similar engineering
skill is displayed in its continuation on the western side of the
mountains to Sartene, and thence to Bonifaccio, where it also
terminates.
On clearing Bastia, we found ourselves on this high road,—a magnificent
causeway carried nearly in a straight line for many miles through the
plain extending between the sea and the mountains. Orange groves
embowering sheltered nooks in the environs of the town, and hedges of
the Indian fig (_cactus opuntia_), betokened the warmth of this southern
shore; and, as we advanced, the rank growth of vegetation on the flats
realised all we had heard of the teeming richness of the _littorale_.
It was hot walking, and the causeway and flats would have been
monotonous enough but for the glorious views on either hand.
To the left, the Mediterranean was calmly subsiding from the effects of
the gale, its undulations still sparkling in the sunbeams. Far within
the horizon was the group of islands which lend a charm to all this
coast, and are associated with great historical names. There rises Elba,
with the sharp outline of its lofty peaks and dark shores, too narrow
for the mighty spirit which ere long burst the bounds of his Empire
Island. Far away in the southern hemisphere I had visited that other
island, where the chains were riveted too firmly for release, except by
the grave over which I had pondered. Now we stood on the soil that gave
him birth. Why was not this the “Island Empire?” The Allied Sovereigns
were disposed to be magnanimous. It was offered to him; why did he
refuse it? Was it that, with far-sighted policy, he considered Corsica
too bright a gem in the crown of France for him to pluck, without sooner
or later giving umbrage to the Bourbons? May his refusal be cited as a
further proof of the little love he bore for the land of his birth? Or
was it that, when once hurled from the throne of his creation, the
conqueror of kingdoms could not descend to compare one petty island with
another? “At Elba he found the horizon, the sky, the air, the waves of
his childhood; and the history of his island-state, would be to him a
constant lesson of the mutability of human things.”[3]
Napoleon emperor in Corsica! On this spot, with Elba in view, one dwells
for a moment on the idea! Then, indeed, Corsica's long-cherished dreams
of national independence—it was her last chance—would have been
strangely realised. But her fate was sealed. She had sunk to the rank of
an outlying department of France, and so remained; with what results we
may perhaps discover.
Near Elba, and strongly contrasting with its bold outline, lies the
little island of _Pianosa_, the ancient Planosa. Its surface is flat, as
the name indicates. That island, too, has its tale of imperial exile.
The young Agrippa, grandson of Augustus, and heir-presumptive to an
empire wider than that of Napoleon's most ambitious dreams, was banished
to Planosa by his grandfather, at the instance of Livia. Augustus is
said to have visited him there. It was Agrippa's fate to find a grave,
as well as a prison, in the Mediterranean island; the tyrant Tiberius,
with the jealousy of an eastern monarch, having caused his rival to be
strangled on his own accession to the empire.
Soon after Napoleon's arrival in Elba he sent some troops to take
possession of Pianosa; which, ravaged by the Genoese in the thirteenth
century, had never since flourished. The fallen emperor himself could
not help laughing at this mighty expedition, for which thirty of his
guards, some Elban militia, and six pieces of artillery were detailed;
exclaiming, as he gave orders to erect batteries and fire upon any
enemies who might present themselves, “Europe will say that I have
already made a conquest.” Napoleon partially restored the fortifications
of an old castle, which had been bombarded by an English squadron,
landing the marines, in 1809, during the revolutionary war. The island
now belongs, with Elba, to the Grand-Duke of Tuscany.
Further to the south appears the rocky island of Monte-Cristo. This,
too, has its tale of exile, insignificant as it looks except for its
sharply serrated outline, and a worldwide fame. The emperor Diocletian
banished here St. Mamilian, Archbishop of Palermo. A convent was
afterwards founded on the site of the Saint's rude cell. The monks of
Monte-Cristo flourished, as they deserved; the worthy fathers having
founded many hospitals in Tuscany and done much good. Saracen corsairs
carried off the monks; the convent was laid in ruins; and the lone
island remained uninhabited for a long course of years, except by wild
goats. It was in this state when Alexandre Dumas made it the scene of
his hero's successful adventure after his escape from the _Château
d'If_, and adopted it as the title of his popular novel. The island
having been recently purchased and colonised by Mr. Watson Taylor, he
has built a house on it for his own residence.
[Illustration: ISLE OF MONTE-CRISTO.]
It is about nine miles in circumference, and I should judge from its
appearance that the greatest part of the surface is rocky, though not
without green hollows, dells, and verdant slopes. But the olive and the
vine usually thrive, and are largely cultivated, on such spots; and if,
as I should imagine, the natural vegetation and the climate are similar
to those of the other islands in the Tuscan sea with which we are
acquainted, happy may the lord of Monte-Cristo be; for, in the hands of
a wealthy English gentleman, such a spot may be made an earthly
paradise.
After about an hour's walk we halted for the muleteer to come up. A
glorious point of view it was, embracing a wide expanse of the bright
sea, with the islands which had supplied so many striking and pleasant
recollections. Looking backward, the purple mountains of Capo Corso now
appeared massed together in endless variety of outline, with Bastia at
their base, the citadel and white houses glowing in the evening
sunshine. Turning to the right, the eye caught the fine effect of the
meeting of the plain and mountains—the interminable level, stretching
far away till it was lost in distance, and teeming with luxuriant
vegetation, but with only here and there a solitary clump of trees,—and
the long mountain-range line after line rising into peaks above the
gracefully rounded hills that swelled up from the level of the plain.
Woods, orchards, vineyards overspread the lower slopes, the hollows were
buried in thickets of evergreen, and picturesque villages and towers
appeared, though rarely, on the summits of the hills.
[Illustration: MEETING OF MOUNTAIN AND PLAIN, NEAR BASTIA.]
Who would not linger at the sight of Furiani, the most important of
these villages, its ivy-mantled towers crumbling to ruins?—Furiani,
where the Corsicans, in a national assembly, first organised their
insurrection against the Genoese, and elected the prudent and intrepid
Giaffori one of their leaders; with cries of “_Evviva la libertà! evviva
il popolo!_”—Furiani, where, in almost their last struggle, two hundred
Corsicans held the fortifications long after they were a heap of ruins,
and at length cut their way by night to the shore.
The muleteer at last made his appearance with his sorry cavalcade, and
my companion having taken advantage of our halt to make the sketch of
the “Meeting of the mountains and plain,” which was not quite finished,
that we might not lose time, as the sun was descending behind the
mountains, one of the mules was tied to a stake, in order that my friend
might overtake us, while we made the best of our way forward.
I still preferred walking, and pushed on at a pace which suited none of
my company, human or asinine. We had got ahead about a mile, when shouts
from behind opened a scene perfectly ludicrous. There was the little
mule trotting up the road at most unusual speed, impelled by my friend's
shouts and the big stones with which he was pelting the miserable beast.
He too came up at a long trot, rather excited, and calling to the
muleteer, “Catch your mule, Giovanni! I'll have nothing more to do with
the brute.”
“What is it all about?”
It appeared that my friend, having finished his sketch, prepared to
mount and push after us. The mule, however, had a design diametrically
opposed to this. No sooner was it loosed from the stake to which it was
tied, than the poor beast very naturally felt a strong impulse to return
to its stable at Bastia. Could instinct have forewarned it what it
would have to encounter before midnight, the retrograde impulse would
have been still stronger. Every one knows how difficult it is to deal
with a mule when it is in the mood either not to go at all, or to go the
wrong way. Having driven a team of these animals—fine Calabrian mules
they were, equal to the best Spanish—all the way from Naples to Dieppe,
I can boast of some experience in the mulish temperament.
To make matters worse, the English saddle being all too large for its
wizened sides, in spite of all our care in knotting the girths, it
twisted round in the attempt to mount, and my very excellent friend—no
disparagement to his noble horsemanship, for one has no firm seat even
when mounted on a vicious pony—before he could bring the saddle to a
level and gain his equilibrium, was fairly pitched over the side of the
road. Mule having now achieved that glorious _libertà_, the instinctive
aspiration of Corsican existence, whether man, mule, or moufflon,
started forward alone, my friend following, I have no doubt, in rather a
thundering rage.
“At every attempt I made to take the mule by the head”—such was his
account—“he reversed his position, and launched his heels at me with a
viciousness that rendered the enterprise not a little dangerous, for I
do not know anything so funky as an ass's heels. Had it not been for
saving the saddle, mule might have taken himself off to Bastia, or a
worse place, for any trouble I would have taken to stop him.”
It may be supposed that this story was not told or listened to without
shouts of laughter, the muleteer being the only one of the party who was
seriously disconcerted.
“_Andiamo, Giovanni_,” said I, cutting short all discussion, and moved
forward. We had lost time, and the evening was closing in.
“Won't you ride, then?—try the other mule.”
“No, I thank you; I am not in the least fatigued, and have no desire to
be pitched into a bush of prickly cactus, or rolled down the bank of the
causeway.”
“Let us push on, then; if we are belated, we may have worse adventures,
this first day of our rambles in Corsica, before we get to our night's
quarters; and where we are to find them, I am sure I have no idea.”
We walked on at a smart pace, and gradually drew far ahead of Giovanni
and his mules. They were not to be hurried, and if they had been gifted
like Balaam's ass, I imagine they would have agreed with Giovanni in
wishing _l'Inglesi all'Inferno_. I don't know, speaking from
experience, which is worst, riding, leading, or driving a malcontent
mule.
The rays of the setting sun were now faintly gleaming on a vast sheet of
shallow stagnant water, the _Stagna di Biguglia_, between the road and
the sea, from which it is only separated by a low strip of alluvial
soil. It was a solitary, a melancholy scene. A luxuriant growth of reeds
fringes the margin of the lagoon, and heat and moisture combine to throw
up a rank vegetation on its marshy banks. The peasants fly from its
pestiferous exhalations, and nothing is heard or seen but the plash of
the fish in the still waters, the sharp cry of the heron and gull,
wheeling and hovering till they dart on their prey, and some rude
fisherman's boat piled with baskets of eels for the market at Bastia.
This vast sheet of water was formerly open to the sea, forming a noble
harbour, in which floated the galleys of the powerful republics that in
the middle ages disputed the empire of the Mediterranean and the
possession of its islands. On a hill above stood the town of Biguglia,
the capital of the island under the Pisans and Genoese, till in the
fourteenth century Henri della Rocca, with the insurgent Corsicans,
carried it by assault. The Genoese then erected the fortress at Bastia,
which, with the town growing up under its protection, became the chief
seat of their power in the island, and Biguglia fell to decay.
Mariana, a Roman colony, stood on the coast near the lower extremity of
this present lagoon; and Aleria, another still further south, on the
sea-line of the great plain extending for forty miles below Bastia. Our
proposed route led in another direction, and, not to interrupt the
thread of the narrative, a notice of these colonies is reserved for
another opportunity.
We had reached the neighbourhood at which, according to calculation, we
ought to strike off from the high-road towards the mountains. Now, if
ever, a guide was needed; but Giovanni and his mules had fallen far in
the rear. A by-road turned to the right, apparently in the desired
direction. At the angle of the roads we took counsel,—should we venture
to take the by-path, or wait till Giovanni came up?—which involved a
loss of time we could ill spare at that period of the day. A mistake
might be awkward, but we had carefully studied the bearings of the
country on our maps, and deciding to risk it, struck boldly into the
lane. For a short distance it led between inclosures, but presently
opened, and we found ourselves on the boundless waste, with only a
narrow track for our guidance through its mazes. We were in the bush,
the _Macchia_ as the natives call it.
CHAP. VII.
_Evergreen Thickets.—Their remarkable Character.—A fortunate
Rencontre.—Moonlight in the Mountains.—Cross a high
Col.—Corsican Shepherds.—The Vendetta.—Village Quarters._
A slight ascent over a stony bank landed us at once on the verge of the
thickets. It had been browsed by cattle, and scattered myrtle-bushes, of
low growth, were the first objects that gladdened our eyes. A new
botany, a fresh scenery was before us. The change from the littoral,
with its rank vegetation, close atmosphere, and weary length of
interminable causeway, was so sudden, that it took us by surprise.
Presently we were winding through a dense thicket of arbutus,
tree-heaths, alaternus, daphne, lentiscus, blended with myrtles, cystus,
and other aromatic shrubs, massed and mingled in endless variety—the
splendid arbutus, with its white bell-shaped flowers and pendulous
bunches of red and orange berries, most prevailing.
The _Macchia_ is, in fact, a natural shrubbery of exquisite beauty. We
travelled through it, in the two islands, for many hundred miles, and I
feel confident that, to English taste, it forms the unique feature in
Corsican and Sardinian scenery. This sort of underwood prevails also, I
understand, in Elba, and, more or less, in the other islands of the
central Mediterranean basin. We now fully comprehended how it was that,
when sailing along the coast, our attention had been so riveted on the
rich verdure clothing the hills and mountain-sides of Capo Corso,
although at the time we were unable to satisfy ourselves in what its
striking peculiarity consisted.
The air is so perfumed by the aromatic plants, that there was no
exaggeration in Napoleon's language when conversing, at St. Helena, of
the recollections of his youth, he said:
“_La Corse avait mille charmes; tout y était meilleur jusqu'à l'odeur du
sol même. Elle lui eût suffi pour la deviner, les yeux fermés. Il ne
l'avait retrouvée nulle part._”
A trifling occurrence in my own travels gives some faint idea of the
sentiment which dictated this remark. At St. Helena the flora of the
North and South singularly meet. Patches of gorse (_Ulex Europæa_)—that
idol of Linnæus and ornament of our English and Cambrian wastes—grow
freely on the higher grounds, rivalling the purple heath in their golden
bloom, and shrubs of warmer climates in their sweet perfume. Returning
to England after lonely wanderings in the southern hemisphere, I well
remember how the sight and the scent of this rude plant, dear in its
very homeliness, recalled former scenes associated with it. I recollect,
too, that the mettlesome barb which bounded over the downs surrounding
Longwood did not partake of my sympathy for the golden bough I had
plucked. The smooth turf and the yellow furze had no charms for the
exile of St. Helena. Never was the “_lasciate ogni speranza_” more
applicable than to his island-prison, and in his melancholy hours his
thoughts naturally reverted, with a gush of fond tenderness, to the land
of his birth, little as he had shown partiality for it in his hour of
prosperity.
On its picturesque scenes we were now entering, with everything to give
them the highest zest. The autumn rains had refreshed the arid soil,
and the aromatic shrubs filled the air with their richest perfume.
Escaped from cities, and from steam-boats, redolent of far other odours,
and having turned our backs on marsh, and _stagna_, and wearisome
causeway, well strung to our work, and gaining fresh vigour in the
evening breeze, we brushed through the waving thickets with little
thought of Giovanni and his mules, left far behind, and as little
concern whither our path would lead us. It was a beaten track, and must
be our guide to some habitation. A few hours ago we set foot on shore,
and we were already engaged in some sort of adventure—and that, too, in
Corsica, which has an ugly reputation! “_N'importe_; it is our usual
luck; it will turn out right.” But let us push on, for the sun has long
set, and the twilight is fading.
Fortune favoured us, for the enterprise on which we had stumbled turned
out rather a more serious affair than we anticipated. It was getting
dark, when the footprints of a mule on the sandy path attracted our
notice, the fresh marks pointing in the direction we were taking. Soon
we caught sight of a small party winding through the tall shrubbery. The
turning of a zigzag on a slight rocky ascent brought the party full in
view, and we closed with it. There were two girls riding astride on the
same mule, with a stout peasant trudging behind. It was a pleasant
rencontre.
“Good evening, friend. How far is it to the next village?”
“Three hours.”
“What is it called?”
“Olmeta.”
“Is the road good?”
“Mountainous and very steep.”
“Allow us to join your party?”
“By all means.” “_Allons donc_; we shall be late.”
And the party moved on. Antoine, our new acquaintance, was, like most
Corsicans, of the middle size, with a frame well knit. He had a pleasant
expression of countenance, with a frank and independent air, the very
reverse of our muleteer, Giovanni. We amused ourselves at having given
him the slip, and continued to question our new guide.
“Shall we be able to procure beds and something to eat at Olmeta?”—the
“_qualche cosa per mangiare_” being always a question of first
importance.
“Never fear; you will find hospitality?”
We had no misgivings of any kind. Under Antoine's guidance we could now
proceed boldly, quite at ease to enjoy all the charms of our wild
adventure.
“E pur per selve oscure e calli obliqui,
Insieme van, senza sospetto aversi.”—ARIOST. Canto I.
“Together through dark woods and winding ways
They walk, nor on their hearts suspicion preys.”
In about an hour, the moon, then at her full, rose above the hills on
our left, shedding a soft and silvery light on the mountain-tops; our
narrow path through the thickets being still buried in gloom. Presently
a full tide of lustrous radiance was poured on the waving sea of verdure
and the face of the mountains. We made good speed, for the family mule,
homeward bound, stepped on briskly under its double burden. Sometimes we
kept up with the party, joining in the talk of the good peasants; at
others, falling behind to enjoy the stillness of the scene, and abandon
ourselves to the contemplation of its ever-varying features. Now we
threaded the bank of a mountain torrent far beneath in shade, the depth
of which the eye was unable to penetrate as we plunged downwards through
the thickets; then, crossing the stream and scrambling up the opposite
bank, once more emerged from the gloom, and, standing for a few instants
on the summit we had gained, the grey mountain-tops again showed
themselves touched with the silver light, and the quivering foliage of
the evergreen shrubs, which covered the undulating expanse beneath,
twinkled like diamond sprays.
In these alternations of light and shade, and precipitous descents which
led on to still increasing altitudes, we followed our rocky path for
about two hours, when Antoine halted his party to prepare for
surmounting the main difficulty of the route, in evident surprise all
the while at finding two Englishmen engaged in an adventure of which he
could not comprehend the motive. And yet Antoine had seen something of
the world beyond the narrow bounds of his native island. He had been a
_matelot_, he said,—made a long voyage, and once touched at an English
port. Antoine seemed to be now leading a vagabond life. He was not
communicative as to why he left his country or why he returned, and was
gay and melancholy by fits. He did not belong to Olmeta, but had friends
there, to whom he was conducting the girls.
It is not often that the Corsican women ride while the men walk, the
reverse being generally the case. But Antoine was gallant, and, on the
whole, a good fellow. The girls, we have said, rode astride; but now, in
preparation for the ascent, one of them slipped off the mule, over the
crupper, with amusing agility, relieving the poor beast of half its
burden, and they afterwards rode by turns.
We now began the ascent of the pass, the Col di S.to Leonardo, leading
into the valley of Olmeta. The Col is nearly 3000 feet above the level
of the sea, and the passage proved to be almost as difficult as any I
recollect having encountered. We had no idea, when we left Bastia, of
attempting it that evening, and, had we not parted from Giovanni, should
probably have made for some village near the high-road, and lost the
splendid effects of moonlight on such scenery. The face of the mountain
is scaled either by rocky steps or by terraces cut in the escarped
flanks, with quick returns, in the way such elevations are usually
surmounted. The passing and repassing, as we traversed the successive
stages, brought out the effects of light and shade even better than we
had remarked them below. The path, too, was extremely picturesque.
Masses of grey rock, half in shade, jutted out among the shrubbery with
which the mountain-side was covered; giant heaths, five or six feet
high, hung feathering, and the arbutus threw its broad branches, over
our heads.
We had made some progress, and stood, as it were, suspended over the
valley, when Antoine's quick ear caught sounds from below. We halted to
take breath and listen. Presently, the sounds became more distinct, and
we made out the tramp of mules coming up the path, but still far
beneath. It was probably Giovanni with his mules, following our steps.
Again we stood and listened, looking over the precipice at an angle
which commanded the descent for many hundred feet beneath. The thicket
shrouding the narrow track was so dense, that nothing could be seen,
even in that bright moonlight, but its glistening slope. The sounds
from below rose more dearly. Thwack, thwack, fell Giovanni's cudgel on
the ribs of his unfortunate mules; and we could hear them scrambling,
and his hoarse voice uttering strange cries, as he urged them on.
We were too much amused at having given him the slip to think much of
the great tribulation in which he was panting and toiling to overtake
us. Vain hope! “He will be in time for supper; let us push
on;”—beginning to think that the sooner we realised the comforts which
Antoine had encouraged us to expect, the better.
“Are we near the top of the pass?”
“Do you see that rock with the bush hanging from it?” pointing to a
huge, insulated mass, its sharp outline clearly defined against the blue
sky; “it is a thousand feet above the spot on which we stand. The path
lies round the base of that rock. In an hour we shall reach it.”
We climbed on, the ascent becoming steeper and steeper as we mounted
upwards, often casting wistful looks at the beacon rock. Just before we
gained the summit, smoke was seen curling up from the copse at a little
distance from the path.
“_Ci sono pastori_,” cried Antoine.
“Perhaps they can give us some milk.” We had need enough of some
refreshment, the breakfast at Bastia having been our only meal.
“_Vedéremmo_,” said Antoine; and he led the way through the bushes.
Some rough dogs leapt out, fiercely barking at the approach of
strangers. They were called off by the shepherds, who, wrapped in their
shaggy mantles, the Corsican _pelone_, were sitting and lying round a
fire of blazing logs, under the shelter of a rock. A mixed flock of
sheep and goats lay closely packed round the bivouac. Unfortunately
they had no milk to give us.
The Corsican shepherds are a singular race. We found them leading a
nomad life in all parts of the island. They wander, as the season
permits, from the highest mountain-ranges to the verge of the cultivated
lands and vineyards, where the goats do infinite mischief; and drive
their flocks in the winter to the vast plains of the littoral, and the
warm and sheltered valleys. Home they have none; the side of a rock, a
cave, a hut of loose stones, lends them temporary shelter. Chestnuts are
their principal food; and their clothing, sheepskins, or the black wool
of their flocks spun and woven by the women of the valleys into the
coarse cloth of the _pelone_. Their greatest luxuries are the immense
fires, for which the materials are boundless, or to bask in the sun, and
tell national tales, and sing their simple _canzone_. But though a rude,
they are not a bad, race; contented, hospitable, tolerably honest, and,
as we found, often intelligent. We were not fortunate in our first
introduction to these people. Antoine exchanged a few words with them;
but they were sullen, and showed no signs of surprise or curiosity on
the sudden appearance of strangers at their fireside. The sample was far
from prepossessing. One of the men, who seemed to eye us with suspicion,
had just the physiognomy one should assign to a bandit.
It was perhaps this idea which led me to question Antoine on a subject
we had hitherto avoided.
“Are there any outlaws harboured in these wild mountains?”
“Not now; they have been hunted out; all that is changed; but blood has
been often spilt in this _maquis_. One terrible _vendetta_ was taken not
far from hence; but that was many years ago. I will show you the spot.”
Antoine strode rapidly onward; and we overtook the women, who had rode
on. In ten minutes we were rounding the mass of rock crowning the pass.
“This was the spot,” said Antoine, taking a step towards me, the rest of
the party having passed; and he added calmly, but with decision, and a
slightly triumphant air, “I did it myself.” (“_J'ai donné le coup
moi-même._”)
It may be well supposed that I stood aghast. We had not then learnt with
what little reserve such deeds of blood are avowed in Corsica; how
thoroughly they are extenuated by the popular code of morals or honour.
Such avowals were afterwards made to us with far less feeling than
Antoine betrayed; indeed, with the utmost levity. “_Je lui ai donné un
coup_,” mentioning the individual and giving the details, was the climax
of a story of some sudden quarrel or long-harboured animosity. It was
uttered with the _sang froid_ with which an Englishman would say, “I
knocked the fellow down;” and it might have been our impression that
nothing more was meant, but for the circumstances related, which left no
doubt on the subject. When a Corsican says that he has given his enemy a
_coup_, the phrase is a decorous ellipse for _coup-de-fusil_.
Occasionally, perhaps, it may mean a _coup-de-poignard_, which amounts
to much the same thing; but since carrying the knife has been rigorously
prohibited by the French Government, stabbing has not been much in vogue
in Corsica. Now, it is to be hoped, the murderous _fusil_ has equally
disappeared.
There was no time for asking what led to the quarrel or encounter.
Antoine coolly turned away, saying, “The descent is easy; we shall have
a good road now down the hill to Olmeta;” and, most opportunely, the
view which opened from the summit of the pass was calculated to divert
my thoughts from what had just occurred.
It has been often remarked, that the Corsican villages are most commonly
built on high ground. We now counted, by their cheerful lights, nine or
ten of them dotting the hills in all directions; some perched on the
heights beyond the Bevinco, which wound through the valley beneath, the
moonlight flashing on patches of the stream and faintly revealing a dark
chain of mountains beyond—the Serra di Stella, dividing the valley of
the Bevinco from that of the Golo.
The descent was easy, according to Antoine's augury. We tear down the
hill, pass the village church at a sharp angle, its white _façade_
glistening in the moonbeams; and a straight avenue, shaded by trees,
brings us into a labyrinth of narrow lanes, overhung by tall, gaunt
houses of the roughest fabric and materials. Antoine bids us stop before
one of these gloomy abodes; an old woman appears at the door of the
first story with a feeble oil-lamp in her hand. The ground-floor of
these houses, as usual in the South, are all stables or cellars. After a
short conference, Antoine disappears, and we see him no more that night.
We mount a flight of steep, unhewn stone steps, at the risk of breaking
our necks, for there is no rail; the good dame welcomes us to all that
she has, little though it be, and we land in a grim apartment containing
the usual raised hearth for cooking, with a very limited apparatus of
utensils—a few shallow kettles of copper and iron, a table, some
chairs, and a very questionable bed in a corner.
There were two other apartments, _en suite_, the next being a _salle_,
with a brick floor like the kitchen, tolerably clean. A few Scripture
prints on the walls, a large table, some rickety chairs, and a settee,
convertible, we found, into a very satisfactory shakedown, composed the
furniture. The inner apartment, which contained a really good bed,
seemed to be the widow's wardrobe and storeroom of all her most valuable
effects; being crowded with chests, and tables covered with all sorts of
things, helped out by pegs on the walls. These were ornamented with
little coloured prints of the Virgin, and Saints, and there was a
crucifix at the bed's head. After showing her apartments, the widow
placed the lamp on the table in the _salle_, with the usual _felice
notte_, and there was a running fire of questions and answers between
her and the two hungry travellers about the _qualche cosa per mangiare_.
The larder was of course empty, and the discussion resolved itself into
some rashers of bacon, a loaf of very sweet bread, and a bottle of the
light and excellent wine for which Capo Corso is famous, procured from a
neighbour.
This was not accomplished without a great deal of bustle and screeching,
and running to and fro of the widow and some female friends, withered
old crones, who had come to her aid on so unexpected an emergency as our
appearance on the scene. This continued after supper till the chests in
the inner apartment had delivered up their stores of sheets, coverlets,
and towels, all as white as the driven snow. How we ate, drank, and
lodged during our rambles is not the most agreeable of our
recollections, and can have little interest except as affording glimpses
of the habits of the people. This first essay of Corsican hospitality
was not amiss.
Just as we had finished our frugal meal, Giovanni made his appearance.
Wishing to give him his _congé_, we expected a sharp altercation; to
avoid which, and not forfeit our engagement that he should conduct us to
Corte, it was proposed to him to leave the malcontent mule till his
return, procuring at Olmeta a more serviceable beast, or to proceed with
the others only. Giovanni was crestfallen; he had had enough of it, and
did not bluster, as we expected. Though disliking him, we had amused
ourselves at his expence, and could hardly now refrain from laughing at
his piteous aspect. Giovanni, however, was quite as ready to be quit of
us as we were to get rid of him. His reply to our proposal about the
mule was quite touching:—
“_Je ne veux pas me séparer de mon pauvre âne!_”
So the inseparables were dismissed to return to Bastia, after an
equitable adjustment, and we parted good friends. Giovanni was no
favourite of ours, but that touch of sentiment for his “_pauvre âne_”
was a redeeming trait. As for ourselves, we were left without a guide,
which did not matter, and without the means of carrying forward our
baggage, which did. This dilemma did not spoil our rest; it was such as
weary travellers earn.
CHAP. VIII.
_The_ Littorale.—_Corsican Agriculture.—Greek and Roman
Colonies.—Sketch of Mediæval and Modern History.—Memoirs of
King Theodore de Neuhoff._
Let us now return for a short space to the point at which we quitted the
high-road from Bastia. More attractive metal drew us off to the
mountain-paths; but the _Littorale_ is not without interest, especially
as the seat of the earliest and most thriving colonies in the island.
These and its subsequent fortunes claim a passing notice.
It may be recollected that our road lay for some miles through the plain
between the mountains and the Mediterranean. This level is between fifty
and sixty miles long. Intersected by the rivers flowing from the central
chain, alluvial marshes are formed at their mouths, and there are also,
from similar causes, several lagoons on the coast, of which the Stagna
di Biguglia, near which we turned off into the _maquis_, is the largest.
The exhalations from these marshes and waters render the climate so
pestiferous, that the _littorale_ is almost uninhabited. The soil is
extremely fertile, producing large crops where it is cultivated, and
affording pasturage to immense herds of cattle, sheep, and goats. The
country people inhabit villages on the neighbouring hills, descending
into the plains at the seasons when their labour is required for
tilling and sowing the land, and harvesting the crops; and but too
frequently carrying back the seeds of wasting or fatal diseases.
Even under the double disadvantages of exposure to malaria, and the
natural indolence of the Corsican peasant, this district supplies a very
large proportion of the corn consumed in the island. So great is this
indolence, that not more than three-tenths of the surface of Corsica is
brought under cultivation, although it is calculated that double that
area is capable of it. I was unable to ascertain the number of acres
under tillage, planted with vines and olive-trees, or otherwise
requiring agricultural labour; but it might have been supposed that a
population of 230,000 souls would at least have met the demand for
labour on the portion of the surface thus occupied. So far, however,
from this being the case, it is a curious fact that from 2000 to 3000
labourers come into the island every year from Lucca, Modena, and Parma,
to engage in agricultural employment. They generally arrive about the
middle of April, and take their departure in November. They are an
intelligent, laborious, and frugal class; and as the savings of each
individual are calculated at 100 or 110 francs, no less a sum than
200,000 francs is thus annually carried to the Continent instead of
being earned by native industry. The climate of Corsica is described by
many ancient writers as insalubrious; but there does not seem to be any
foundation for the statement, except as regards the _littorale_, the
only part of the island which appears to have been colonised in early
times, and with which they were acquainted.
Who were its primitive inhabitants and first colonists, whether Corsus,
the supposed leader of a band of immigrants, who gave his name to the
island, was a son of Hercules or a Trojan, are facts lost in the mist of
ages, through which the origin of few races can be penetrated. An
inquiry into such traditions would be a waste of time, and is foreign to
a work of this kind.
There is reason to believe that the light of civilisation first beamed
on its shores from Sardinia—an island which some brief records, and,
still more, its existing monuments, lead us to consider as civilised
long before the period of authentic history.
The island of Sardinia, placed in the great highway from the East, was a
convenient station for the people who, in the first ages, were driven
thence by a providential impulse towards the shores of the West, and,
with the torch of civilisation in their hands, passed successively by
Asia Minor and the islands of Crete, Sicily, and Sardinia to Greece, to
Italy, and the other countries of the West.
A smaller branch of the torrent of this great and primitive emigration
poured from the mountain ranges in the north of Sardinia, and, crossing
the straits, overspread the south of Corsica, bearing with it the
civilisation of the East, of which records are found in the most ancient
Corsican monuments. Some of these are identical with those in Sardinia,
which will be mentioned hereafter. Such are the Dolmen, called in
Corsica _Stazzone_; and the Menhir, to which they give the fanciful name
of _Stantare_. When a child at play stands on its head with its heels
self-balanced in the air, making itself a pyramid instead of cutting a
pirouette, that is, in the language of mothers and nurses, _far la
Stantare_.
However this may be, there are numerous testimonies that the island of
Corsica was known and visited in the most remote times by navigators of
the several races on the shores of the Mediterranean—Phœnicians,
Pelasgians, Tyrrhenians, Ligurians, and Iberians. Herodotus, who calls
the island Cyrnos, describes an attempt at colonisation by Phocæans,
driven from Ionia, who founded the city of Alalia, afterwards called
Aleria, 448 years before the Christian era. But the genuine history of
Corsica commences with the period when the Roman republic, on the decay
of the Carthaginian power, began to extend its conquests in the
Mediterranean.
In the year 260 B.C., Lucius Cornelius Scipio led an expedition into the
island, which was crowned with success. Every traveller who has visited
Rome must have been interested in one of the few relics of the
republican era, remarkable for its primitive simplicity—the tomb of the
Scipios. It chanced that the writer, when there, procured a model of the
sarcophagus which contained the ashes of this first of a race of heroes,
L. C. Scipio. The monuments of Rome were not of marble in the times of
the republic, and this sarcophagus being cut out of a block of the
volcanic _peperino_, so common in the Campagna, the author had his model
made of the same material, with the inscription cut in rude characters
round the margin; that is to say, such part of it as had been preserved,
so that it is a perfect fac-simile. He reads on it—
HEC CEPIT CORSICA ALERIAQUE URBE.
That fragment contains the earliest record of Roman conquest in Corsica.
But the conquest was incomplete, and for upwards of a century the
Corsicans maintained an unequal struggle against the Roman legions,
strong in their mountain fastnesses, while the Roman armies appear to
have seldom advanced beyond the plains. The natives held their ground
with such obstinacy that, on one occasion, after a bloody battle, a
consular army, under Caius Papirius, was so nearly defeated, when rashly
entangled in the gorges of the mountains, that the Corsicans obtained
honourable terms of peace. The Roman historians relate that this battle
was fought on “The Field of Myrtles,” a name appropriate to a Corsican
_macchia_; and they do not otherwise describe the locality.[4] It is
easy to imagine the scenes and the issue of a deadly struggle between
the mountaineers and the disciplined legions, on ground such as that
described in the preceding chapter.
In these wars great numbers of the natives were carried off as slaves to
Rome, and the annual tribute paid on submission consisted of wax, which
was raised to 200,000 lbs. after one defeat.
A two hours' walk over the plains from the point at which we quitted the
high-road would bring us to the ruins of Mariana, a colony founded by
Marius on the banks of the Golo, and to which he gave his name. Not a
vestige of Roman architecture can now be found on the spot.
During the civil wars, the rivals, Marius and Sylla, established each a
colony in Corsica. That of Sylla (Aleria) stood forty miles further down
the coast, at the mouth of the Tavignano, the seat of the ancient Greek
colony of Alalia. Sylla restored it, sending over some of his veteran
soldiers, among whom he distributed the conquered lands, and it became
the capital of the island during the Roman period, and so continued
during the earlier part of the middle ages. Sacked and laid in ruins by
the Arabs, some iron rings on the Stagna di Diana, the ancient port,
large blocks of stone on the site of a mole at the mouth of the
Tavignano, some arches, a few steps of a circus, with coins and cameos
occasionally turned up, are the sole vestiges of the Roman colonisation
in Corsica. Their only road led from Mariana by Aleria to Palæ, a
station near the modern Bonifaccio, from whence there was a _trajectus_
to Portus Tibulus (Longo Sardo), in Sardinia; and the road was continued
through that island to its southern extremity, near Cagliari.
In the decline of the Roman power, Corsica shared the fate of the other
territories in the Mediterranean attached to the eastern empire. Seized
by the Vandals under Genseric, despotically governed by the Byzantine
emperors, pillaged by Saracen corsairs, protected by Charlemagne, and,
on the fall of his empire, parcelled out, like the rest of Europe, among
a host of feudal barons, mostly of foreign extraction—who, from their
rock-girt towers, waged perpetual hostilities with each other, and
tyrannised over the enthralled natives—claimed by the Popes in virtue of
Pepin's donation, and granted by them to the Pisans,—after a long
struggle between the two rival republics contending for the supremacy of
the Mediterranean, the island at last fell under the dominion of the
Genoese.
This dominion the republic of Genoa exercised for more than four
centuries (from the thirteenth to the eighteenth) in an almost
uninterrupted course of gross misrule. Instead of endeavouring to
amalgamate the islanders with her own citizens, she treated them as a
degraded cast, worthy only of slavery. A governor, frequently chosen by
the republic from amongst men of desperate circumstances, had the
absolute sovereignty of the island: by his mere sentence, on secret
information, without trial, a person might be condemned to death or to
the galleys. The venality of the Genoese tribunals was so notorious,
that the murderer felt sure to escape if he could pay the judge for his
liberation.[5]
The Corsicans were not a race which would tamely submit to this tyranny,
and their annals during this long period exhibit a series of bloody
struggles against the Genoese republic, and devoted efforts to maintain
their rights and recover their independence. In these contests the
_signori_ either allied themselves with the Genoese, or took part with
their countrymen, as their interest inclined; while a succession of
patriot leaders, such as few countries of greater pretensions can
boast—Sambucchio, Sampiero, the Gaffori, the Paoli—all sprung from the
ranks of the people; the bravest in the field and the wisest in council,
carried aloft the banner of Corsican _libertà_.
The hostilities were not confined to the parties immediately interested
in the quarrel. Foreign aid was invoked on the one side and on the
other, and for a long period the little island of Corsica became the
battle-field of the great European powers; Spaniards, Austrians, French,
and English, at one time or the other, and especially in the decay of
the Genoese republic, throwing their forces into the scale, and
occupying portions of the island, but with no definitive result, until
its final absorption in the dominion of its present masters.
Little interest would now attach to the details of a struggle confined
to so insignificant a territory, and having so little influence on
European politics; and it would be alike foreign to the province of a
traveller, and wearisome to the reader, that the subject should be
pursued, except incidentally, where events or persons connected with the
localities he visits call forth some passing remarks. An exception may
perhaps be allowed in the course of this narrative for some account of
the English intervention in Corsican affairs. It is little known that
our George III. was once the constitutional king of Corsica. Nelson,
too, performed there one of his most dashing exploits.
Just now we have been talking of Aleria, a place identified with a
curious and somewhat romantic episode in Corsican history. Corsica
cradled and sent forth a soldier of fortune, to become in his
aspirations, and almost in effect, the Cæsar of the western empire.
Corsica received into her bosom a German adventurer, who, for a brief
space, played on this narrow stage the part of her crowned king. That
there is but a short interval between the sublime and the ridiculous,
was exemplified in the career of these upstart monarchs. Both sought an
asylum in England. The one pined in an island-prison, the other in a
London gaol.
THEODORE DE NEUHOFF, KING OF CORSICA.[6]
On the 25th March, 1736, a small merchant-ship, carrying the English
ensign, anchored off Aleria. There landed from it a personage of noble
appearance, with a suite of sixteen persons, who was received with the
deference due to a monarch. He superintended the disembarkation of
cannon and military stores, and gratuitously distributed powder,
muskets, and other accoutrements, to the Corsicans who crowded to the
shore.
The imagination exercises a powerful sway over the people of the South.
The mystery which surrounded this personage, his dignified and polished
manners, the important succour he brought, and even the fantastical and
semi-Oriental cast of his dress, all contributed to produce a great
influence on ardent minds naturally inclined to the marvellous. This was
Theodore de Neuhoff.
Theodore Antoine, Baron de Neuhoff, a native of Westphalia, had been in
his youth page to the Duchess of Orleans, and afterwards served in
Spain. Returning to France, he attached himself to the speculations of
Law, and partook the vicissitudes of splendour and misery which were the
fortunes of his patron. When that bubble burst, our adventurer wandered
through Europe, seeking his fortune with a perseverance, combined with
incontestable talent, which, sooner or later, must seize some
opportunity of accomplishing his schemes.
At Genoa he fell in with Giaffori and some other Corsican patriots, then
exiled; and representing himself to be possessed of immense resources,
and even to have it in his power to secure the support of powerful
courts, offered to drive the Genoese out of the island, on condition of
his being recognised as King of Corsica. The patriot chiefs, seduced by
these magnificent promises, and, perhaps, too apt to seek for foreign
aid wherever it could be found, accepted Theodore's offers.
Not to follow him through all the course of his romantic adventures, it
appears that he found means of credit—perhaps from the Jews, with whom
he was already deeply involved—for a considerable sum of ready money,
and the arms, ammunition, and stores necessary for his expedition.
Landing in Corsica, in the manner already described, the Corsican
chiefs, although they had concerted his descent on the island, had the
address to cherish the popular idea that Theodore's arrival was a mark
of the interest taken by Heaven in the liberty of the Corsicans.
In a popular assembly held at the Convent of Alesani, a Constitution was
resolved on, by which the kingdom of Corsica was settled hereditarily in
the family of the Baron de Neuhoff; taxation was reserved to the Diet,
and it was provided that all offices should be filled by natives of the
island. The baron, having sworn on the Gospels to adhere to the
Constitution, was crowned with a chaplet of laurel and oak in the
presence of immense crowds, who flocked to the ceremony from all
quarters, amid shouts of “_Evviva Teodoro, re di Corsica!_”
Theodore took possession of the deserted episcopal residence at
Cervione, where he assumed every mark of royal dignity. He had his
court, his guards, and his officers of state; levied troops, coined
money, instituted an order of knighthood, and created nobility, among
whom such names as _Marchese_ Giaffori and _Marchese_ Paoli (Pasquale's
father) singularly figure. His manifesto, in answer to Genoese
proclamations denouncing his pretensions and painting him as a
charlatan, affected as great a sensitiveness of insult as could exist in
the mind of a Capet. For some time all things went well; Theodore became
master of nearly the whole island except the Genoese fortresses, which
he blockaded. These were, in fact, the keys of the island. But the
succours which he had boasted of receiving did not arrive, and, after
employing various artifices to keep alive the expectations of foreign
aid and fresh supplies of the muniments of war, finding, when he had
held the reins of power about eight months, that his new subjects began
to cool in their attachment to his person, and did not act with the same
ardour as before, he determined to go over to the Continent, with the
hope of obtaining the means of carrying on the war, and thus reinstating
himself in the confidence of the Corsicans.
Appointing a regency to conduct the affairs of his kingdom during his
absence, he went to Holland, and, though even his royal credit was
probably at a discount, after long delay, he succeeded in negotiating a
considerable loan, at what rate of interest or on what security we are
not told. However, a ship was freighted with cannon and other warlike
stores, on board of which he returned to Corsica two years after he had
quitted the island. But it was too late; the French were then in
possession of the principal places, the patriot leaders were negotiating
with them, and the people had lost all confidence in their mock-king.
Theodore found, to use a colloquial expression, that “the game was up,”
and wisely retracing his steps, found his way to England, the last
refuge of abdicated monarchs.
Fortune still frowned on him. Pursued by his relentless creditors, the
ex-king was thrown into the King's Bench prison. His distresses
attracted the commiseration of Horace Walpole, who, as Boswell informs
us, “wrote a paper in the ‘World,’ with great elegance and humour,
soliciting a contribution for the monarch in distress, to be paid to Mr.
Robert Dodsley, bookseller, as lord high treasurer. This brought in a
very handsome sum, and he was allowed to get out of prison.” “Walpole,”
he adds, “has the original deed by which Theodore made over the kingdom
of Corsica in security to his creditors.” Mr. Benson's statement, which
is more exact, and agrees with the epitaph, is, that the subscription
was not sufficient to extricate King Theodore from his difficulties, and
that he was released from gaol as an insolvent debtor. However that may
be, he died soon afterwards. Former writers have stated that he was
buried in an obscure corner, among the paupers, in the churchyard of St.
Anne's, Westminster, but they are mistaken. We find a neat mural tablet
fixed against the exterior wall of the church of St. Anne's, Soho, at
the west end, on which, surmounted by a coronet, is inscribed the
following epitaph, written by Horace Walpole:—
[Illustration: coronet]
“Near this place is interred
THEODORE, KING OF CORSICA,
Who died in this parish
Dec. 11, 1756,
Immediately after leaving
The King's Bench Prison
By the benefit of the Act of Insolvency;
In consequence of which
He registered his kingdom of Corsica
For the use of his Creditors.
The grave, great teacher, to a level brings
Heroes and beggars, galley-slaves and Kings:
But Theodore this moral learned, ere dead:
Fate poured his lesson on his living head,
Bestow'd a kingdom, and denied him bread.”
CHAP. IX.
_Environs of Olmeta.—Bandit-Life and the Vendetta—Its
Atrocities.—The Population disarmed.—The Bandits exterminated._
[Illustration: OLMETA.]
Olmeta stands, like most Corsican villages, on the point of a hill,
forming one side of an oval basin, the slopes of which are laid out in
terraced gardens and vineyards. Here and there, in sheltered nooks, we
find plantations of orange-trees, now showing green fruit under their
glossy leaves. Some fine chestnut and walnut trees about the place, and
the magnificent elms (_olme_) from which it derives its name, soften the
aspect of its bleak, exposed site, and gaunt houses.
Charming as the natural landscapes are in Corsica, one finds most of the
villages, however picturesque at a distance, on a nearer approach, a
conglomeration of tall, shapeless houses, black and frowning, with
windows guarded by rusty iron _grilles_, and generally unglazed.
Altogether, they look more like the holds of banditti than the abodes of
peaceful vinedressers; while the filth of the purlieus is unutterable.
Throwing open the double casements of the widow's sanctum, I may not
call it boudoir, when I leapt out of bed to enjoy the fresh morning
air,—underneath was a noisome dunghill, grim gables frowned on either
hand, but beyond was the _riant_ landscape just described. Here truly
God made the country, man the town.
While my friend was sketching, I strolled up to the pretty church we had
seen by moonlight. Close by is a large, roomy mansion, which belonged to
Marshal Sebastiani. He was a native of Olmeta, and, from an obscure
origin, arriving at high rank as well as great wealth, partly, I
understood, through a brilliant marriage, bought a large property in the
neighbourhood, which has been recently sold for 150,000 francs to a
French _Directeur_. I went over the château: to the original mansion the
marshal had added a handsome _salle_, and a lofty tower commanding
varied and extensive views towards Fiorenzo and the Mediterranean. My
conductor was a gentleman of Olmeta, who accidentally meeting me,
proffered his services, pressing me afterwards to take breakfast with
him. We had done very well at the widow's long before, with delicious
bread, eggs, apples, and figs, and coffee in the smallest of cups. We
brewed our own tea in a bran-new coffee-pot, purchased for that purpose
at Bastia. Butter and milk were wanting, but whipped eggs make a very
tolerable substitute for the latter.
My new acquaintance informed me that the decree, passed the year before
for disarming the whole population, combined with measures for
increasing the force of the _gendarmerie_, and making it highly penal to
harbour the bandits or afford them any succour, had been actively and
rigorously carried out, and were completely successful. The life of a
citizen is as safe in Corsica as in any other department of France. “You
may walk through the island,” added my informant, “with a purse of gold
in your bosom.”
This was true, I imagine, with regard to strangers, in the worst of
times; their security from molestation being nearly allied to the
national virtue of hospitality, which is not quite extinct. Nor were the
Corsican banditti associated, like those of Italy, for the mere purpose
of plunder, though they have heavily taxed the peaceable inhabitants,
both by drawing from the poor the means for their subsistence in the
woods and mountains, and by levying, under terror, direct contributions
in money from the more wealthy inhabitants in the towns and villages.
These are, however, but trifling ingredients in the mass of crime for
which Corsica has been so painfully distinguished. Would, indeed, that
robbery and pillage were the sins of the darkest dye which have to be
laid to the account of the Corsican bandit! Most commonly, his hands
have been stained with innocent blood, shed recklessly, relentlessly,
in private quarrels, often of the most frivolous description, and not in
open fight, as in the feuds of the middle ages, not in the heat of
sudden passion, but by cool, premeditated murder.
Philippini, the best Corsican historian, who lived in the sixteenth
century, states that in his time 28,000 Corsicans were murdered in the
course of thirty years. A later Corsican historian calculates that
between the years 1683 and 1715, a period of thirty-two years, 28,715
murders were perpetrated in Corsica; and he reckons that an equal number
were wounded. The average, then, in their days, was about 900 souls
yearly sent to their account by the dagger and the _fusil_ in murderous
assaults; besides vast multitudes who fell in the wars.
It was still worse in earlier ages; but those of which we speak were
times of high civilisation, and Corsica lay in the centre of it. What do
we find in recent times, up to the very year before we visited the
island?
I have before me the _Procès verbal_ of the deliberations of the Council
General of the department of Corsica for each of the years 1850, '51,
and '52. From these I gather that 4,300 _assassinats_ had been
perpetrated in Corsica since 1821; and, in the three years before
mentioned, the “_Assassinats, ou tentatives d'assassiner_,” averaged
ninety-eight annually from the 1st of January to the 1st of August, to
which day the annual reports are made up; so that, reckoning for the
remaining five months in the same proportion, the list of these heinous
crimes is brought up to the fearful amount, for these days, of 160 in
each year.
Well might M. le Préfet observe, in his address at the opening of the
session of 1851: “_La situation du département à cet égard est sans
doute profondément triste. Le nombre des crimes n'a pas diminué
sensiblement_.” So low, however, is the moral sense in Corsica with
regard to the sanctity of human life, that these atrocities excite no
horror, and the sympathies of vast numbers of the population are with
the bandits. They are the heroes of the popular tales and _canzoni_; one
hears of them from one end of the island to the other, round the
watchfires of the shepherds on the mountains, in the remote _paése_, by
the roadside. They are the tales of the nursery,—the Corsican child
learns, with his Ave Maria, that it is rightful and glorious to take the
life of any one who injures or offends him.
To a passionate and imaginative people, these tales of daring courage
and wild adventure have an inconceivable charm; though stained with
blood, they are full of poetry and romance. Such stories have been
eagerly seized upon by writers on Corsica,—they make excellent literary
capital. Unfortunately, _banditisme_ forms so striking a feature in
Corsican history, that it must necessarily occupy a conspicuous place in
a faithful review of the genius and manners of the people. There are
doubtless traits of a heroism worthy a better cause, and sometimes of a
redeeming humanity, in the lives of the banditti; but one regrets to
find, though happily not in the works of the English travellers who have
given accounts of Corsica, a tendency to palliate so atrocious a system
as blood-revenge. _Vendetta_, the name given it, has a romantic sound;
and it is treated as a sort of national institution, originating in high
and laudable feelings, the injured sense of right, and the love of
family; so that, with the glory shed around it by a false heroism, it is
almost raised to the rank of a virtue.
To take blood for blood, not by the hand of public justice, but by the
kinsmen of the slain, was, we are reminded, a primitive custom,
sanctioned by the usages of many nations, and even by the laws of Moses.
We know, however, that among our Anglo-Saxon ancestors the laws humanely
commuted this right of revenge for fines commensurate with the rank of
the murdered person. But while the Mosaic law forbad the acceptance of
any pecuniary compensation for the crime of manslaughter, and expressly
recognised the right of the “avenger of blood” to exact summary
vengeance, it provided for even the murderer's security until he were
brought to a fair trial. But Corsica, alas! has had no “Cities of
Refuge,” and examples drawn from remote and barbarous times can afford
no apology for the inveterate cruelties of a people enjoying the light
of modern civilisation and professing the religion of the New Testament.
The _vendetta_ is also represented as a kind of rude justice, to which
the people were driven in the long ages of misrule during which law was
in abeyance or corruptly administered. There is, no doubt, much truth in
this as applied to those times; but the prodigious amount of human
slaughter shown in the statistics just quoted, as well as the
continuance of this atrocious system to the present day, long after the
slightest shadow of any pretence of legal injustice has vanished, seem
to argue that the ferocity which has shed such rivers of blood, if not
instinctive in the national character, at least found a soil in which it
took deep root.
For more than half a century, there can be no question but, under a
settled government, strict justice has been done by the ordinary
proceedings of the courts of law, in all cases of injury to person or
property, submitted to them. But the turbulent Corsicans were ever
impatient of regular government—one great cause of their ultimate
degradation, not a little connected also with the growth of
_banditisme_; and the failure of justice has not lain with the
authorities, but with the population which harbours and screens the
criminals, and with the juries who refuse to convict them.[7]
The only other instance in the present day of crimes similar to those
which have been the scourge of Corsica, is found in the case of unhappy
Ireland. There, however, the blood-revenge has been mostly confined to
cases of supposed agrarian grievances, and the number of victims
sacrificed to it is comparatively limited; more innocent blood having
been shed in Corsica in a single year, than in Ireland during, perhaps,
a quarter of a century.
The _vendetta_, is also palliated as vindicating wrongs for which no
courts of law, however upright, can afford redress. Among the most
polished nations, “the point of honour” has been held to justify an
injured man for challenging his adversary to mortal combat. But the
duel, from its first origin among our Scandinavian ancestors, savage as
they were, and through all its forms, whether legalised or treated as
felonious, to its last shape in civilised society, has nothing
practically in common with the Corsican _vendetta_. In the one, the
appeal to arms has always been tempered by a punctilious chivalry, which
recoiled from the slightest unfairness in the attendant circumstances;
in the other, the enemy is, if possible, taken unawares, shot down by a
cowardly miscreant lurking behind a tree or a rock, or suddenly stabbed
without an opportunity of putting himself on his defence. The practice
of the _vendetta_ is mere assassination.
Stript of the colouring shed round it by sentiment and romance,
_banditisme_, in its latter days at least, has been a very common-place
affair. Great numbers of the Corsicans, too indolent to work, were happy
to lead a vagabond life, harbouring in the woods and mountains with a
gun on their shoulders, and as ready to shoot a man as a wild beast.
“_C'est qu'en général_,” said the Préfet, in the address already quoted,
“_ces crimes proviennent moins du banditisme que de la déplorable
habitude de marcher toujours armés, par suite de laquelle les moindres
rixes dégénèrent si souvent en attentats contre la vie._” One hears
continually for what trifles assassinations have been perpetrated; and a
recent traveller informs us that his life was threatened for having
merely resisted the extortionate demand of his guide to the mountains.
The hardships to which the bandit is exposed in his wild life in the
_maquis_ cannot be much greater than those of the shepherd who, from
fear or favour, shares with him his chestnuts, his goat's milk, and
cheese. The _gendarmes_, indeed, are sometimes on his track, but there
is stirring adventure in eluding their pursuit, triumph in the ambuscade
to which they become victims, glory even in death heroically met. With
all its perils and hardships, such a life of lawless independence has
its charms; and the bandit knows that his memory will be honoured, and
his death, if possible, revenged. But who laments the unfortunate
_gendarme_ who falls in these encounters? Who pities the widow and
orphans of men as bold, resolute, and enterprising as those against whom
they are matched? In the tales of banditti life, the ministers of
justice are _sbirri_, conventionally a term of disgrace; all the
sympathy is with the culprit against whom the _gendarmerie_ peril their
lives in an arduous service.
The brigands must live by plunder in one shape or another. It is not
likely that bands of armed men, the terror of a whole neighbourhood,
would be always content with the mere subsistence wrung from the scanty
resources of the poor shepherds. Not that they robbed on the highways;
it answered better to levy contributions, under pain of death, from such
of the defenceless inhabitants as were able to pay them. Mr. Benson
tells a story of one of the most celebrated of the bandit chiefs, who
levied black mail in the wild districts bordering on the forest of
Vizzavona.
“Leaving Vivario, we heard from the lips of the poor _curé_, that
Galluchio and his followers were in the _maquis_ of a range of mountains
to our right. The _curé_ was busy in his vineyard when we passed, but as
soon as he recognised our French companion, he left his work for a few
moments to join us. ‘Sir,’ said he, addressing himself to M. Cottard, ‘I
feel myself in imminent danger; Galluchio and his band are in yonder
mountains, and only a few evenings ago I received a peremptory message
from him, requiring 300 francs, and threatening my speedy assassination
should I delay many days to comply with his demand. I have not the
money, and I have sent for some military to protect me.’”[8]
There is reason to believe that these forced contributions have not
diminished since Mr. Benson's journey. We were told of a case in which a
wealthy man, having received notice to pay 10,000 francs, under penalty
of being shot, was so terrified, that after shutting himself up in his
house for a year in constant alarm, his health and spirits became so
shattered by the state of continual terror and watchfulness in which he
lived, that he sank under it, and was carried out dead. In another case,
a young man of more resolute character was called upon for 1000 francs,
and having no ready money, was allowed three months to raise it, on
giving his bill for security. He armed himself, and went to the
appointed rendezvous. The brigand was waiting for him; he made him lay
down his arms, and searched him. The young man had filled his pockets
with chestnuts, and had contrived to secrete a small pistol about his
person, which escaped discovery. The brigand, producing paper and ink,
ordered his victim to draw the bill. The young man excused himself on
the ground that he was so frightened, and his hand trembled so that he
could not write;—he would sign the bill if the other drew it out. The
brigand knelt down by the side of a flat stone to do so. Meanwhile the
young man walked up and down eating his chestnuts, and throwing the
shells carelessly away. Some of them struck the brigand. “What are you
doing?” said he, startled. “Eating my chestnuts;” and he took out
another handful. Occasionally he stopped and looked down on the bandit
while engaged in writing; still, with apparent _sang froid_, munching
his chestnuts. Presently the bill was finished; he pretended to look it
over, found some error, which he pointed out, and while the brigand
stooped to correct it, drew his concealed pistol and shot him through
the head.—The so-called _vendetta_ has shrunk more and more to the level
of vulgar crime. It is even notorious that bandits have become hired
assassins, employed by others to take off persons against whom they had
a grudge,—“_mais plus pour amitié que pour argent_,” said my informant,
giving the fact the most favourable turn.
It seems surprising that such enormities should have been permitted in a
European country, at an advanced period of the nineteenth century. Could
a strong national government have been established in Corsica—which,
however, seems to have been impracticable with so lawless and factious a
people—its first duty would have been, as was the case under Pascal
Paoli's administration, to give security to life, _coûte que coûte_. The
successive Governments of France appear to have been too much occupied
by their own affairs to pay any regard to the social state of their
Corsican department, flagrant as was the disgrace it reflected on them.
Perhaps they were impressed with the idea that the passion of revenge,
the thirst for blood, were so inherent in the native character, that law
and force were alike powerless, and the _vendetta_ could only be
extirpated by a moral change more to be hoped for than expected. Thus
speaks the Préfet, in his inaugural address of 1851:—“_Ici, messieurs,
vous en conviendrez, l'administration est sans force. C'est à la
religion seule qu'appartient la touchante prérogative de prêcher l'oubli
des injures:_” and a traveller who spent some time in the island during
the year following, gives the result of his observations in the
following words:—“There is probably no other means of certainly putting
down the blood-revenge, murder, and bandit-life, than culture; and
culture advances in Corsica but slowly.”[9]
The same author says of the general disarming, proposed in 1852:
“Whether, and how, this will be capable of execution, I know not. It
will cost mischief enough in the execution; for they will not be able to
disarm the banditti at the same time, and their enemies will then be
exposed, unarmed, to their bullets.” These doubts and forebodings are
proved to have been imaginary. It might have been long, indeed, before
preaching and moral culture had eradicated evils so deeply rooted in the
genius of the people. In such an extreme case, the exercise of a
despotic power was required to put an end to the reign of terror and
blood which has desolated this fair island for so many centuries. One
bold stroke has broken the spell; the measures adopted for the
suppression of _banditisme_ have completely succeeded. “The prisons are
full,” said my informant; “in the last year, 400 of the brigands have
been sentenced or shot down, and as many more driven out of the country:
the land is at peace.”
The only wonder is that the experiment was not tried before.
CHAP. X.
_The Basin of Oletta.—The Olive.—Corsican Tales.—The Heroine of
Oletta.—Zones of Climate and Vegetation._
We found that no mules could be hired at Olmeta, and intending to wander
for a few days in the neighbouring valleys, and on the skirts of the
mountainous district of Nebbio, though we preferred walking, were at
some loss how to get forward our baggage. The Bastia muleteer was
dismissed, and as we were travelling somewhat at our ease, the luggage
was more than could be conveniently carried. In this dilemma, Antoine
proffered the services of himself and the mule which had done its work
so well the evening before. His offer was readily accepted, and we had
much reason to be pleased with the change we had made in our conductor.
Antoine relieved us from all care as to our baggage and entertainment,
knew the roads, and where we could best put up, had by heart many a
story of times past, and something to tell of all the places we visited,
and, having been a rover himself, entered into the spirit of our
rambles: altogether, as I have observed before, Antoine was an excellent
specimen of a Capo Corso peasant. To be sure, he had killed his man, but
that was in a _duello_, according to Corsican ideas; as singular, if one
may jest on such a subject, as Captain Marryat's famous triangular duel.
The valleys of Olmeta, Oletta, and some others, form a sort of basin
between the mountains bounding the _littorale_, already spoken of, and
the Serra di Tenda, a noble range in the western line of the principal
chain. Broken by numberless hills, the whole basin is a scene of fertile
beauty, similar to the picture drawn of Olmeta—vineyards, olive-grounds
and gardens, orange, citron, fig, almond, apple, and pear-trees,
clustering at every turn with groups of magnificent chestnut-trees, and
alternating with spots devoted to tillage. The country people were now
sowing wheat or preparing the ground with most primitive ploughs, of the
Roman fashion, drawn sometimes by a single ox or mule. Patches, on which
the green blade was already springing, showed that it is the practice to
sow wheat as soon as possible after the autumnal rains.
[Illustration: ISLE OF MONTE-CRISTO, THROUGH A GORGE.]
Retracing our steps of the preceding night nearly to the summit of the
pass, under the persuasion that it commanded a fine prospect, we turned
to the right, and strolled along a terrace above the broad valley
through which the Bevinco flows into the Stagno di Biguglia, somewhat
below the point at which we left it. Looking backward, we had a charming
peep at the Mediterranean through a gorge in the mountains, with the
lonely island of Monte-Cristo, seen from this point of view detached
from the rest of the group of islands to which it belongs. Across the
valley was a range of mountains, a branch of the central chain dividing
it from that of the Golo. Mists hung about them, pierced by the Cima dei
Taffoni, the most elevated point of the range, which rose magnificently,
being about 3000 feet high, twenty miles to the south-east. The ridge
along which we strolled was covered partly by patches of the
never-failing evergreen shrubbery, rendered more beautiful by the
quantities of cyclamen, one of the prettiest plants we have in our
greenhouses at home, now in full flower under the shelter of the arbutus
and other shrubs. Small flocks of sheep, all black, and no larger than
our Welsh mountain breed, were browsing among the barren patches of
heath, and sometimes crossed our path, with their tinkling bells. There
was a slight shower; but it soon cleared off, and the sun shone out, and
the air and surface of the ground, cooled and freshened by the gentle
rain, were in the best state for the continuation of our rambles.
The cultivation, as may be supposed, is indolent and imperfect, the
surface being merely scratched, and little care taken to free it of
weeds. We need not, therefore, be surprised at finding that the average
produce of the wheat-crop throughout Corsica is only an increase of nine
on the seed sown. Of maize, or Indian corn, it is thirty-eight or forty.
The canton of Oletta is called by the Corsicans “the pearl of the
Nebbio.” It contains two or three hamlets, the principal village seeming
to hang on the rocky slope of a hill, embowered in fruit trees. The
olive flourishes particularly well here; and Oletta takes its name from
its olive-trees, as Olmeta does from its elms. Many of them are of
great age and size, and, with their silvery leaves, have a soft and
pleasing effect, especially when contrasted with the richer foliage of
the spreading chestnut-trees. The olive-yards are neatly dug and kept
clear of weeds; and we observed that the soil was drawn round the stems
of the trees, probably in well-manured heaps, such a produce as the
olive truly requiring to feed on the fat of the land. The berries were
now full formed, but had not begun to fall. I believe they hang till
Christmas, when they are collected, and carried to the vats. When
pressed, twenty pounds of olives yield five of pure oil. It is stored in
large pottery jars, and forms the principal export from Corsica; this
district, with the Balagna and the neighbourhood of Bonifaccio,
producing the largest quantity. An inferior sort of oil is used in the
lamps throughout the island; the lamps being of glass, with tall stems
containing the oil, and crowned by a socket, through which the cotton
burner is passed, and having nothing of the antique or classical about
them. The birds scattering the berries in all directions, and carrying
them to great distances, the number of wild olive-trees is immense. An
attempt was made to count them, by order of the Government, in 1820,
with a view to foster so valuable a source of national wealth by the
encouragement of grafting; and it is said that as many as twelve
millions of wild olive-trees were then counted.
There is a story of love and heroism connected with Oletta. One hears
such tales everywhere in Corsica—by the wayside, at the shepherd's
watch-fire, lying in the shade, or basking in the sun. Antoine was an
excellent _raconteur_; so are all such vagabonds. I possess a
collection of these tales by Renucci, published at Bastia[10], and
proposed to interweave some of them into my narrative. They may be
worked up, with invention and embellishment, into pretty romances; but
that is not our business. In Renucci, we have stories of _Ospitalità_,
_Magnanimità_, _Fedeltà_, _Probità_, _Generosità_, _Incorruttibilità_,
all the virtues under the sun with names ending in _tà_, and many
others. One wearies of the eternal laudation lavished on these
islanders, not only by their own writers, but by all travellers, from
Boswell downwards.
The story of the heroine of Oletta is told by Renucci[11], and, more
simply, by Marmocchi.[12] During the occupation of Capo Corso by the
French, in 1751, some of the villagers were sentenced to be broken on
the wheel for a conspiracy to seize the place, which was garrisoned by
the French; their bodies were exposed on the scaffold, and their friends
prohibited, under severe penalties, from giving them Christian burial.
But a young woman, _giovinetta scelta e robusta_, as she must have been
to perform the exploit assigned to her in the tale, eluded the sentries,
and, taking the body of her lover, one of the conspirators executed, on
her shoulders, carried it off. The general in command, struck by her
exalted virtue, pardons the offence, and she is borne home in triumph
amidst the shouts of the villagers.
All honour to the French marquis for his gallantry to a woman, though
his tactics were somewhat savage for the reign of Louis XVI.; and all
glory to Maria Gentili of Oletta, stout of heart and strong of limb, fit
to be the wife and mother of bandits; still better, to have fought at
Borgo, where Corsican women, in male attire, with sword and gun, rushed
forward in the ranks of the island militia which triumphantly defeated a
French army, composed of some of the finest troops in Europe.[13]
But let us proceed with our rambles; and, before we change the scene
from the region of the vine and the orange to that of the chestnut and
ilex, a short digression on the climatic zones of Corsica may not be out
of place.
[Illustration: BETWEEN OLMETA AND BIGORNO.]
The island may be divided, as to climate and vegetation, into three
zones, corresponding with the degrees of elevation of its surface. The
_first_, ranging to about 1,700 feet above the level of the
Mediterranean, and embracing the deeper valleys of the island, as well
as the sea-coast, has the characteristics conformable to its latitude;
that is to say, similar to those of the parallel shores of Italy and
Spain. Properly speaking, there is no winter; they have but two seasons,
spring and summer. The thermometer seldom falls more than a degree or
two below the freezing point, and then only for a few hours. The nights
are, however, cold at all seasons.
When we were at Ajaccio, towards the end of October, the heat was
oppressive; my thermometer at noon stood at 80° in the shade, in an airy
room closed by Venetian blinds. In January, we were told, the sun
becomes again powerful, and then for eight months succeeds a torrid
heat. The sky is generally cloudless, the thermometer rises from 70 to
80 and even 90 degrees in the shade, and scarcely any rain falls after
the month of April; nor indeed always then, so that there are often long
and excessive droughts.
The indigenous vegetation is generally of a class suited to resist the
droughts, having hard, coriaceous leaves. Such is the shrubbery
described in a former chapter, which, exempt from severe frosts on the
one hand, and thriving in an arid soil and parching heat on the other,
clothes half the surface of the island with perpetual verdure. There
have been seasons when even these shrubs were so burnt up that the
slightest accident might have caused a wide-spread conflagration. When
we travelled, the leaves of the rock-roses, which here grow to the
height of four or five feet, were hanging on the bushes scorched and
withered by the summer heat, somewhat marring the beauty of the
evergreen thickets.
Most of the fruit-trees suited to flourish in such a climate have been
already noticed in passing. We saw also almonds, pomegranates, and
standard peaches and apricots. To the list of shrubs which most struck
us, I may also add the brilliant flowering oleander, and the tamarisk.
Corsica is said to be famous for its orchids, verbenas, and cotyledinous
and caryophyllaceous plants; but I only speak of what I saw, and these
were out of season.
The _second_ zone ranges from about 2000 feet to between 5000 and 6000
feet above the level of the Mediterranean, the climate corresponding
with that of the central districts of France. The temperature is,
however, very variable, and its changes are sudden. Frost and snow make
their appearance in November, and often last for fifteen or twenty days
together. It is remarked, that frost does not injure the olive-trees up
to the level of about 3800 feet; and snow even renders them more
fruitful.
The chestnut appears to be the characteristic feature in the vegetation
of this zone. Thriving also among hills and valleys of a lower
elevation, here it spreads into extensive woods, till at the height of
about 6000 feet it is exchanged for the pine, and Marmocchi says[14], I
think incorrectly, _cède la place_ to the oak and the _beech_. We
certainly found the oak, both evergreen (ilex) and deciduous, growing
very freely and in extensive woods in close contiguity with the chestnut
at an elevation far below the limit of the _second_ zone, as well as
mixed with the pine in the forest of Vizzavona, also below that limit.
But, from my own observation, I should class the oak of both kinds
among the trees belonging to the second zone, though the chestnut is its
most characteristic feature; and should much doubt its flourishing at
the height of between 6000 and 7000 feet above the sea-level,—still more
the beech. The highest point at which we found the beech was the Col di
Vizzavona, on the road from Vivario to Bocagnono, 3435 feet above the
level of the Mediterranean, and I was surprised to see it flourishing
there.
While the principal cities and towns in Corsica stand within the limits
of the first zone, it is in the second that by far the greatest part of
the population live,—dispersed, as we have often had occasion to remark,
in valleys and hamlets placed on the summits or ridges of hills. The
choice of such positions is a necessary condition of health, as in this
region, no less than in the former, the valleys are notorious for the
insalubrity of the air.
The _third_ zone, ranging from an elevation of about 6000 feet to the
summits of the highest mountains, is a region of storms and tempests
during eight months of the year; but during the short summer the air is
said to be generally serene, and the sky unclouded. This elevated region
has, of course, no settled inhabitants, but during the fine season the
shepherds occupy cabins on its verge, their sheep and goats browsing
among the dwarf bushes on the mountain sides. The vegetation is scanty.
Even the pine cannot thrive at such an elevation, and the birch, which
one generally finds, though dwarf, still higher up the mountains, I did
not happen to see in Corsica, though it is mentioned in _Marmocchi's_
list of indigenous trees.
The summits of the Monte Rotondo and Monte d'Oro are capped with snow at
all seasons, and beautiful are snowy peaks, piercing the blue heavens
in the sunny region of the Mediterranean, and well does the glistening
tiara, marking from afar their pre-eminence among the countless domes
and peaks which cluster round them, or break the outline of a long
chain, assist the eye in computing their relative heights. We had no
opportunity of ascertaining how low perpetual snow hangs on the sides of
the highest Corsican mountains. According to M. Arago, Monte Rotondo is
2762 _mètres_ (about 8976 feet) above the level of the sea; and he says
that there are seven others exceeding 2000 _mètres_ (about 6500 feet).
Among these must be included Monte d'Oro, which figures in Marmocchi's
list at 2653 _mètres_, or about 8622 feet. The season was too late for
our making an ascent with any prospect of advantage; but at that time of
the year (the end of October) none of the peaks we saw, except the two
named, though some of them are only from 500 to 800 feet lower than
Monte d'Oro, had snow upon them.
While rounding the base of Monte d'Oro, we observed long streaks on the
side of the cone, descending, perhaps, 1000 feet below the compact mass
on the summit; but they had the appearance of fresh-fallen snow, and
from our observing that all the other summits were free from snow, I am
inclined to assign the height of about 7500 or 8000 feet above the level
of the Mediterranean as the line of perpetual snow in Corsica.
In Norway, between 59°-62° N. latitude, we calculated it at about 4500
feet on the average, the line varying considerably in different seasons.
In the summer of 1849 there was snow on the shores of the Miös-Vand,
which are under 3000 feet, while the summer before the lakes on the
table-land of the Hardanger Fjeld, 4000 feet high, were free from ice,
and throughout the passage of the Fjeld the surface covered with snow
was less than that which was bare. In 1849, crossing the Hardanger from
Vinje to Odde, the whole of the plateau was a continued field of
snow.[15] Taking the entire mountain system of central Norway, from the
Gousta-Fjeld to Sneehættan and the Hörungurne, with elevations of from
5000 to near 8000 feet, the average of the snow-level may be taken, as
before observed, at about 4500 feet; that of the Corsican mountains,
with elevations of from 6000 to nearly 9000 feet, being, as we have
seen, from 7000 to 8000 feet.
In Switzerland, where the elevations are so much greater, the snow-line
varies from 8000 to 8800 feet above the level of the sea.[16] On Mont
Blanc it is stated to be 8500 feet. The height differs on the northern
and southern faces of the chain within those portions of the Alps that
run east and west, but 8500 feet may be taken as the average.
We may be surprised to find that congelation rests at the same, or
nearly the same, level in the Alps of Switzerland, and on the Corsican
mountains eight degrees further south. But difference of latitude is no
determinate rule for calculating the level to which the line of
perpetual snow descends. There are other influences to be taken into the
account, such as the duration and intensity of summer heats, the
comparative dryness of climate, the extent of the snow-clad surface in
the system generally, and more especially the height and exposure of
particular mountains.[17] Thus the snow-line on the southern slope of
the Alps is in some cases as high as 9500 feet. It may be conceived that
as the great extent of snow-clad surface on the high Fjelds of Norway so
much depresses the level of the snow-line in that country, so the great
superincumbent mass resting on the summits of the higher Alps has a
similar effect, reducing the average snow-line in Switzerland to nearly
that of the Corsican mountains. The wonder is that Monte Rotondo and
Monte d'Oro,—rising from a chain surrounded by the Mediterranean, in
insulated peaks of no very considerable height, without glaciers or
snowy basins to reduce the temperature,—should, in a climate where the
sun's heat is excessive for eight months of the year, have snow on their
summits in the months of July and August. I have observed the _Pico di
Teyde_ in Teneriffe with no snow upon it in the first days of November,
though it is 3000 feet higher than Monte Rotondo, and only five degrees
further south. Mount Ætna, also, nearly 11,000 feet high, in about the
same latitude as the Peak of Teneriffe (37° N.), is free from perpetual
snow; but that may arise from local causes.
CHAP. XI.
_Pisan Church at Murato.—Chestnut Woods.—Gulf of San
Fiorenzo.—Nelson's Exploit there.—He conducts the Siege of
Bastia.—Ilex Woods.—Mountain Pastures.—The Corsican Shepherd._
Murato, a large, scattered village, which formerly gave its name to a
_piève_, and is now the _chef-lieu_ of a canton, stands on the verge of
a woody and mountainous district. Just before entering the village, we
were struck by the superior character of the _façade_ of a little
solitary church by the roadside. We afterwards learnt that it was
dedicated to St. Michael, and reckoned one of the most remarkable
churches in the island, having been erected by the Pisans, before the
Genoese established themselves in Corsica. The _façade_ is constructed
of alternate courses of black and white marble, and put me in mind of
the magnificent cathedrals of Pisa and Sienna, of which it is a model in
miniature. Indeed, most of the churches in Corsica are built on these
and similar Italian models, though few of them with such chaste
simplicity of design as this little roadside chapel.
The smiling aspect of the vine-clad hills, umbrageous fruit-orchards,
and silvery olive-groves of the canton of Oletta now changed for a
bolder landscape and wilder accompaniments. Soon after leaving Murato,
the ilex began to appear, scattered among rough brakes, and a sharp
descent led down to the Bevinco, here a mountain-torrent, hurrying along
through deep banks, tufted with underwood, the box, which grows largely
in Corsica, being profusely intermixed. The road—like all the other
byroads, merely a horse-track—crosses the stream by a bold arch.
[Illustration: PONTE MURATO.]
Immediately in front of the bridge stands a pyramidal rock, remarkable
for all its segments having the same character, and for the way in which
evergreen shrubs hang from the fissures in graceful festoons,
contrasting with some gigantic gourds, in a small cultivated patch at
the foot of the rock, and sloping down to the edge of the stream.
Higher up we entered the first chestnut wood we had yet seen. At the
outskirts it had all the character of a natural wood; the trees were
irregularly massed, and many of them of great age and vast dimensions.
Further on they stood in rows, this tree being extensively planted in
Corsica for the sake of the fruit. We were just in the right season for
this important harvest, it being now ripe, and the ground under the
trees was thickly strewed with the brown nuts bursting from their husky
shells.
It being about noon, we halted in the shade by the side of a little
rill, trickling among the trees into the river beneath, to rest and
lunch. Nothing could be more delightful, after a long walk in the sun;
for the temperature of the valleys is high even at this season. Antoine
had charge of a basket of grapes, with a loaf of bread and a bottle of
the excellent Frontigniac of Capo Corso; to these were added handfuls of
chestnuts, so sweet and tender when perfectly fresh; so that, tempering
our wine in the cool stream, we fared luxuriously.
While we sip our wine and munch our chestnuts, seasoned by talk with
Antoine, the reader may like to hear something of a crop which is of
more importance than might be supposed in the agricultural statistics of
Corsica.
There are several cantons, Murato being one of the principal, in which
the chestnut woods, either natural or planted, are so extensive that the
districts have acquired the name of _Paése di Castagniccia_. The
Corsican peasant seldom sets forth on a journey without providing
himself with a bag of chestnuts, and with these and a gourd of wine or
of water slung by his side, he is never at a loss. Eaten raw or roasted
on the embers, chestnuts form, during half the year, the principal diet
of the herdsmen and shepherds on the hills, and of great numbers of the
poorer population in the districts where the tree flourishes. They are
also made into puddings, and served up in various other ways. It is said
that in the canton of Alesanni, one of the Castagniccia districts just
referred to, on the occasion of a peasant making a feast at his
daughter's marriage, no less than twenty-two dishes have been prepared
from the meal of the chestnut.
I recollect that the innkeeper at Bonifaccio, boasting his culinary
skill, said that he could dress a potato sixteen different ways, and
though we earnestly entreated him not to give himself the trouble of
making experiments not suited to our taste, it was with great
difficulty, and after several failures, we made him comprehend that an
Englishman preferred but one way—and that was “_au naturel_.”
The cultivation of the potato has made considerable advance in Corsica,
and there are now seventeen or eighteen hundred acres annually planted
with it. But in many parts of the island the chestnut fills the same
place which the potato once occupied in the dietary of the Irish
peasant. A political economist would find no difficulty in deciding that
in both cases the results have been similar, and much to be lamented.
Indeed, the Corsican fruit is still more adapted to cherish habits of
indolence than the Irish root, as the chestnut does not even require the
brief exertion, either in cultivation or cookery, which the potato does.
It drops, I may say, into the Corsican's mouth, and living like the
“Prisca gens mortalium.”
“the primitive race of mortals,” of whom the poet sings, who ran about
in the woods, eating acorns and drinking water, the Corsicans are, for
the most part, satisfied with their chestnuts literally “_au naturel_.”
Most French writers on Corsica declare war against the chestnut-trees
for the encouragement they afford to a life of idleness, and M. de
Beaumont does not scruple to assert, that a tempest which levelled them
all with the ground would, in the end, prove a great blessing. There is
some truth in these opinions, but humanity shudders at the misery such a
catastrophe—like the potato blight, which truly struck at the root of
the evil in Ireland—would entail on tens of thousands of the poor
Corsicans, to whom the chestnut is the staff of life. In the interests
of that humanity, as well as from our deep love and veneration for these
noble woods, we say, God forbid!
Many years ago, an attempt was made to discountenance the growth of
chestnuts, by prohibiting their plantation in soils capable of other
kinds of cultivation; but shortly afterwards the decree was revoked on
the report of no less a political economist than the celebrated
Turgot.[18] _Vivent donc ces châtaigniers magnifiques, quand même!_ And
may the Corsicans learn not to abuse the gifts which Providence
gratuitously showers from their spreading boughs!
Our _al fresco_ repast on chestnuts and grapes being concluded, we left
Antoine to load his mule, which had been grazing in the cool shade, and
following a track through the wood, it became so steep that we soon
gained a very considerable elevation. Of this we were more sensible
when, turning round, we found that our range of sight embraced one of
the finest views imaginable. In the distance, the long chain of
mountains intersecting Capo Corso appeared grouped in one central mass,
with their rocky summits and varied outlines more or less boldly
defined, as they receded from the point of view. The western coast of
the peninsula stretched far away to the northward, broken by a
succession of mountainous ridges, branching out from the central chain,
and having their bases washed by the Mediterranean, point after point
appealing in perspective.
[Illustration: CAPO CORSO FROM THE CHESTNUT WOODS.]
Of these indentations in the coast, the nearest, as well as the most
important, is the Gulf of San Fiorenzo, one of the finest harbours in
the Mediterranean. The town stands on a hill, above the marshy delta of
the Aliso, the course of which we could trace through the most extended
of these high valleys. Close beneath our standing point, as it appeared,
lay the basin of Oletta, with its villages on the hill-tops, and its
gentle eminences, with slopes and hollows richly clothed, now grouped
together like the mountain ranges above, but in softer forms. This view,
whether as partially seen in our first position through the glades and
under the branching canopy of the chestnut wood, or shortly afterwards,
still better, from a more commanding point on the summit of the ridge,
had all the advantages which the most exquisite colouring, and the
finest atmospheric effects could lend. Indeed, I felt persuaded, that
the extraordinary richness of the warm tints on some of the mountain
sides was not merely an atmospheric effect, but aided by the natural
colour of the formation.
The whole country lying beneath, the ancient province of Nebbio, with
the Gulf of San Fiorenzo for its outlet, guarded by the mountain ridges
and embracing the districts of Oletta, Murato, and Sorio, is of such
importance in a strategical view, that the fate of Corsica has often
been decided by campaigns conducted on this ground; and it is said that
whatever power obtains possession of it, will sooner or later become
masters of the whole island.
San Fiorenzo, a fortified place, was bombarded in 1745 by an English
fleet acting in concert with the King of Sardinia for the support of the
Corsicans against the Genoese, and on the surrender of the place it was
given up to the patriots. Then first the British Government interfered
in Corsican affairs; but shortly afterwards, when some of the patriot
leaders sent emissaries to Lord Bristol, our ambassador at the court of
Turin, offering to put themselves under the protection of the English
Government, the court of St. James's, deterred probably by the
jealousies then subsisting among the supporters of the patriotic cause,
civilly declined the offer, and withdrew their fleet. Having thus lost
by their own misconduct the powerful co-operation of England, the
Corsicans, left to their own resources, after a long and determined
struggle, at length yielded to a power with which they were unable to
cope.
San Fiorenzo was again the scene of British intervention, when the
Corsicans, throwing off in 1793 the yoke of the French revolutionary
government, applied to Lord Hood, the commander-in-chief in the
Mediterranean, for assistance. In consequence, Nelson, then commanding
the “Agamemnon,” and cruising off the island with a small squadron, to
prevent the enemy from throwing in supplies, made a sudden descent on
San Fiorenzo, where he landed with 120 men. Close to the port the French
had a storehouse of flour adjoining their only mill, Nelson threw the
flour into the sea, burnt the mill, and re-embarked in the face of 1000
men and some gun-boats, which opened fire upon him. In the following
spring, five English regiments were landed in the island under General
Dundas, and Lieutenant-Colonel (afterwards Sir John) Moore having taken
possession of the heights overlooking the port of San Fiorenzo, the
French found themselves unable to hold the place, and sinking one of
their frigates, and burning another, retreated to Bastia.
Nelson's dashing enterprise was succeeded by another of far greater
moment, characteristic of the times when our old 74's had not been
superseded by costly screw three-deckers, and our naval commanders,
though not wanting in discretion, acted on the impulses of their own
brave hearts, without any very nice calculations of responsibilities and
possible consequences.
On a _reconnaissance_ made by Nelson on the 19th of February, when he
drove the French under shelter of their works, it appeared that the
defences of Bastia were strong. Besides the citadel, mounting thirty
pieces of cannon and eight mortars, with seventy embrasures counted in
the town-wall near the sea, there were four stone redoubts on the
heights south of the town, and two or three others further in advance;
one a new work, with guns mounted _en barbette_. A frigate, “La Flèche,”
lay in the harbour, but dismasted; her guns were removed to the works.
These works were held by 1000 regular troops, 1500 national guards, and
a large body of Corsicans, making a total of 4000 men under arms.[19]
To attack this formidable force, manning such defences, Nelson could
only muster 218 marines, 787 troops of the line under orders to serve as
such, the admiral insisting on having them restored to this service, 66
men of the Royal Artillery, and 112 Corsican chasseurs, making a total
of 1183 troops. To these were added 250 sailors. Meanwhile, the English
general made a _reconnaissance_ in force from San Fiorenzo, and retired
without attempting to strike a blow, though he had 2000 of the finest
troops in the world lying idle; declaring that the enterprise was so
rash that no officer would be justified in undertaking it. He even
refused to furnish Lord Hood with a single soldier, cannon, or store.
The Admiral replied, that he was most willing to take upon himself the
whole responsibility, and Nelson, nothing daunted, landed his small
force on the 9th of April, three miles from the town, and the siege
operations commenced. Encamping near a high rock, 2500 yards from the
citadel, and the seamen working hard for several days in throwing up
works, making roads, and carrying up ammunition, the fire was opened on
the 12th of the same month. The works of the besiegers were mounted with
four 13-inch and 10-inch mortars, an 18-inch howitzer, five 24-pounder
guns, and two 18-pounder carronades. I give these details in order to
show with what small means the daring enterprise was accomplished.
Lord Hood had sent in a flag of truce, summoning the city to surrender;
to which M. La Combe St. Michel, the Commissioner of the National
Convention, replied, “that he had red-hot shot for our ships and
bayonets for our troops, and when two-thirds of his men were killed, he
would trust to the generosity of the English.”
The place being now regularly invested, there was heavy firing on both
sides, “the seamen minding shot,” as Nelson characteristically wrote to
his wife, “no more than peas.” The besiegers' works were advanced, first
to 1600 yards, and afterwards to a ridge 900 yards from the citadel; and
on the 19th of May, thirty-five days after the fire was opened, the
enemy offered to capitulate. The same evening, while the terms were
negotiating, the advanced guard of the troops from San Fiorenzo made
their appearance on the hills above the place, and on the following
morning the whole army, under the command of General D'Aubant, who had
succeeded Dundas, arrived just in time to take possession of Bastia.
Nelson had anticipated this, for in a letter to his wife, written
during the siege, he says, “My only fear is, that the soldiers will
advance when Bastia is about to surrender, and deprive our handful of
brave men of part of their glory.”
But the work was already done, and Nelson writes after the surrender of
the place, “I am all astonishment when I reflect on what we have
achieved.” A force of 4000 men in strong defences had laid down their
arms to 1200 soldiers, marines, and British seamen.
The political results of these operations, which for the time numbered
the Corsicans among the willing subjects of the British crown, will
claim a short notice on a fitting opportunity. History is not our
province, but a traveller may be allowed to trace the footsteps of his
countrymen during their brief occupation of a soil fiercely trodden by
all the European nations; and, on a standing point between Fiorenzo and
Bastia, naturally lingers for a moment on a feat of arms memorable among
our naval exploits in the Mediterranean.
After leaving the chestnut woods, the wildness of the scene increased at
every step. Our track skirted a forest of ilex spreading far up the base
of the mountains, and filling the glens below, round the gorges of which
the path led. The trees were of all ages, from the young growth, with a
shapely _contour_ of silvery grey foliage, to the gigantic patriarchs of
the forest, spreading their huge limbs, hoar with lichens, in most
fantastic and often angular forms, and their boles black and rugged with
the growth of centuries. Some were rifted by the tempests, and bared
their scathed and bleached tops to the winds of heaven. Others had
yielded to the storms or age, and lay prostrate on the ground, charred
and blackened by the fires which the shepherds in these wilds leave
recklessly burning. The destruction thus caused to valuable timber
throughout the island is enormous. Among the ilex were scattered a few
deciduous oaks, contrasting well in their autumnal tints with their
evergreen congeners. We thought the colouring was not so rich as that of
our English oak woods at this season, being of a paler or more tawny
hue, resembling the maple and sycamore. Precipitous cliffs and insulated
masses of grey rock broke the outline of the forest, and the charming
cyclamen still tufted the edge of the path with its delicate flowers,
nestling among the roots of the gigantic oaks; between the tall trunks
of which glimpses were occasionally caught of the distant mountain
peaks.
We had been ascending, generally at a pretty sharp angle, from the time
we crossed the Bevinco, and had walked about three hours, when, emerging
from the skirts of the ilex forest, we found ourselves on an elevated
ridge connected with the vast wastes of which the greater part of the
east and north-east of the province of Nebbio is composed. The surface
is bare and stony, with a very scanty herbage among aromatic plants and
bushes of low growth, consisting principally of the branching cistuses,
which, however they may enliven these barren heaths by their flowers in
the earlier part of the year, increased its parched and arid appearance
now that the leaves hung withered on their stems.
Yet on these barren solitudes the Corsican shepherd spends his listless
days and watchful nights. He has no fixed habitation, and never sleeps
under a roof, but when he piles some loose stones against a rock to form
a hut. Roaming over the boundless waste as the necessity of changing
the pasturage of his flock requires, he finds his best shelter in the
skirts of the forest, and his food in the chestnuts, which he
luxuriously roasts in the embers of his watchfire when he is tired of
eating them raw. The ground was so undulating that at one view we could
see a number of these flocks on the distant hill sides; the little black
sheep in countless numbers dotting the heaths, and the shepherds, in
their brown _pelone_, either following them as they browsed in scattered
groups, or perched on strong outline on some rocky pinnacle commanding a
wide area over which their charge was scattered. Their bleating and the
tinkling of the sheep-bells were wafted on the breeze, and more than
once a flock crossed our path, and we had a nearer view of the wild and
uncouth conductor.
My companion sat down to sketch, while I walked on. This often happened.
Indeed, his rambles were often discursive, so that I lost sight of him
for hours together; once in Sardinia, when there was reason to fear his
having been carried off to the mountains by banditti. Thus, each had his
separate adventures; on the present occasion I had opened out a new and
splendid view, and, having retraced my steps to lead him to the spot, he
related his.
Intent on his sketch, my friend was startled, on raising his head, at
seeing a wild figure standing at his elbow. Leaning on a staff, its keen
eyes were intently fixed on him. My friend at once perceived that one of
the shepherds had crept upon him unawares. A year before, when they all
carried arms, there would have been nothing in his exterior to
distinguish him from a bandit, but an ingenuous countenance and a gentle
demeanour.
The young shepherd seemed much interested in my friend's occupation, the
object of which, however, he could not comprehend. His face brightened
with pleasure and surprise on learning that the visitor to his wilds was
an Englishman. The memory of the red-coats, who came to espouse the
cause of Corsican liberty, lingers in Corsican traditions, and the
English are esteemed as their truest friends. It was something new in
the monotonous existence of the young shepherd to fall in with one of
that race, though he had not the slightest idea where on the face of the
earth they lived; still he was intelligent, inquisitive, and hospitable.
“Would the stranger accompany him to his hut?”
“It would give me pleasure, but it is growing late.”
“We are poor, but we could give you milk and cheese. You would be
welcome.”
“I know it. Like you, I love the forest and the mountain, the shade and
the sunshine; but yours must be a rough life.”
“It is our lot, and we are content. We toil not, and we love our
freedom.”
“It is well.”
“I should like some memorial of having met you, anything to show that I
have talked with an Englishman.”
My friend rapidly dashed off a slight sketch, a rough portrait, I think,
of his gaunt visitor—no bad subject for the pencil.
“I would rather it had been your own portrait; but I shall keep it in
remembrance of you.”
And so they parted; the civilised man to tell his little story of human
feeling and native intelligence, “spending their sweetness in the
desert air,”—the shepherd to relate his adventure over the watchfire,
and perhaps draw forth from some sexagenarian herdsman his boyish
recollections of the fall of San Fiorenzo and Bastia, and the march of
the English red-coats over the mountains.
CHAP. XII.
_Chain of the Serra di Tenda.—A Night at Bigorno.—A Hospitable
Priest.—Descent to the Golo._
After crossing for some distance an elevated plateau of this wild
country, we came to a boundary wall of rough boulders, and turned to
take a last view of the gulf of San Fiorenzo and the blue Mediterranean.
A heavy gate was swung open, and, on advancing a few hundred yards, the
scene suddenly changed. We found ourselves on the brink of a steep
descent, with a sea of mountains before us, branching from the great
central chain, and having innumerable ramifications. This part of the
chain is called the Serra di Tenda; and its highest peak the Monte Asto,
upwards of 5000 feet above the level of the sea, rose directly in front
of our point of view. A single altar-shaped rock crowned the summit,
from which the continuation of the ridge, right and left, fell away in a
singularly graceful outline, the face of the mountain being precipitous
with escarped cliffs. In other parts of the line, the summits were
sharply serrated. Northward it was lost in the far distance among clouds
and mist, but to the south-west of Monte Asto a similar, but more
blunted peak towered above all the others. I observed on our maps that
several of the summits in this range have the name of _Monte Rosso_; and
the centre of the group was indented by a deep gorge richly wooded, as
were other ravines, and forests hung on some of the mountain sides.
We were struck with the extraordinary warmth of colouring which pervaded
the surface of the vast panorama, the slopes as well as the precipitous
cliffs. They had the ruddy hue of the inner coating of the ilex bark,
with a piece of which we compared it on the spot. Again, I felt
convinced that this colouring was not merely an atmospheric
effect,—though doubtless heightened by the bright sunshine through so
pure a medium as the mountain air—but that the brilliance indicated the
nature of the formation. Whether it was granitic or porphyritic, I had
no opportunity of examining, but incline to think it belonged to the
latter.
Of the general features of the geological system of Corsica, an
opportunity may occur for taking a short review. Our present position,
embracing so vast an amphitheatre, was excellent for forming an idea of
the physical structure of this lateral branch from the central range.
Various as were its ramifications, appearing sometimes grouped in wild
confusion, the general unity of the whole formation, both in colour and
form, was very observable, from the loftiest peak to the offsets of the
ridge which gradually descended to the level of the valleys, just as the
peculiar character of a tree runs through its trunk and boughs to the
minutest twig. Through a gorge to the northward we traced the pass, the
Col di Tenda, the summit being 4500 feet, through which a road is
conducted to Calvi and l'Isle Rousse, on the western coast; while
immediately under us lay the valley through which the Golo, rising in
the central chain, makes its long and winding course to the _littorale_,
eastward.
The bason, on which we now looked down, was distinguished by the same
features as that of Oletta,—gentle hills, wooded slopes and glens, and
olive groves, vineyards, and orchards, in almost equally exuberant
richness. A dozen villages were within view, crowning, as usual, the
tops of the hills, or perched far up the mountain sides. Of these, Lento
and Bigorno are the most considerable, although Campittello gives its
name to the canton. The strong position of Lento caused it to be often
contested during the wars for Corsican independence, and it was General
Paoli's head-quarters before his last and fatal battle.
We selected Bigorno, a small village, as our quarters for the night. The
descent to it, about 1000 feet from the level of the sheep-walks, is
extremely rapid; the village itself being still many hundred feet above
the banks of the Golo, which is seen pouring its white torrent several
miles distant. The approach was interesting, winding through the
evergreen copse and scattered ilex, with the sound of the church-bell at
the _Ave-Maria_ rising from below in the still air as we descended the
mountain side.
Our quarters here were the best we had yet met with. My companion having
staid behind to sketch the village, and taken shelter from a shower of
rain, had been courteously invited by a gentleman, who passed, to accept
the accommodations of his house for the night, but, in the meantime,
Antoine had conducted me and the baggage to another house. It belonged
to a small proprietor, who was profuse in his politeness, but, we
thought, lacked the really hospitable feeling we had found in houses of
less pretensions. Curiosity or civility brought about us quite a
_levée_ of the better class while we were arranging our toilet. The
supper was execrable, consisting of an _olla podrida_ of ham, potatoes,
and tomatoes stewed in oil and seasoned with garlick, and the wine and
grapes were sour. However, we had excellent beds. In my room there was a
small collection of books, on a dusty shelf, which I should not have
expected to find in such hands. Among them were some old works of
theological casuistry, Metastasio, a translation of Voltaire's plays,
and a geographical dictionary in Italian. I learnt that they had
belonged to the proprietor's uncle, a _medico_ at Padua, and were
heirlooms with his property, which our host inherited. The position of
these small proprietors is much to be pitied. By great penuriousness
they contrive to make a poor living out of a vineyard and garden with a
few acres of land, having neither the spirit nor industry, and perhaps
very little opportunity, to better their condition. There was evidently
some struggle in the mind of our host between his poverty and
gentility—added to what was due to the national character for
hospitality—when we came to proffer some acknowledgment for our
reception. It was just an occasion when, travelling in this way, one is
rather puzzled how to act, but we were relieved from our difficulty by
finding that our offering was received without much scruple.
Next morning, to my great surprise, for I was too sleepy to notice it on
going to bed, I found a gun standing ready loaded on one side of the
bed, in curious contrast to the crucifix and holy-water pot on the
other,—succour close at hand against both spiritual and mortal foes. We
had walked through the country w
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