The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rambles in the Islands of Corsica and Sardinia, by Thomas Forester This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org 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 Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMBLES *** Produced by Carlo Traverso, Barbara Magni and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://dp.rastko.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by the Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF/Gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr) 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 without any alarm, and concluded that the reign of the rifle and stiletto was ended in Corsica. But how came the gun to be loaded? was it from inveterate habit even now that fire-arms were proscribed, or was Louis Napoleon's decree still eluded? I shall never forget the view from my chamber windows as I threw open the long double casement at six o'clock in the morning. It was my first view of Monte Rotondo, the loftiest of the Corsican mountains. A long ridge and its crowning peak were capped with snow. The range to the eastward was in deep shade, but with a rich amber hue behind them as the sun rose. I watched its kindling light as it touched the snowy top of Monte Rotondo, and spread a purple light over the sides of the eastern ridge. The night mists had not yet risen from the valley of the Golo. We hastened to descend towards it, after the usual small cup of _café noir_ and a piece of bread. The environs of Bigorno on this side are very beautiful. Groves of olive with their silvery leaves and green berries not yet ripened mingled with vines planted in terraces, the vines festooning and running free, as one sees them in Italy. Gardens full of peach and fig trees filled all the hollows—a charming scene through which the path wound down the hill. Antoine brought us fresh figs from one of the gardens—a relish to the dry remains of our crust. Before the sun had gained much elevation, it became exceedingly warm on a southern exposure; the green lizards darted from crevices in the vineyard walls, all nature was alive and fresh, and the air serene, with a most heavenly sky. All this was very delightful. Nothing can be more so than this style of travelling in such a country, with a friend of congenial spirit and taste. My companion was very well in this respect; but, as I before observed, his genius led him to be rather excursive in his rambles, so that he was sometimes missing when he was most wanted. Now, we had just started on this very agreeable morning walk with the prospect of breakfast in due time at the post-house on the banks of the Golo. But, instead of our enjoying this together, my friend, by a sudden impulse, leaped over a vineyard wall, and saying he should like to take a sketch from that point, desired me to saunter on, and he would soon overtake me. [Illustration: NEAR BIGORNO.] What with a Pisan campanile, a Corsican manse, festooning vines, a cluster of bamboo canes—indicative of the warm south—and the group of mountains with the truncated peak in the distance, a very clever sketch was produced, though not one of my friend's best;—and I have great reason to be obliged to him for his sketches, without which I fear this would be a dull book. At that moment, indeed, I would have preferred his companionship. However, bating this feeling and a certain hankering for my breakfast in the course of a two hours' walk, I trudged on alone in a very pleasant frame of mind. Nothing could be more charming than the green slopes round which the path wound, with occasional glimpses of the Golo beneath,—its rapid stream white as the milky Rhone,—after leaving behind the orchards and gardens. The rest of the descent lay through evergreen shrubbery so frequently mentioned, and a more exquisite piece of _máquis_ I had not seen. Thus sauntering on, sometimes talking with Antoine, a species of shrub, which I had not much observed before, attracted my particular attention among the arbutus and numerous other well-known varieties. It was a bushy evergreen, of shapely growth, five or six feet high, with masses of foliage and clusters of bright red berries, having an aromatic scent. “What do you call this shrub, Antoine?” plucking a branch. “_Lustinea_; the country people express an oil from the berries for use in their lamps.” “Ah! I perceive it is the _Lentiscus_.” In Africa and the isle of Scios they make incisions in the stems, from which the gum mastic is procured. The Turks chew it to sweeten the breath. It grows also in Provence, Italy, and Spain. Presently, I sat down on a bank, casting anxious glances up the path after my friend, and, basking in the sun, finished Antoine's basket of figs, which only whetted my appetite, while I was endeavouring to indoctrinate Antoine with the persuasion that our countrymen in general are neither “_Calvinistes_” nor “_Juives_.” Antoine, who had been asking a variety of questions about “_Inghilterra_” and “_Londra_” was not better informed on this subject than a great many foreigners I have met with in Catholic countries, who, by the former term, class all Protestants with the Reformed churches of the Continent. I have often had to inform them, to their manifest surprise, that we have bishops, priests and deacons, cathedrals, choirs, deans and canons, vestments, creeds, liturgies and sacraments, in the English church, and were, in short, very like themselves, at least in externals. Matters of faith I did not feel inclined to meddle with. The discussion ended as we struck the level of the valley of the Golo, not far from Ponte Nuovo. The heat in this deep valley became suffocating, and the dusty high road was an ill exchange for the fresh mountain paths. Here, then, I made a decided halt, and this being the battle-field on which, in 1769, the French, after a desperate struggle, gained a decisive victory over General Paoli and the independent Corsicans, I had just engaged Antoine in pointing out the positions of the two armies, and tracing the tide of battle which, they say, deluged the Golo with blood and corpses for many miles,—when my lost companion came rushing down the hill-path among the rustling evergreens. “You have been waiting long—excuse me; I have had a little adventure. That has detained me.” “Humph!” My friend's sketching propensities often led him into a “little adventure,” ending in a story which, I should almost have imagined, he coined for a peace-offering, but that I had chapter and verse for the main incidents. There was that story of his being kicked off the mule, and—only the evening before—his _rencontre_ with the interesting young shepherd. “What now?” “But you want your breakfast.” “I should think I do.” “I have had mine.” “The deuce you have, you are luckier than I am.” “Now, my dear old fellow, we will push on to Ponte Nuovo, and you will soon get your's. I really am very sorry, but I could not help it.” “But this is the famous battle-field, you know, and Antoine was just going to describe it.” “That will keep. We will make our _reconnaissance_ after you have had your breakfast. As we go along, I will tell you how I got mine.” The story shall be told as nearly as possible in my friend's own words. * * * * * “After you left me, I sat down to sketch in a little terraced garden, shaded by fig-trees and vines. My sketch was nearly finished, and I was thinking how I should overtake you, when a bright-eyed young maiden came up, and, with the childlike wonder of a race of people living far out of the track of sketching tourists, asked me ‘what I was doing.’ “‘Sit down, pretty maiden, and you shall see.’ “She obeyed with a _naïve_ simplicity, and we soon prattled away, she telling me that she had never gone beyond the neighbouring villages, and could not understand how I should come so far from _Inghilterra_, a country she had never heard of, to draw pictures of their wild mountains. “‘Ah! you cannot comprehend how it is that I love your wild mountains, and children of nature like yourself.’ “‘Will you come again?’—a question put with a spice of _espièglerie_ which, from some other pretty lips, would be rather flattering. ‘Yes, you will come again, and I shall be grown up.’ “She did not seem, I found, quite pleased at being called ‘_mon enfant_’ by a young stranger, though it was all very well from her uncle, who, I learnt, was the priest of the church in my sketch. Presently, away she ran, blushing and smiling, to tell her uncle that there was a traveller come from a far-off land who must be hungry, and who must eat and rest under their roof. “The good priest received me with much _empressement_, having been brought out to meet me by the little Graziella, as I was following the path to the cottage door. “‘Ah! you are English, you are a Protestant, no doubt. It matters not; the stranger is welcome under my humble roof were he a Jew or a Turk. We are all brothers.’ “I found the priest well informed on English affairs, into which, and matters connected with them, we soon plunged. Meanwhile, Graziella, with the assistance of a hard-faced but kindly old crone, prepared a repast of fruits, eggs, coffee; and the priest brought out a bottle of wine, the produce of his own vineyard, which I have seldom found equalled. It was all very appetising. I only wished you were there.”— “I was just then, curiously enough, indoctrinating Antoine, nothing loath, with the priest's sentiment of universal brotherhood, a simple Gospel truth, which, overlaid with ecclesiastical systems, never took deep root, and is sadly out of vogue now-a-days. I imagine we shall find the Sards far more bigoted than their neighbours here.” “And you were doing your good work, fasting, while I feasted. It was all tempting, but I was puzzled how to eat my egg; there were no spoons.” “Why not ask for one; you were talking French? Had you been attempting Italian, you might have stuck fast. _Cucchiaio_ is one of the most uncouth words in that beautiful language. Well I remember it being one of the first I had to pronounce, when, in early days, I got out of the line of French _garçons_: _cuc—cucchi_,—give me our Anglo-Saxon monosyllables for such things as spoons, knives, and forks,—at last I blurted out _cucchiaio_, in all its quadrosyllabic fulness. The Rubicon was passed (by the way, it was on the _carte_ of my route); after that I stuck at nothing, though for some time it was the _lingua Toscana—in bocca—Inglese_.—But how did you manage your egg?” “Why, it is good manners, you know, to do at Rome as others do, so I watched the priest. He removed the top, as we do, and then very nicely sipped the contents of the shell, which—charming Graziella! excellent _duenna!_—were done to a turn, just creamy.” “Ah! I perceive it was suction, a primitive idea, when spoons were not. Now I understand the old proverb about not teaching our venerable progenitors ‘to suck eggs.’” “Old fellow, cease your banter, or I shall never get to the end of my story. As to the eggs, I did not manage mine as cleverly as the priest did his. I made a mess of it, bestowing good part of the yolk on my moustache, much to Graziella's amusement. I perceived she could hardly refrain from tittering. But she was soon sobered,—the conversation turning on the last days of Corsica—and tears came in her eyes. Alas! the ruthless spirit of _vendetta_ in this wild country had cost her the lives of her father and brothers; and, her mother being dead, she was left an orphan under the care of the good priest.” “‘Uncle, persuade him to stay, if only for another hour. I should like to hear more of those countries where there is no _vendetta_; where they plough and reap and dwell in safety; where fathers and brothers are not compelled to flee from their villages to the wild _máquis_ and the mountain crags.’ “‘My pretty child, I cannot stay now. Perhaps some day I may return.’ “‘_Addio!_ then. _Evviva! Evviva!_ In two years I shall be grown up, and uncle will no longer call me child, and you shall tell me more of lands I shall never see. But ah! I know it will never be. _Bon voyage!_ Forget not the priest's home among the mountains of Corsica.’ “I shall not forget it. How often one says hopefully ‘I will come back,’ when it would be idle ever to expect it; and yet I would wish to see once more the little girl who said, ‘Come, if it is but for an hour!’ “I rushed down the mountain side, and found you scorched with a burning sun, thirsty, breakfastless,—the very image of the knight of tho woeful countenance,—I all joy and fun with my morning's adventure, you perplexed, out of patience, hungry, and tired. I cannot help laughing at the contrast.” CHAP. XIII. _Ponte Nuovo.—The Battle-field.—Antoine's Story._ Half an hour's walk along the high-road brought us to the solitary building of which we were in search. Uniting the character of an _albergo_ and a fortified post, of which there are several scattered throughout the island on commanding spots, the loop-holed walls, with projecting angles for a cross-fire, and the barrack round a court within, still occupied by a small party of _gendarmes_, were striking mementos of the state of insecurity in Corsica, and what travelling was at no very distant period. Shut in by the mountains, the air of the valley is close and stifling, disease marked the countenances of the few inmates, and the barrack-room into which we climbed, with its benches and tables, were all miserably dirty. The promise of a dish of fresh trout from the Golo was a redeeming feature in the aspect of affairs to one who had waited long, and walked far, without his breakfast. But the dish reeked as if the Golo ran oil, and the fish were still floating in the unctuous stream, spite of my injunctions to the weird priestess of the mysteries of the cave beneath—“_Senza olio, senza olio_,” reversing the phrase in the Baron de Grimm's story of the Frenchman, who, having sacrificed his own _goût_ to his guest's _penchant_ for asparagus _au naturel_, on his friend's falling down in a swoon, rushed to the top of the staircase, shouting to his cook, “_Tout à l'huile, tout à l'huile_.” We stood on the bridge of Ponte Nuovo, just beneath the post, the scene of the last struggle for Corsican independence; and there Antoine pointed out the details. The Corsicans, under Pascal Paoli, having occupied the strong position in the Nebbio through which we had been rambling for the last few days, the Count de Vaux, the French generalissimo, concentrated his forces, amounting to forty-five battalions, four regiments of cavalry, and a powerful artillery, determined to crush Paoli's brave but ill-organised militia, and finish the war by a single blow. The French commenced the attack on the 3rd of May, 1769. For two days it was an affair of outposts, but, on the 3rd, De Vaux pressed Paoli with such vigour in his fortified camp at Murato, that the Corsican general was forced to retire beyond the Golo. He established himself in the _pieve_ of Rostino, a few miles above the bridge, leaving orders for Gaffori to hold the strong heights of Lento, while Grimaldi was to defend Canavaggia,—two points by which the French might penetrate into the interior. Bribed by French gold, Grimaldi—“_Ah! il traditore!_” exclaimed Antoine,—and Gaffori, unmindful of his honourable name, offered no resistance to the advance of the French. On the 9th of May, the militia left by Paoli to defend the passes into the valley, finding themselves unsupported, abandoned their posts and fled. “Down the pass we descended this morning from Bigorno,” said Antoine, “through those other gorges you see in the mountains, our people poured in wild confusion, closely pursued by the enemy. They thronged to the bridge. It was held by a company of Prussians, who had passed from the Genoese to the Corsican service; and a thousand Corsican militia lined the river bank. If the French carried the bridge, all was lost. The Prussians were the only regular troops in Paoli's army. They stood firm in their discipline. The fugitives threw themselves upon them, charged with the bayonet by the French in the rear. The Prussians had to hold their position against friends and foes, indiscriminately, after a vain attempt to rally the flying Corsicans. Unfortunately they fired into the mass. A cry of ‘Treachery!’ was raised, the panic became general, disorder spread throughout the ranks, the enemy profited by it to secure their victory; the rout was complete, and the Corsicans scattered themselves among the mountains and forests. The Golo was red with blood, and the corpses of my countrymen, mingled with their enemies, floated in its current for many miles. It was a day of woe, a fatal day!” The feeling of nationality still lingers in Corsica, though without an object, without a hope. Men such as Antoine, the mountaineers, the shepherds,—all true-hearted Corsicans treasure up the traditions of former times, and, with the scene before his eyes, Antoine traced the action of Ponte Nuovo with as lively an enthusiasm, as deep an interest, as if it had been an affair of yesterday, in which he had borne a part. But the vision passed away. Antoine had pressing cares of immediate interest, to which he now gave vent. Here we were to part; we had an opportunity of forwarding our baggage to Corte by the _voiture_ which daily passes Ponte Nuovo, and there was no further need of the services of Antoine and his mule. He would gladly have followed our steps to the extremity of Corsica—to the end of the world, and we were sorry to part from him. Short as our acquaintance was, he had become attached to us. Our rambles had brought us into close intimacy, and suited his taste. We sat down on the river bank, and he unbosomed his mind more freely than he had yet done. We learnt, on our first acquaintance, that he had left his country and sailed to foreign parts. What forced him to emigrate had been inferred from a fearful disclosure to which no reference had been since made. Now, on the eve of parting, he told us all his story, and opened out his hopes for the future. For reasons into which we did not inquire, there seemed to be no apprehensions as to his personal safety; but, lamenting the want of means and opportunity for bettering his condition at home, his thoughts again reverted to emigration. It was the best thing he could do; and, reminding him of the success of many of his neighbours from Capo Corso, who sought their fortunes in South America, we exhorted him not to indulge the indolence natural to his countrymen, but apply himself manfully to an enterprise for which he had many qualifications, and heartily wished him success. The point on which his story turned was, as I suspected, a tale of love, jealousy, revenge. He related the catastrophe with more than usual feeling, but without any seeming remorse. He was justified by the Corsican code of honour. The details, though simple, might be worked up into one of those romantic and sentimental tales for which Corsican life supplies abundant materials. But neither is that my _rôle_, nor am I willing to betray Antoine's confidence. My readers shall have, instead, a similar tale—of which, as it happens, a namesake of Antoine is the hero—developing the same powerful passions. It is not one of the stock stories borrowed from books which one finds repeated in writers on Corsica, but, I believe, from the source from which I derived it, an original as well as authentic tale. The scene lies at a village in the mountains, not far from Ponte Nuovo, our present halting-place. CHAP. XIV. FILIAL DUTY, LOVE, AND REVENGE: A CORSICAN TALE. On a fine spring morning, some thirty years ago, there was an unusual stir in a _paese_ standing near the high-road between Bastia and Ajaccio. The village, like most others in Corsica, clustered round a hill-top, and stood on the skirts of a deep forest, with which the eye linked it through intervening groves of spreading chestnut and other fruit-trees. It was Sunday; and, after mass, the whole population flocked to the market-place, a large open area in front of the _Mairie_, to witness one of those trials of skill in shooting at a mark, formerly common in Corsica as well as in Switzerland. Above the roof of the _Mairie_ sprung a grim tower, serving at once for a prison, in which criminals were confined, and for the barracks of the _gendarmerie_ stationed in that wild district. On the present occasion the target was set up at the foot of this tower, and all the young men of the village were, in turn, making a trial of skill with their long guns, while the old peasants stood near giving advice, and the village girls, ranged in _costume de fête_ round the palisades inclosing the place, rewarded the most successful of the competitors with smiles and glances of encouragement. The contest had lasted for some time, and many shots were fired without the mark—fixed at the distance of about 300 paces—having been hit, when a young man, armed with a short Tyrolese rifle, came up to the barrier. He was dressed after the fashion of his fathers, but with great neatness. Short breeches of green velvet descended to the knees, and the calves of his legs were encased in deer-skin gaiters fastened by metal buttons. A broad belt of red leather girded his loins. It concealed a small pouch of cartridges, but the hilt of a strong dagger peeped from underneath the belt. His open shirt exposed to view a manly breast. He wore a sort of jacket of the same stuff as the breeches, but faced with crimson, and garnished, after the Spanish fashion, with a number of small silver studs. A high-crowned hat of black felt was cocked jantily on one side of his head, and a medallion of the _Madre dei Dolori_ stuck in the band, completed the picturesque costume of the Corsican peasant. The young man, on his arrival, received a cordial welcome from all the competitors for the honours of the day, and, among the village maidens, many a bright eye beamed with a tender but modest delight on his manly form, shown to advantage in the national costume. Still he gave no sign of an intention to take any part in the sport for which they were assembled. In consequence, after a short interval, during which the firing had ceased, an old villager thus addressed him:— “How is it, Antonio, that you, the best marksman in the village, have joined us so late? The sport flags; let us have one of your true, unerring shots.” “Excuse me, father Joachimo, I am in no humour to-day to partake in the gaiety of my friends.” Pressed, however, by repeated entreaties, the young man at last yielded, and, advancing to the barrier, and unloosing his rifle from the slings, took a cartridge from his pouch, and proceeded to charge his piece with much deliberation. While doing this, his eyes were fixed on a crevice in the tower, from which was hanging a little iron cage containing the mouldering remains of a human skull. At this spectacle his countenance changed from its usual ruddy hue to a mortal paleness, and tears were seen to fill his eyes. Having charged his rifle, Antonio took his position in the attitude of firing; but, it was remarked, that in taking aim, he levelled the barrel higher than the mark at the foot of the tower. A moment of solemn silence was followed by a flash, a sharp crack,—and the whizzing bullet struck the skull in the cage. The shock brought both to the ground, and, at the same instant, the young man, quick as thought, leaped over the palisades, and, gathering up the fragments of skull, quickly disappeared. The spectators of this strange scene asked each other what it meant; and, in the midst of the hubbub, Joachimo, the old peasant who had invited Antonio to try his skill in the feat of arms, raised his voice to satisfy their curiosity. “My children,” he said, “Corsican blood has not degenerated; of this you have witnessed a striking proof in the act of Antonio. The skull, which hung on the tower wall, was that of a man unjustly condemned to death, of a man whose only crime was, his having taken vengeance with his own hand for the insult offered his wife by an inhabitant of the continent. The skull was that of Antonio's father; and a son, a true Corsican, could not submit to having his father's remains dishonoured. This day he has wiped out the ignominy,—henceforth Antonio is an outlaw, proscribed by the men of law, by the French; but we Corsicans shall ever esteem him a man of honour and of courage.” The crowd then dispersed, full of admiration for the brave Antonio, and the event of the morning became the theme of the evening's conversation in all the families of the neighbourhood. Meanwhile Antonio, having gained the forest, rapidly threaded its tangled paths for nearly an hour. He then stopped in one of its deepest recesses, and, having keenly reconnoitred every avenue of approach, threw himself weary at the foot of a tree, and opening the handkerchief in which he had wrapped his father's skull, gave vent to a flood of tears. “Oh, my father!” he said, “my father! why could I not take vengeance on the authors of your death? why could I not avenge myself on the descendants of the base Frenchman who insulted my mother? why could I not wash out, in their blood, the shame that has fallen on our family, and embittered our existence?” At the thought of vengeance the eyes of the young islander flashed fire, his tears dried up, and that heart, just now so open to tender emotions, would have prompted him to plunge his dagger in the bosom of those who were the cause of his misery. Again, the fit changed; for, in the midst of this storm of passion, a name quivered on his lips, like the star seen in the drifting clouds when the tempest is raging. “Madaléna!” he cried, “all is now finished between us;—Antonio is a bandit.” Then, exercising a strong power over himself, he passed his hand over his forehead, as if to drive evil thoughts from his brain, and, unsheathing his strong dagger, dug a hole at the foot of the oak, in which he deposited his precious burthen. A cross, carved by his dagger on the trunk of the tree, served for a memorial of his father's fate:—ah! what thoughts, what sorrows, did that cross recall to his mind!—and, after a short prayer, he hastened from the spot which had witnessed his last act of filial duty. Wretched Antonio! a solitary outcast, abandoned by all, what refuge was left for you but the forest and the _máquis_?—what protector, but your good rifle—what hope, but in the grave! Nay, another passion, another image, was deeply graven on his heart! Love—that divine passion, which ennobles a man, which gives him courage, which fills him with heroism—afforded him strength to survive so many calamities. Some days after these occurrences, a young maiden crept stealthily at early dawn from among the houses in the village of Allari, fifteen leagues distant from Bastia, and gained unseen the _purlieus_ of the neighbouring wood before any of the villagers were abroad. The maiden's age was about eighteen years; her step was light, her form slender and graceful; health sparkled in her dark eyes; her enterprise lent a ruddier hue to her olive skin, and a profusion of raven-black tresses floated on her shoulders, as she brushed through the evergreen shrubbery on the verge of the wood, where, concealed in the hollow of an aged chestnut tree, a young man had been waiting her arrival for upwards of an hour. This young man was Antonio, the maiden Madaléna. On perceiving her approach, Antonio hastened to quit his hiding place, and came to meet her. “How kind you are, Madaléna,” he said: “you, so rich, so young, so beautiful—to expose yourself for me to the cold morning air; to brave, perhaps, the anger of your parents, for one of whom you know so little. “It is true that you told me once that you loved me; and love knows no obstacles, and makes nothing of distances. But I must not abuse your confidence. Madaléna, my bosom labours with a secret which I have too long preserved. I have done wrong; I have deceived you. I feared, I dreaded, that in disclosing it to you, I should forfeit your love, your esteem; that you would avoid me as the world does a man to whom society gives an ill name. Yes, Madaléna, you have to learn—Madaléna, hitherto I have not had the courage to tell it to you—learn that I am a....” Antonio shrunk from giving utterance to a word which would probably crush all his hopes, and break the last tie which held him to the world. So, changing his purpose, he continued in an altered tone:— “Why should I embitter the moments which ought to be given to love? Is it not true, Madaléna, that you love me for myself? Ah! tell me that you love me, for there is great need that I should hear it from your own lips, and without this love I should be wretched indeed. Tell me that you do not want to know my past; that you love me because our hearts understand each other; because our two souls, breathed into us by the Author of our existence, were formed to love each other for ever.” Madaléna, perceiving the feebleness of her lover, took his hand, and fixing on him an eager gaze, made him sit by her side. On touching that much-loved hand, the young man started, and a sudden shivering ran through his veins. The maiden perceived it, and a gleam of satisfaction, and almost coquetry, sparkled in her eyes. Poor woman's heart! Even in the most solemn moments she is always a coquette. Such is her nature. “Antonio,” she said, “you vow that you love me; why then hesitate to confide to me your secrets, your sorrows? Am I not some day to be your wife? I have sworn it before God and my mother, and I shall be. Why then do you defer telling me the cause of your long sufferings. I have long perceived that your heart is oppressed by some secret thought. Can it be that you are in love with another, Antonio? Tell me if it is so; you shall have my forgiveness, and I will say to the woman who is the choice of your heart, ‘Love him, for he is worthy of it!’ And if it were required that I should shed my blood for your happiness, I would not hesitate a single moment to make the sacrifice.” “Oh no, no, Madaléna, think not so! Do you suppose me capable of betraying you, of casting you off? I, who love you with a perfect love, a love as pure as that which makes the bliss of angels,—with which a child loves its mother? For one fond look from you I would brave the fury of men—of men and the elements. Drive this suspicion from your heart, and God grant that, when you have learnt my secret, you may continue to entertain the same sentiments towards me.” Thus speaking, Antonio drew near to the maiden, and, hiding his face in her hands, whispered in her ear:— “Madaléna, Madaléna, I am—a bandit.” The young girl shrieked with terror, and fainted in his arms. Antonio laid her on the grass, and, having sprinkled her face with the fresh morning dew, knelt by her side. Presently, Madaléna opened her eyes, and seeing Antonio kneeling, and still holding her hand, roused herself with a sudden effort, and, casting on him a look of mingled horror and scorn, said to him,— “Leave me, Antonio, you make me shudder, your hands are stained with the blood of the innocent.” Antonio, crazed with love, crawled to her feet and wept; but having, after much difficulty, prevailed with her to hear him, he related to her the story of the skull, the only crime for which he was a bandit. After this explanation, Madaléna seemed to be reassured, and her lover awaited his final sentence from her lips in breathless suspense. The maiden's heart was touched by his tale, and observing him with an air of less severity, she said:— “I am satisfied that you speak the truth; but I have a mother and father, and I think, that after this disclosure, I could never become your wife without abandoning them for ever. At this moment I am too much agitated to come to any decision; return to morrow, and you shall know my final resolve. Meanwhile, rest assured that I pity and love you still, considering you more unfortunate than guilty, and that I will either be your wife, or the wife of no other man.” Thus saying, she hastened from the spot. Antonio saw her depart without having the courage to address to her another word. That man so brave, who knew no fear, recoiled from no danger, wept like a child. A sad presentiment told him that it was his last meeting with Madaléna, though her concluding promise tended in some degree to reassure him. Madaléna shut herself up in her chamber and shed floods of tears—tears not of love, but of shame. For her—the daughter of a wealthy citizen of Ajaccio, brought up in the manners, and tinctured with the prejudices of the continent, who knew nothing of the world but its empty phantoms, nor of love but its coquetry—it was disgrace to love and be loved by the son of a bandit, by one who was himself a bandit. From that day Madaléna never returned to the wood. Every morning the unhappy Antonio retraced his steps to the place of meeting, but only to have his hopes crushed. He was forgotten, perhaps scorned. Love, the sentiment of the heart, had yielded to the influence of the frivolous ideas of society, the conventional maxims of the world. This young maiden had not the courage to affirm in the face of all, “I love Antonio, because he is not guilty of any crime; I love him because he has avenged his father, because he is a true son of Corsica.” But she had not the spirit, the strength of mind, to say this. The Corsican blood had degenerated in her veins, or she would have felt that it was no crime for Antonio to achieve the removal from public view of the horrid spectacle which was a continual witness of shame and ignominy,—exposed by a relic of barbarism, called law, to the gaze and scorn of all who passed along the streets,—that no stain rested on the memory of Antonio's father, because, as a husband and a father, he had avenged the honour of his wife and his children. A year after these events, the whole population of the village of Allari was again astir. Its only bell clanged incessantly, and gay troops of both sexes, in holiday dress, flocked through the streets in the direction of the _Mairie_. It was a bright morning of the month of April; joy floated in the air, and pleasure sparkled in every eye. Presently, a nuptial procession was formed, and took its way towards the church. All eyes rested on the bride and bridegroom; they did not wear the Corsican dress, but adopted French fashions. Everything about them betokened wealth, and an affectation of continental manners. As soon as the procession had entered the church, the streets became deserted; but a young man, who from an early hour had concealed himself in the cemetery, now glided round the church, casting anxious glances on every side, as if apprehensive of being discovered. His clothes, torn to tatters, his unshorn beard and long, dishevelled, hair, blood-shot eyes, and haggard countenance, betokened the extremity of anguish and want. His feet were naked, and he carried in his hand a short rifle. Arrived at the church door, and having glanced within, he paused for a moment, leaning against the pillar. The nuptial ceremony had reached the point where the minister of God, after pronouncing the mystic words, demands of the betrothed their assent to the marriage union; when, just as the bride was in the act of uttering the word which binds for ever the destinies of both, the barrel of the rifle, held by the man stationed at the door, was levelled, and the _fiancée_ fell, pierced in the breast with a mortal wound. The man, who fired, threw down his rifle, and, dashing into the church like one demented, took the dying woman in his arms, and cried,— “Madaléna, you broke your troth to me; you rendered me desperate; we die together!” And, unsheathing his dagger, he plunged it several times into his breast, falling on the dying woman, who opened her eyes, and, recognising her lover, expired with the name of “Antonio” on her lips. Her betrothed was conveyed away by his relations, and the recollection of this terrible scene disturbed for a long while the tranquillity of the village. The church in which it took place was, after the catastrophe, stripped of all its sacred ornaments, and left to decay. Its ruins may still be seen on a point of rising ground, and, if an inquiring traveller takes a turn behind the church, he will find in the cemetery, on the spot where Antonio was concealed, a grave-stone inscribed with the names of Madaléna and Antonio, surmounted by a rude representation of a rifle and a dagger. CHAP. XV. _Morosaglia, Seat of the Paolis.—Higher Valley of the Golo.—Orography of Corsica.—Its Geology._ On crossing to the right bank of the Golo at _Ponte Nuovo_, we enter the canton of Morosaglia, the former _piève_ of Rostino, and the home of the Paoli family. The canton takes its present name from a Franciscan convent, still standing, and part of it used as an elementary school, founded by the will of Pascal Paoli. It is about two hours' walk from Ponte Nuovo to the hamlet in which the Paolis were born. The house is one of those gaunt, misshapen, rude structures, built of rough stones, and blackened by age, which one sees everywhere in the mountain villages; without even glass to the windows. Standing on the craggy summit of an insulated rock, the access to it is by a rough wooden staircase. Here Pascal Paoli resided, as a simple citizen, after the manner of his fathers, polished as his manners were, and highly as he was accomplished, after he had attained to almost sovereign power. The rooms are so small that he transacted public business in the neighbouring convent of Morosaglia. There also his brother, Clemente Paoli, had a cell to which he often retired. His was a singular character. Of a saturnine cast of disposition, he seldom spoke to those by whom he was surrounded; a great part of his time was spent in religious observances, and in the practice of the most rigid austerities. In short, he was the monk when at home, and the most intrepid warrior when engaged with the enemy of his country. The sanctity of his private life procured him singular veneration, and his presence in battle produced a wonderful effect on the patriots. Even when pulling the trigger to destroy his enemy, he is said to have prayed for the soul of his falling antagonist.[20] After the fatal field of Ponte Nuovo, declining to follow his brother to England, he spent twenty years in prayer and penance in the Benedictine Abbey of Vallombrosa, that shady and sequestered retreat in the heart of the Apennines, returning to his native Corsica only to die. Such was Clemente Paoli. Of his brother Pasquale, a fitting place for some more extended notice will be found at Corte, the seat of his island throne. The country on the right bank of the river is rugged; rude _paése_ crown the heights, and the hollows are shrouded in magnificent chestnut woods. The mountains seen from beyond Bigorno shut in the valley of the Golo so closely in some places, that it is a mere defile giving passage to the river and the road. The river is a torrent, and the valley is ascended at a sharp angle. At _Ponte à la Leccia_, we recrossed to the left bank of the river; the valley expanded, and there was much cultivated land, though the soil was poor. Rounded hills in the foreground were backed by a serrated range of mountains, Monte Rotondo being just visible. Approaching now, through the high valleys, the central region of the mountain system of Corsica, this may be a proper place for a brief survey of the main features in its orography and geological structure. We have hitherto spoken of a central chain and its ramifications in a loose manner; but it would be desirable to convey more precise ideas of the structure of this mountain island; and, as the system happens to be very simple and intelligible, it affords an example, on a small scale, which may give the unscientific reader a general idea of the nature of grander operations. Having traversed the island from north to south, and from east to west, not without an eye to its general structure and composition, though making no pretensions to exact scientific knowledge, I may be able to furnish a not unfaithful digest of the observations of the foreign geologists _Elie de Beaumont_, _Raynaud_, _Gueymard_ and others, as I find them quoted in Marmocchi's work. OROGRAPHY OF CORSICA. At first sight, Corsica presents the aspect of a chaos of mountains piled one on another, with their escarped sides rising from the sea to great elevations; but on a closer examination, and with the assistance of an accurate map, it is soon perceived that these mountains, apparently heaped up in wild confusion, are distinctly arranged in three principal directions,—from north-east to south-west, from north-west to south-east, and from north to south. The point which forms the main link of the whole system lies high, near the snowy sources of the Golo. This elevated part of the island, with the districts immediately surrounding it,—an Alpine and forest region in which the principal rivers and streams take their rise,—this region so sublime in its vast solitudes, so poetic, so savagely wild, so picturesque,—may be called the Switzerland of Corsica. From this central link two great chains, forming, so to speak, the backbone of the island, diverge in opposite directions. One section, tending to the south-east, traverses the centre of the island, where the Monte Rotondo and Monte d'Oro lift to the skies their ever snowy peaks, and terminates at the Monte Incudine. This high chain throws out its longest branches to the south-west, each of them forming at its extremity a lofty promontory washed by the Mediterranean, and the successive ridges inclosing delightful and fertile valleys. The other section of the central chain describes a curved line to the north-north-east, as far as Monte Grosso; and, over the Bevinco, links itself with the system of Capo Corso by the offsets of Monte Antonio and San Leonardo, by which latter _col_ we crossed the ridge on the evening of our landing in Corsica. The spurs from this second chain take, in general, a north-west direction towards the sea. Less considerable than those connected with the first, they inclose narrower valleys, and form promontories less _saillants_, and of inferior elevation on the western coast. The mountains of Capo Corso, extending in a chain nearly north and south, at a short distance from the east coast, form the third orographic division of the island; this chain, as observed in a former chapter, being cut by deep valleys of short extent, the channels of torrents discharging themselves into the Tuscan Sea. Between this long chain, extending from Monte Antonio to Monte Incudine, and the tortuous ranges detached obliquely from it, lies a central area equal in surface to a fifth part of the whole island of which it forms the heart—the interior. The general inclination of this area, with the openings of the valleys, tends to the east. It does not form one single bason, but, intersected as it is in various directions by secondary ranges, and by mountains linking the principal chain, its _contour_ is composed of a series of deep and generally narrow valleys, rising one above the other. The grandest as well as the most elevated of these basons is that of the _Niolo_, the citadel of Corsica. These lofty mountain chains, with the numerous ramifications detached from them, and extending in all directions, render the communications between one place and another, between the coasts on opposite sides of the island, extremely difficult. The passage from the western to the eastern shore can only be effected by climbing to great elevations, through long and narrow gorges, through deep ravines of savage aspect, and covered with dense forests. The Corsicans give a lively idea of some of these toilsome paths by calling them _scale_,—ladders, staircases;—and such, indeed, they are, the steps, often prolonged for miles, being partly the work of Nature, partly cut in the rock by the hand of man. GEOLOGY OF CORSICA. In the present state of science there can be no difficulty in ascribing the origin of the three great lines of the Corsican mountains, to which all the others are subordinate, to three vast upheavings of the soil in the direction they take. The order of these elevations above the surface of the ancient sea thrice repeated in the long series of past ages, giving the first existence to the island, and by successive conglomerations shaping its present bold and irregular profile, may be also distinctly traced. The masses first raised to the surface of the sea, supposed to be of igneous origin, lifted by the intense action of fire or subterranean heat from vast depths, and called by English geologists “Plutonic rocks,” as differing from “Volcanic,”—these masses constitute nearly the whole south-western coast of Corsica, one half of the whole island. If an ideal line be drawn diagonally from a point so far north-west as Cape _Revellata_, near Calvi, to the point of _Araso_, far down the south-east coast near Porto Vecchio, this primary eruption may be traced in the several ranges, perpendicular to the ideal line and parallel with each other, which descending to the sea in the direction of from north-east to south-west, terminate in the principal promontories on the western coast, and form the numerous valleys which appear in succession from the Straits of Bonifacio to the Gulf of Porto. Thus at the earliest epoch the principal axis of the island had its direction from the north-west to the south-east. The Capo Corso of those times lifted its head above the Sea of Calvi, and who can say how far the island extended at the opposite extremity? All we know is, that the group of rocky islets called the _Isole Cerbicale_, south-west of Porto Vecchio, with the _Isola du Cavallo_, and that _Di Lavazzi_ off the coast at Bonifacio; and again, the islets _Die Razzoli_ and _Budelli_ on the opposite side of the Straits, with the larger islands of _La Madaléna_ and _Caprera_, all of a similar formation with the primary Corsican range,—like detached fragments of some vast ruined structure,—appear to form the links of a chain which united Corsica with the mountain system of the north-eastern portion of the island of Sardinia. These primitive masses are almost entirely granitic; and thus, at the epoch of its first emergence from the waters of the Mediterranean, no spark of animal or vegetable life existed in the new island. So also one half of the masses raised by the _second_ upheaval, having the same general direction, are granitic. But, as we advance towards the north-east, the granites insensibly resolve themselves into _ophiolitic_ rocks,—a name given by French geologists to certain volcanic eruptions of the cretaceous era,—which are also found in the Morea.[21] There are but few traces remaining of this second upheaval, which evidently laid in ruins great part of the northern extremity of the former one, cutting it at right angles to the east of the Gulf of Porto. This line, ranging from the south-west to the north-east into the heart of the _Nebbio_, is broken up and destroyed through nearly its whole length. The disorder and ruin of these several points of the original system, and the almost total destruction of its northern part, were undoubtedly caused by the _third_ and last upheaval which gave the island the form it presents at the present day. Its direction was from north to south, and so long as the mass then raised did not come in contact with the land created by former upheavals, it preserved its regular line, as we find in the mountain-chain of Capo Corso. But when, on emerging above the surface of the sea, this mass had to overcome at its southern extremity the resistance of the primary rocks upheaved long before, and now become hard and consolidated,—in that terrible shock, on the one hand, it changed, crushed, or ruined all that obstructed its progress, while, on the other, it varied its own direction and was itself broken up in many places, as appears from the openings of the valleys communicating from the interior with the plains of the eastern littoral and giving a passage to the torrents which fall into the sea on this coast,—the Bevinco, the Golo, the Tavignano, the Fiumorbo. The fundamental rocks brought up by this third and last upheaval are ophiolitic, and metamorphic, or primary, limestone, overlaid in some places by secondary formations. “The granites on the west, as well as the south, of the island include some beds of _gneiss_ and _schistes_ at their extremities.”—(_Gueymard_). Almost everywhere the granite is covered—an evident proof that the epoch of its eruption preceded that when the deposits were formed in the depths of the sea, and deposited in horizontal strata on the crystalline masses of the granite. Masses of euritic and porphyritic rocks intersect the granites, and a distinct formation of porphyries crowns Monte Cinto, Vagliorba, and Pertusato, the highest summits of the _Niolo_, covering the granite. These porphyries are pierced by greenstone two or three feet thick, and the granites are intersected by numerous veins of amphibolite (hornblende) and greenstone, generally running from east to west. Transition rocks, as they are called, occupy the whole of Capo Corso and the east of the island. They consist of talcose-schiste, bluish-grey limestone, talc in beds, serpentine, black marble similar to the oldest in the Alps, quartz, feldspar, and porphyries. The tertiary strata are only found at certain points in isolated fragments. One of these occupies the bottom of the Gulf of San Fiorenzo and part of its eastern shore. There the beds rest with a strong inclination against the lower declivities of the chain of Capo Corso, rising from upwards of 600 to 900 feet above the level of the Mediterranean,—a distinct proof that their formation at the bottom of the sea was anterior to the upheaval of that chain, and of the whole system of mountains having their direction north and south. In the deep escarped valleys between San Fiorenzo and the tower of _Farinole_, the tertiary deposits are seen in successive layers forming beds which in some places are in the aggregate from 400 to 500 feet thick, and the calcareous beds contain great quantities of fossil remains of marine animals of low organisation, such as sea-urchins, pectens, and other shells; forming a compact mass, of which the greater part of the formation consists. The singular phenomenon of the presence of rounded boulders of euritic porphyry, resembling that of the _Niolo_, embedded in these strata, proves to a certainty that at an epoch anterior to the upheaval of the system running north and south, and of the mountains of _La Tenda_ depending on it, the high valleys of the present bason of the Golo, and especially that of the Golo, were prolonged to the sea. A _second_ tertiary deposit exists near _Volpajola_, on the left bank of the Golo, nearly eight miles from the eastern coast. The beds lying horizontally are full of shells. We find a third fragment of a tertiary formation on the part of the _littorale_ stretching from the mouth of the Alistro to that of the Fiumorbo, in the middle of which stood the ancient city of Aleria. In some places these beds have been lifted without any sensible alteration of their original form of deposit in horizontal strata, and throughout they bear a close resemblance to the tertiary formation of San Fiorenzo. A _fourth_, and more striking, example of the same formation is exhibited at the southern extremity of the island. There we find an horizontal _plateau_ from 200 to 300 feet high between the Gulf of Sta-Manza and Bonifacio. The promontory on which that town and fortress stands, and the whole adjoining coast along the straits, present exactly the same appearances as the white chalk cliffs of Dover; and at the _Cala di Canetta_ these calcareous rocks rise _à pic_ over the sea 150 and 200 feet. There is a perfect analogy between this formation and those of San Fiorenzo and the Fiumorbo already mentioned. Only, this last contains a much greater variety of fossil remains, both animal and vegetable, consisting of lignites, oyster-shells, large pectens, operculites, and fragments of sea-urchins, polypi, &c. We shall have an opportunity of mentioning hereafter the curious caverns worn in the soft calcareous rock by the force of the waves lashing this coast with so much violence in the storms to which the Straits of Bonifacio are exposed. Coming now to the alluvial deposits, we find them extending over the great plains on the eastern coast of the island, the _littorale_ mentioned in an early chapter of this work. The plain of Biguglia, for instance, was formed by one of those vast inundations which have received the name of diluvial currents, and swept away a great number of species of animals. In fact, we find traces of one of these inundations in a breccia formed of the fossil bones of animals in the hills near Bastia. Among these fossil bones Cuvier has remarked the head of a _lagomys_, a little hare without any tail,—a species still existing in Siberia.[22] It would too much lengthen these remarks were we to enter on an inquiry into the age and character of these osseous breccia, but the curious reader is referred to Lyell's “Elements”[23] for some interesting observations on fossil mammalia found in alluvial deposits alternating with breccia. We are not aware, however, that the hills near Bastia are connected with volcanic action as those of Auvergne, to which Mr. Lyell refers. Indeed, in concluding this notice of Corsican geology, we have only to remark that, although Corsica has no existing volcanoes, it would appear, from fragments preserved in the cabinets of Natural History, that, here and there, a few rare traces of extinct volcanoes of very ancient date have been discovered, in the neighbourhood of Porto Vecchio, Aleria, Cape Balistro, in the Gulf of Sta Manza, and some other places. CHAP. XVI. _Approach to Corte.—Our “Man of the Woods.”—Casa Paoli.—The Gaffori.—Citadel.—An Evening Stroll._ At Ponte Francardo we left the valley of the Golo, and followed up a stream tributary to it, among hills and woods; being now on the outskirts of one of the great forest districts of Corsica. When mounting the last hill in the approach to Corte we were joined by an inhabitant of the town, who at first seemed disposed to amuse himself at our expense. He was surprised, as we afterwards found, at meeting two foreigners of somewhat rough exterior, without baggage or attendance, engaged on rather a forlorn enterprise. He told us that not very long before he had met an Englishman under similar circumstances, and related some ridiculous stories respecting him. But as I do not believe that any of our countrymen have been recently tourists in Corsica, I am disposed to think that the person he made his butt was a German traveller,—a mistake we have often found occurring in our own case in remote parts of the Continent. We got, however, into conversation, and it turning on forests,—a subject on which we happened to be rather at home,—finding us to be practical people, and, much as we admired his wild country, not inclined to over-indulgence in sentiment and romance, he altered his tone, and even went into the opposite extreme of supposing that our journey was connected with a speculation in timber. That being his hobby, we soon became great friends. He informed us that he possessed some large tracts of forest, which he should be happy to show us, and our “man of the woods” not only performed his promise, but, being a person of considerable intelligence, gave us much valuable information, and rendered us many services during our stay in Corte. [Illustration: CORTE.] The approach to Corte on this side is sufficiently striking, though not so picturesque as from the point of view on the road to Ajaccio, from which my friend's sketch, lithographed for this work, was taken. After winding up along a steep ascent, the town suddenly burst on our sight from the summit of the ridge. Its position is admirable. Seated nearly in the centre of the island, in the heart of the elevated _plateau_ described in the preceding chapter, and surrounded by lofty mountains, the passes of which admit of being easily defended, with a bold insulated rock for the base of its almost impregnable fortress, the houses of the town clustering round it, and, beneath, a valley of exuberant fertility, watered by two rivers, having their confluence just above, it seems formed to be the capital of an island-kingdom, of a nation of mountaineers. Such it was under the government of Pascal Paoli, and during the earlier period of the English occupation. We entered the town by the Corso, its modern _boulevard_,—a long avenue planted with trees. This and a suburb beyond the castle, built down the slope of the hill towards the bridge over the Tavignano, are the only regular streets in the place. Roomy and well-furnished apartments were found at the Hotel Paoli on the Corso, where we met with most kind treatment and excellent fare. My notes mention the mutton and trout as being of superior flavour, and a very good red wine of the country. The _confitures_—of which an _armoire_ in the _salle à manger_ contained great store, the pride of our hostess, and the perfection of her art—were delicious, especially one composed of slices of pear and other fruits, larded with walnuts, and preserved in a syrup of rich grape-juice. The coffee, of course, was excellent. Tea we found nowhere, except from our own packets, and made, much to the general amusement, in the coffee-pot we improvised at Bastia. True to his appointment, our “man of the woods” called upon us after we had dined, and accompanied us to the principal _café_. It was noisy and disorderly, and we soon adjourned to the hotel and spent the evening in very interesting conversation. An excursion to his forest was arranged. He told us that it abounded in game; but it was mortifying to find that it was out of his power to afford us any sport, the prohibition to carry fire-arms being so rigorously enforced that no relaxation was allowed in favour of anyone. So the _chasse_ was deferred till we landed in Sardinia. The next morning was devoted to a survey of the town. The houses and churches are mean, the only objects of interest being the Casa Paoli and the citadel. The house inhabited by Pascal Paoli, when Corte was the seat of his government, is but little changed, though converted into a college founded by the general's will. It has an air of rude simplicity. There is still the homely cabinet in which he wrote, his library, and a laboratory. The library contained about a score of English books; but we did not discover among them any of those presented by Boswell. In the _salle_ are some second-rate paintings presented by Cardinal Fesch. The college did not seem to be flourishing. Perhaps the most curious thing in the house are some remains of the supports of a canopy for a throne, which tradition says Pascal Paoli caused to be erected in the _salle_ on an occasion when his council of state met, the canopy being surmounted by a crown. If Paoli affected royalty, he received no encouragement from his council, and never sat on the throne. Nearly opposite is an old house formerly belonging to Gaffori, one of the patriot leaders during the Genoese wars. Assaulted by the enemy during the general's absence, his heroic wife, with the help of a few adherents, barricaded the doors and windows, and, herself, gun in hand, made such a stout resistance, rejecting all terms of capitulation, and threatening to blow it up and bury herself in the ruins rather than submit, that she held it for several days against all attacks, until her husband brought a strong force to rescue her. The shot-holes made in the walls by the fire of the assailants are still pointed out. There is another story connected with the Gaffori family, which the inhabitants of Corte relate with great pride. During the War of Independence, the general's son was carried off by the Genoese and imprisoned in the citadel of Corte, which they then held. Assaulted by the Corsicans with great vigour, the Genoese had the inhumanity to suspend the boy from an embrasure where the enemy's fire was the hottest. At this spectacle the assailants paused in their attack, till the general ordered them to continue their fire. Renucci, who works up the story in his usual florid style, makes Gaffori exclaim, “_Pera il figlio; pera la mia famiglia tutta, e trionfi la causa della patria._” I prefer the version given me by a native of Corte, whose father was an eye-witness of the scene:—“_J'étais citoyen avant que je n'étais père._” We shuddered as we looked up from below at the battlement from which the child was suspended. The fire was renewed with still more vigour; but the child marvellously escaped, and the garrison was forced to surrender. A _permis_ to visit the castle having been obtained from the French commandant, we climbed the rocky ascent by corkscrew steps. At present, the whole area of the rock is embraced by the fortifications which at different periods have grown round the massive citadel on its summit, founded by Vincintello d'Istria in the fifteenth century. Recently the French have cleared away some old houses within the _enceinte_ to strengthen the works. “What can be the use,” I said to our conductor, “of strengthening this place now?” “_Chi sà?_” was the short reply. Our friend, like many other Corsicans we met with, still nourished the visionary hopes which had caused his country so much blood and misery during her long and fruitless struggles for a national independence. “_Là_,” said he, pointing to the _grille_ of a dungeon, “_mon père était prisonnier._” On going our rounds, we came to the platform of a bastion formed on the site of some of the demolished houses. “Here,” he said, with emotion, planting his stick on a particular spot, “my mother gave me birth. Here we lived twenty-five years. She used to talk of the English red-coats and the house of King George.” It is now the residence of the family of Arrhigi, Duc de Padoue, and contains a portrait of Madame Buonaparte, Napoleon's mother, and several pictures connected with the events of the emperor's life. One of the sketches in my friend's portfolio was taken in the recess of a bastion, and it required some manœuvring to interpose our Corsican friend's portly person between the sketcher and the French sentry, as he passed and repassed—an office which our patriotic guide performed with much satisfaction—while a liberty was taken contrary to the rules of fortified places. [Illustration: CITADEL OF CORTE.] The view from the top of the citadel, the centre of so magnificent a panorama, may be well imagined. We now commanded the confluence of the two rivers, the Tavignano and the Restonica, beneath the walls, the eye tracing up the torrents to the gorges from which they rushed, while the details of the town, the gardens, and vineyards, and the ruined convents on the neighbouring hills, were brought distinctly under view; and the mountains towered above our heads, fitting bulwarks of the island capital. In the evening we strolled down the eastern suburb, and, crossing the bridge over the Tavignano, rambled on to the hill above, and the ruins of the Franciscan convent where Paoli assembled the legislative assembly, and in which the Anglo-Corsican parliament met while Corsica was united to England. The lithographic sketch of Corte was taken from beyond the bridge. Faithful as it is, one feels that neither pen nor pencil can do justice to such a scene. Art fails to lend the colouring of the tawny-orange vines, the pale-green olive-trees, the warm evening tints glowing on the purple hills, the mass of shade on the mountain sides first buried in twilight, the grey rocks, and, far away, aērial peaks vanishing in distance. A pleasant thing is the evening stroll on the outskirts of town or village, where life offers so much novelty. How graceful the forms of those girls at the fountain, dipping their pitchers of antique form and a glossy green! Poising them on their heads with one arm raised, how lightly they trip back to the town, laughing and talking in the sweetest of tongues—sweet in their mouths even in its insular dialect! A lazy Corsican is leading a goat, scarcely more bearded and shaggy than its owner. Others, still lazier, and wrapped in the rough _pelone_ hanging from their shoulders like an Irishman's frieze coat, bestride diminutive mules, while their wives trudge by the side, carrying burdens of firewood or vegetables on their heads and shoulders. Waggons, drawn by oxen and loaded with wine-casks, slowly creak along the road. It is dusk as we lounge up the suburb, and the rude houses piled up round the base of the citadel look gloomier than ever. Light from a blazing pine-torch flashes from the door of a _cave_; it is a wine vault. The owner welcomes us to its dark recesses. Smeared with the juice of the ruddy grape, he is a very priest of Bacchus; but the processes carried on in his cave are only initiatory to the orgies. Here are vats filled with the new-pressed juice; there vats in the various stages of fermentation. Jolly, as becomes his profession, he gives us to taste the sweet must and drink the purer extract. He explains the process, and tells us that the vintage is a fair average, though the vine disease, the oïdion, has penetrated even into these mountains. _Evoe Bacche!_ The fumes of the reeking cave mount to our heads, the floor is slippery with the lees and trodden vine-leaves. We reel to the door, glad to breathe a fresher atmosphere. Calling at the _café_ on the Corso, not from choice but by appointment with our “man of the woods,” we find it, as before, dirty, disorderly, and noisy. Where, we ask ourselves, are the gentlemen of Corte? But what has any one, above the classes who toil for a livelihood, to do in Corte, except to lounge the long day under the melancholy elms in the Corso, and wile away the evenings by petty gambling in its wretched _cafés_? 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._ The suppression of brigandage, security for life and property, the stains of blood washed from the soil, the shame in the face of Europe wiped out,—these are signal benefits which claim from the Corsicans a warmer homage to the younger Napoleon than they ever paid to the first of that name. Not even the honour of having given an emperor to France, a conqueror to continental Europe, enlisted the sympathies, the enthusiasm, of the islanders in the wonderful career of their illustrious countryman. A party, a faction, the Salicete, the Arena, the Bacchiochi, the Abatucci, rallied round him in the first steps of his political life, and the Cervoni, the Sebastiani, soldiers of fortune, of the true Corsican stamp, fought his battles, and were richly rewarded. Some of his countrymen, to their honour, adhered to him to the end, sharing his exile in St. Helena. But the great emperor was never popular in his own country; he neither loved, nor was beloved by, his own people. He did nothing for them, as before remarked, but construct the great national roads; and that was purely a military measure. He left them—designedly, it would seem—to cut one another's throats, and despised them for their barbarism. Pascal Paoli was, and ever will be, the popular hero of the Corsicans. He fought their last battles for the national independence; moulded their wild aspirations for liberty and self-government into a constitutional form; administered affairs unselfishly, purely, justly; encouraged industry, and checked outrage. He was a man of the people, one of themselves, and he never forgot it; nor have they. In an Englishman's eyes, Pascal Paoli has the additional merit of having conceived a just idea of the advantage his country would derive from the closest union with the only European power under whose protection a weak State struggling for freedom could hope for repose. He did homage to our principles, and the public feeling was with him in England as well as in Corsica. A work on Corsica that did not tell of banditti, that did not speak of Pascal Paoli, would fail in the two points with which the name of this island is instinctively associated. References to the great Corsican chief have repeatedly occurred in these Rambles, connected with localities, and may again. We have visited his birthplace, the scenes of his last campaign and disastrous defeat, and now the seat of his government, Corte. We must not leave it, though impatient to proceed on our journey and by no means wishing to fill our pages with extraneous matter, till we have linked together our desultory notices by a summary review of the principal occurrences in Pascal Paoli's remarkable life, and of the strange event which terminated his political career,—the creation of an Anglo-Corsican kingdom united for a time to the British Crown. Pascal (Pasquale) Paoli was born at Rostino on the 25th of April, 1725, being the second son of Giacinto Paoli, one of the leaders of the Corsican people in their last great struggle against the tyranny of the Genoese. Compelled by the course of events to retire to Naples in 1739, Giacinto Paoli was accompanied by his son Pascal, who, inheriting his father's talents and patriotism, there received a finished education, both civil and military. Being much about the court, the young Corsican acquired, with high accomplishments, those polished manners for which he was afterwards distinguished; and he held a commission in a regiment of cavalry, in which he did good service in Calabria. Recalled to Corsica in 1755, at the early age of thirty, to take the supreme management of affairs in consequence of the divisions prevailing among the patriot leaders, the expulsion of the Genoese became his first duty; and he soon succeeded, at least, in freeing the interior of the island, and confining their occupation to the narrow limits of the fortified towns on the coasts. His next step was to remodel, or rather to create, the civil government; and in so doing he introduced an admirable form of a representative constitution, founded as far as possible on the old Corsican institutions. It was, in fact, a republic, of which Pascal Paoli was the chief magistrate, and commander of the forces. One of the earliest acts of his administration was a severe law for the suppression of the bloody practice of the _vendetta_, followed in course of time by measures for the encouragement of agriculture, and by the foundation of a university at Corte. The necessity of meeting the Genoese on their own element led him to get together and equip a small squadron of ships, no country being better fitted than Corsica, from its position and resources, to acquire some share of naval power in the Mediterranean. With this squadron, after repulsing the Genoese fleet, he landed a body of troops in the island of Capraja, lying off the coast of Corsica, and succeeded in wresting it from the Republic. Intestine divisions had always been the bane of Corsican independence, and even Paoli's just and popular administration could not escape the rivalry of Emanuel Matra, a man of ancient family and great power, who became jealous of Paoli's pre-eminence. All attempts at conciliation on the part of Paoli proving useless, Matra and his adherents rose in arms, and, calling the Genoese to their aid, it was only after a long and bloody struggle, and some sharp defeats, that Paoli and the Nationals were able to crush the insurrection; Matra falling, after fighting desperately, in the battle which terminated the war. Pascal Paoli, being now firmly seated in power, and the island, settled under a regular form of government, growing in strength, the Genoese found themselves unequal to cope with a brave and united people. After some further ineffectual attempts, they once more applied to France for succour, and engaged her to occupy the strong places in the island, as she had already done from 1737 to 1741. French troops accordingly, landing in Corsica, established a footing which has never been relinquished, except during the short period of English occupation. But by the Treaty of Compiegne, signed before the expedition sailed (1764), the French limited their support of the Genoese to a term of four years. During that period they maintained a strict neutrality towards the Corsican Nationals, confining themselves to the limits of their occupation. Their generals maintained harmonious relations with Pascal Paoli, and, the Genoese power in the island having shrunk to nothing, the patriots had the entire possession of the country, except the fortified places, and the Commonwealth flourished under the firm and active administration of its wise chief. It was at this time that James Boswell visited the island. Residing some time with General Paoli, and admitted to familiar intercourse with him, he collected the materials from which he afterwards compiled “An Account of Corsica, and Memoirs of Pascal Paoli,” published in London in 1767,—a work, the details of which are only equalled by his _Johnsoniana_ for their minute and vivid portraiture of his hero's life, opinions, character, and habits. The “Account of Corsica” has been the standard, indeed the only English, work relating to that island from that day to the present. The time fixed by the Treaty of Compiegne for the evacuation of Corsica by the French troops was on the point of expiring. They had already withdrawn from Ajaccio and Calvi, when the Genoese, finding themselves utterly incapable of retaining possession of the island, offered to cede their rights to the king of France. This was in 1768. The Duc de Choiseul, the minister of Louis XV., lent a willing ear to a proposal which opened the way to the conquest of Corsica—a prize, from its situation, its forests, its fertility, worthy the ambition of the _Grand Monarque_. The French generals, receiving immediate orders to cross the neutral lines, soon made themselves masters of Capo Corso, and pushed their successes on the eastern side of the island. Pascal Paoli, his brother Clemente, and the other national leaders, were not wanting in this crisis of the fate of Corsica, and the people rose _en masse_ against the overwhelming force that threatened to crush them. The war, though necessarily short, was marked by obstinate bravery on the part of the Corsicans. The French troops having met with many repulses, received a signal defeat at Borgo. There is scarcely a village in the interior that is not illustrious for its patriotic efforts at this period. Chauvelin, the French general-in-chief, was recalled, and, ultimately, the Count de Vaux, an officer of experience, took the field as generalissimo of the French army, swelled by successive reinforcements to the vast force of 40,000 men. The great blow which decided the fate of Corsica was struck at the battle of Ponte Nuovo, of which some particulars are given in a former chapter.[24] This defeat entirely demoralised the island militia, and crushed Paoli's hopes of maintaining the nationality of Corsica. Retiring to Corte, and thence, almost as a fugitive, to Vivario, in the heart of the mountains, though he might still have maintained a _guerilla_ warfare against the French, he resolved to abandon a forlorn hope, and, pressed by a large body of the enemy's troops, embarked in an English frigate at Porto Vecchio, with his brother Clemente and 300 of his followers. The conquest of Corsica cost France largely both in men and money, it appearing by the official returns, that the loss sustained in killed and wounded was 10,721 men, while the expense of the war was estimated at 18 millions of livres. The fate of the Corsicans met with general sympathy. Rousseau on this occasion accused the French people of the basest love of tyranny:—“_S'ils savoient un homme libre à l'autre bout du monde, je crois qu'ils y iroient pour le seul plaisir de l'exterminer._” After a short stay in Italy, Pascal Paoli proceeded to England, landing at Harwich on the 18th of September, 1769. The succeeding twenty years of his life were spent in London. He was well received by the king and queen, and the ministers paid him the attention due to his rank and services. But, though an object of much general interest, he shunned publicity, living in Oxford Street in a dignified retirement. He joined, however, in good society, and associated with the most eminent literary men of the day, among whom it was observed that his talents and accomplishments as much fitted him to shine, as at the head of his patriotic countrymen. Boswell had the happiness of introducing him to Johnson, and revelled in the glory of exhibiting his two lions on the same stage. The French Revolution opened the way for Pascal Paoli's return to Corsica, with the prospect of again devoting himself to the service of his country under a constitutional monarchy, the form of government he most approved. At Paris, the unfortunate Louis XVI. and his queen received him with marks of favour, La Fayette greeted him as a brother, and the National Assembly gave him an enthusiastic reception. He was named President of the Department of Corte and Commander of the National Guard. Landing in Corsica, amidst the congratulations of his countrymen, all flocked round him, and mothers raised their babes in their arms that they might behold the common father of their country. The hopes of the Corsicans again revived; for, if they had not a national and independent government, they were members of a free state, with the man of their choice to administer affairs. Paoli was, however, soon disgusted with the excesses of the French Revolution, and, like all citizens of distinguished merit, he fell under the suspicions of the, so-called, Committee of Public Safety. Summoned to the bar of the National Convention, and declining to appear, he was proclaimed an enemy of the Republic, and put out of the protection of the law. Preparations were made for exterminating the Paolists, who flew to arms, resolved once more to assert the nationality of the Corsican people, and throw off their dependence on France. But intestine divisions again weakened the efforts of the patriots, and Corsica was divided into two parties—the Paolists and the Republicans; the Buonaparte family at this time supporting the patriot chief. In the face of the new invasion threatened by the French Republic, Paoli perceived that there was nothing to be done but to call the English, whose fleet hovered on the coast, to the aid of the Nationals, and place the island under British protection. The firstfruits of this alliance were the reduction of San Fiorenzo and the surrender of Bastia to the bold attack of Nelson already described.[25] The fall of these fortresses was succeeded by the siege of Calvi, in which Nelson also distinguished himself; and on the reduction of that place—Ajaccio and Bonifacio being already in the hands of the patriots—the French troops withdrew from the island. Corsica being once more free to establish a national government, the representatives of the people, assembled in a convention at Corte on the 14th of June, 1794, accepted a constitution framed by Pascal Paoli, in conjunction with Sir Gilbert Elliot, the British Plenipotentiary. By this national act the sovereignty of Corsica was hereditarily conferred on the King of Great Britain with full executive rights; the legislative power, including especially the levying of taxes, being vested in an assembly called a parliament, composed of representatives elected in the several _pièves_ and towns. All Corsicans of the age of twenty-five years, possessed of real property (_beni fondi_), and domiciled for one year in a _piève_ or town, were entitled to vote at the elections. The king's consent was required to give force to all laws, and he had the prerogative of summoning, proroguing, and dissolving the parliament. A viceroy, appointed by the sovereign, with a council and secretary of state, were to execute the functions of government. The press was to be free. In short, the kingdom of Corsica—so called even under the dominion of the Genoese Republic—was to be a limited monarchy, with institutions nearly resembling those of Great Britain, except that there was no House of Peers. The subject has some interest, even at this present day, as showing how the principles of a limited monarchy were adapted by such a man as Pascal Paoli to a _quasi_-Italian nation, than which none could be more ardent in their love of freedom, or have made greater struggles in its cause. The Constitutional Act[26] will be found in the appendix to Mr. Benson's work. It is curious also to find that in the time of our George III. a kingdom in the Mediterranean was as closely united to the Crown of Great Britain, as the kingdom of Ireland was at that time. Sir Gilbert Elliot was appointed viceroy. Unfortunately, with the best dispositions, his government was not administered with the tact required to conciliate so irascible a people as the Corsicans. While the viceroy was personally esteemed and beloved, he pursued a course of policy little calculated to calm the irritation which speedily arose. Pascal Paoli felt disappointment at not having been nominated viceroy, and was suspected of secretly fomenting the disaffection to the government. So far from this, he published an address to his countrymen, endeavouring to allay the ferment, and induce obedience to the English authorities. Jealousy, however, of his great and well-earned influence over the Corsicans appears to have led to his removal from the island. Towards the close of the year 1795 the king's command that he should repair to England was conveyed to him, couched, however, in gracious terms. He immediately obeyed, and arrived in London towards the end of December. No sooner had Paoli departed than discontent assumed a more alarming form. His presence and example had kept many calm who had been secretly hostile to the English, but who now openly displayed their animosity. Petitions were presented to the viceroy by some of the leading inhabitants assembled at Bistuglio, declaring the grounds of Corsican opposition, and proposing means of conciliation; while many bodies of the disaffected assembled in the wild neighbourhood of Bocagnono. These disorders, coupled with the mutual distrust with which the Corsicans and English viewed each other, finally led to the abandonment of the island by the latter; and, accordingly, between the 14th and 20th of October, 1796, the viceroy and troops, under the protection of Nelson, embarked for Porto Ferrajo, leaving the island once more a prey to French invasion. Foreign writers sneer at the ignorance and mismanagement which so soon alienated the minds of the Corsicans from those whom they had lately hailed as their liberators and protectors; and it may perhaps be lamented that so noble a dependency of the British Crown was thus lost. Its commanding position in the Mediterranean, its fine harbours and magnificent forests, made it a most desirable position, at least during the revolutionary war. Such was Nelson's opinion, expressed in a letter to his wife when a descent on the coast was first contemplated. Added to these, its products of corn, wine, and oil, capable of almost indefinite augmentation under a good system of government, gave it great value as a permanent possession. What are Malta and Gibraltar? Merely rock fortresses, compared with such an island, capable of defence by the bravest people in the world, and possessed of such resources that, so far from being a burden on the finances, a very considerable surplus of the revenue now flows into the Imperial exchequer. Nothing was wanting but to reconcile the natives to the rule of their new masters, making it, as it constitutionally professed to be, national. This was doubtless a difficult task with a spirited people, alien in race, religion, and habits. The ministers of the day committed a great error in not giving the vice-royalty to Pascal Paoli. He was a thorough Anglo-Corsican, and perfectly understood the working of a constitutional government. The union had been his policy, and he alone could have carried it out. Whether the annexation of the island to the British Empire would have survived the deliberations of the Congress of Vienna is another question. One does not see why it should not have done so. We retained the Ionian Islands, less important in many respects, and with a population as turbulent, it seems, and as alien, as the Corsicans. The possession of Corsica by the Bourbons was very recent, and acquired by the most flagrant injustice. The French were scarcely more popular than the English with the national party; nor are they, according to the impression made during our Rambles, at the present day. The island had been offered to Napoleon, and might have become his island-empire. Had it even followed the fate of Genoa, its former mistress, and been assigned to Sardinia, there would be reason now for all friends of constitutional government to rejoice; and the Corsicans, essentially an Italian people, would more easily have amalgamated with their rulers. However, these are mere speculations. Pascal Paoli's retirement left his native island no resource but submission to the French, and it became once more a department of France, one and undivided. On his return to England, Paoli had a small pension from the English Government, which he shared with other exiles from his own country. Little is known of the latter years of his life. He probably resumed, as far as his advanced years admitted, the habits he had formed during his former residence in London. He died there, on the 25th of February, 1807, at the age of eighty-two, and was interred in the burial-ground of Old St. Pancras. It is ground especially hallowed in the estimation of Roman Catholics; and if any reader should chance to turn his steps in that direction, he will be surprised to see what a large proportion of the monuments and gravestones in the vast area are inscribed to the memory of foreigners of all ranks, who, during a long course of years, have ended their days in London. The little antique church, too—one of the oldest, if not the oldest, in London—is well worth a visit, as an interesting specimen of Romanesque architecture, well restored a few years ago. In the south-western corner of the churchyard, not far from the boundary wall, he will find a rather handsome tomb marking the spot in which the remains of the great Corsican are deposited. It bears on one face a long Latin inscription, said to have been penned by one of his countrymen, and the east slab bears a coronet, on what authority we are at a loss to conceive. So also the more humble monument of Theodore of Corsica at St. Anne's, Soho, is dignified with a shadowy crown. The mock king created Giacinto Paoli, Pascal's father, and one of his first ministers of state, a marquis or count. Can it be that, under that patent, Pascal Paoli assumed the insignia of nobility in his intercourse with the courtly circles of London? Was it a weakness in the man of the people, who, simple as his general habits were, had high breeding, and, as we learn from Boswell's gossip, was not entirely free from aristocratic tendencies,—nay, is said to have aspired to a royal crown?[27] Or is the coronet on his tomb an unauthorised device of the officious friends who are said to have spent 500_l._ in giving the exile a pompous funeral? Peace to his memory! In death, as in life, his heart was with the people he had loved and served so well. Still caring for their best interests, by a codicil to his will he appropriated the annual sum of 200_l._ to the endowment of four professors in a college he proposed to found at Corte. They were to teach—1st. The Evidences of Christianity;—2nd. Ethics and the Laws of Nations;—3rd. The Principles of Natural Philosophy;—and 4th. The Elements of Mathematics. He also bequeathed a salary of 50_l._ to a schoolmaster in his native _piève_ of Rostino, who was to instruct the children in reading, writing, and arithmetic. It appears to have been the object of Mr. Benson's journey to Corsica to carry into effect these wise and benevolent provisions, and Paoli's bequests to his poor relations. Paoli said when dying:—“My nephews have little to expect from me; but I will bequeath to them, as a memorial and consolation, this Bible—saying, ‘I have never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread.’” CHAP. XVIII. _Excursion to a Forest.—Borders of the Niolo.—Adventures.—Corsican Pines.—The Pinus Maritima and Pinus Luriccio.—Government Forests._ Our excursion to the forest came off on the day before we left Corte, under the auspices of our “man of the woods.” He procured us mules, and our hostess supplied a basket of provisions and wine; for it promised to be a hard day's work, carrying us far into the heart of the mountains. Leaving Corte by the Corso, we soon turned up a valley to the left, winding among hills of no great elevation and cultivated to their summits. Not much farther than a mile from the town, we passed a lone house, the door of which was riddled with bullets. The brigands attacked it not long before. It was an affair, I believe, of summary justice for some trespass on property. “No one was safe,” said our conductor, “two years ago, outside the town. If you had been in the island then, you would have seen half Corsica armed to the teeth.”— “The disarming has been complete, for since our landing we have only once seen fire-arms except in the hands of the military. Then the banditti, of whom we have heard more than enough, no longer exist?” “No; they have been shot down, brought to justice, or driven out of the island. Many of them escaped to Sardinia; if you go there, you will find things just in the same state they were here; perhaps worse, if our outlaws are roaming there. I will tell you, some time, the story of the last of the banditti. Not far from hence they fell in a desperate conflict with the gendarmes.” The hollows between some of the hills among which we wound were embosomed in chestnut-trees, and the husks were beginning to burst and shed the nuts on the ground. “The harvest is approaching,” said our guide. “Soon every house will have great heaps gathered in for the winter's store.” We were on the borders of the mountainous district of the _Niolo_, the most primitive, not only geologically, as we have lately seen, but in point of manners, of any in Corsica. This it owes to its sequestered situation, hemmed in by the southern branch of the great central chain. It is approached by difficult paths and steps hewn out of the rock, the best being the pass of the _Santa Regina_. The interior of the bason is, however, extremely fertile. We had now in view the Monte Cinto and Monte Artica, the principal summits of the Niolo group, nearly 8000 feet high; and from part of our route Monte Rotondo was seen rising, with its snowy crest, a thousand feet higher, further to the south. The country now assumed a wilder and more rugged character, cultivation disappeared, and the surface was either rocky or thickly covered with the natural shrubbery so often mentioned. Once more we were in the _Macchia_, threading it by a rough and narrow path. Flocks of sheep and goats were browsing among the bushes; and the sight of rude shepherds' huts, with their blazing fires, gave us to understand that we had reached the wilds beyond human habitation. At last, a steep ascent through the thickets by a slippery path surmounted a ridge commanding the prospect of one flank of a mountain, the forest property of our “man of the woods.” A furious torrent, its natural boundary, tumbled and dashed in its rocky channel far beneath. Our mules slid down the almost precipitous descent clothed with dense underwood; we forded the stream, and met our friend's forester, who was expecting our arrival, and had shouted to us as we crossed the ridge. A storm of rain poured down in torrents while we were clambering up the opposite heights, making for shelter with as much speed as such an ascent permitted. Our place of refuge was a well-known haunt of the shepherds and banditti. It could not be called a cave, but was a hollow under a mass of insulated rock, worn away in the disintegrated granite, the harder shell of which formed an umbrella-shaped canopy, protecting us from the rain. It was miserably cold; but there were no dry materials at hand for lighting a fire, though the blackened rock and heaps of ashes and half-burnt logs looked very tempting. Under such circumstances, the best thing to be done was to apply ourselves to the contents of Madame ——'s basket, as we had still harder work before us. The contents were just displayed when my fellow-traveller made his appearance. I had lost sight of him in the bush while hurrying on, he having dismounted, and left his mule to be led up by a shepherd. He, too, had sought shelter in the nearest rock he could find. It had a cavity with a low aperture, into which he thrust himself head-foremost. What was his surprise at beholding a pair of eyes glaring at him through the gloom! The thing—whether it were man or beast he could not at the moment distinguish—shrunk back. He, too, recoiled and made a sudden exit. Presently he saw a pair of legs protruding on the further side of the rock, which it appeared was perforated from both extremities, and the thing, serpent-like, gradually wriggled itself out. Then stood erect, shaggy and rough as a wild beast startled from its lair, one of the shepherd boys, who had also crept into the cavity for refuge from the storm. He cast one look of astonishment at the intruder, turned round, and, leaping into the bush, disappeared without uttering a word. “Perhaps he took you for a detective in plain clothes, conscience-struck for having assisted to harbour the proscribed brigands!” Our meal despatched, and the weather clearing, we began clambering up a mountain side, as steep as the ridge of a house; and the mules, being useless, were sent down in charge of the muleteer to the ford of the torrent. Signor F——'s forest spread over the whole face of the mountain, and how much further he best knew. We understood that he had a larger tract in another direction. Trackless pine forests—some belonging to the communes, others to private individuals,—clothe the lower ranges of the mountains through all this part of the island. Vizzavona, which we crossed on our way to Ajaccio, and Aitona, lying to the south-west of the Niolo, belong to the State, and the French Admiralty draw from them large supplies of timber shipped to Toulon; especially the finest masts used in their navy. The Corsican pine-forests have been famous from early times. Theophrastus[28] mentions a ship built by the Romans with this timber, of such large dimensions as to carry fifty sails; and Sextus Pompeius, seizing this island as well as Sicily and Sardinia, drew from its forests the means of maintaining his naval supremacy. Our “man of the woods” appeared to have hardly earned, and well to merit, the noble property in the possession of which he rejoiced. Yet he described himself as poor in the midst of his seeming wealth, impoverished to get together vast tracts of country, from which, at present, he received no return. His object was to obtain a market for sale of his timber, which he said could be floated down the rivers to the sea-coast at a moderate expense. Having seen, as we had, the Norwegian timber floating down rivers, precipitated over rapids, and rafted over immense lakes, during a _flottage_ to the sea which it sometimes takes two years to accomplish[29], we could find no difficulty in believing that advantage might be taken of the rivers on either watershed of the central chain in Corsica, to bear this, the only wealth of these elevated regions, to the coast, which is nowhere more than about fifty miles distant. Of the anchorage and depth of water at the mouths of the rivers, I have no precise information, except so far that Signor F—— assured us there would be no difficulty in shipping his timber. I had not counted on such an exhausting effort as climbing a thousand feet nearly perpendicular on the rocky and rugged surface of a mountain forest in Corsica demanded. Accustomed to traverse some of the finest pine-forests of Norway in a light _carriole_ on excellent roads, or to canter along their avenues on little spirited horses, its native breed, without any feeling of fatigue, I had imagined our present enterprise to be much easier than it proved. Indeed, had it not been that the tangled roots of the pines, forming a network on the denuded surface of the rocks, afforded secure footing and a firm hold, and that, clasping the giant stems, one could take breath on the edge of the shelving cliffs, I should never have scrambled, and pulled myself, up to the summit. [Illustration: PINUS MARITIMA.] [Illustration: PINUS LARICCIO.] [Illustration: CONE OF THE PINUS LARICCIO.] Our “man of the woods,” notwithstanding his great bulk, was agile as a mountain-goat, leaping from crag to crag, and striking off in every direction where he could show us trees of the largest growth. Marmocchi mentions four species of the pine in his catalogue of the indigenous trees growing in Corsica. Of two of these, _Pinus Pinea_ (the stone pine), and _Pinus Sylvestris_ (our common Scotch fir), I did not remark any specimens in the forests we had an opportunity of examining, nor do they equal the others in grandeur and value. But both the _Pinus Lariccio_ and the _Pinus Maritima_ are magnificent trees. They were mingled in the forest I am now describing, the _Lariccio_ prevailing. The _Pinus Maritima_, so well known to all travellers in Italy and Greece, and to others by its picturesque effect in the landscapes of Claude, has often its trunk clear of boughs till near the top, which spreads out in an umbrella-shaped head, with a dense mass of foliage; and, where the stem is not so denuded, the tree has the same rounded contour of boughs. Both are figured and described in Lambert's magnificent work on the GENUS PINUS; but, unfortunately, from very insignificant specimens; those of the Pinus Maritima being taken from a tree at Sion House, only twenty feet high. The spines of the Pinus Maritima are longer than those of the Pinus Lariccio, and the branches more pensile. The engravings for the present work are from specimens brought from Corsica. Mr. Lambert's description, however, coincides with my own observations in the Corsican forests. He says:—“The branches are very numerous, and bear long filiform leaves. The cones are nearly the same size as Pinus Rigida. They are so remarkably smooth and glossy, that they at once distinguish their species. In shedding their seeds, they seem to expand very little.”[30] Mr. Lambert considers it to be the same species as the πεύκος, _Pinus Picea_ of Greece, which grow on the high mountains, Olympus, Pindus, Parnassus, &c.; and quotes an extract from Dr. Sibthorp's papers, published in Walpole's _Turkey_, remarking that the πεύκος furnished a useful resin, used in Attica to preserve wine from becoming acid, and supplying tar and pitch for shipping. “The resinous parts of the wood,” he says, “are cut into small pieces, and serve for candles.” The _Pinus Lariccio_ is more disposed to retain its lower branches than the Pinus Maritima, and has a more angular character both in the boughs and the footstalks of its tassels. The spines are shorter. The boughs slightly droop, but by no means in the degree of the spruce fir or the _larch_. From this circumstance, however, it probably derives its name, though it has nothing else in the slightest degree common with the larch; and writers who speak of the “Corsican larch” betray their readers into serious error. The Pinus Lariccio is figured in Mr. Lambert's work from two specimens in the Jardin des Plantes at Paris, about thirty feet high and three feet in girth, in 1823. Their age is not mentioned. Don, quoted in this work, remarks that “this pine is totally distinct from all the varieties of Pinus Sylvestris, with which, however, it in some respects agrees. It differs in the branches being shorter and more regularly verticellate. The leaves are one-third longer; cones shorter, ovate, and quite straight, with depressed scales, opening freely to shed the seed. The wood is more weighty, resinous, and, consequently, more compact, stronger, and more flexible than Pinus Sylvestris. Its bark is finer and much more entire.” The Pinus Lariccio is also at once distinguishable from the Pinus Maritima growing in the same forest, by the bark alone. Drawings are here given of (1) the exterior and (2) interior coats, from specimens brought from Corsica. They are very thick, and peel off in large flakes, the inner layer being most delicately veined, and of a rich crimson hue. [Illustration: BARK OF THE PINUS LARICCIO.] “I observed,” says Mr. Hawkins, quoted by Lambert, “on Cyllene, Taygetus, and the mountains of Thasos, a sort of fir, which, though called πεύκος by the inhabitants, and resembling that of the lower regions, has the foliage much darker, and the growth of the tree more regular and straight. The elevated region on which it grew leads me to suspect it must be different from the common πεύκος.”[31] Mr. Lambert adds:—“The Pinus Lariccio is, I have no doubt, the tree here mentioned, especially as it is known to grow in Greece, and has been found by Mr. Webb near the summit of Mount Ida, in Phrygia.”[32] We are inclined, however, to think that this remark requires confirmation by more exact details. The Pinus Lariccio grows to a greater height than the Pinus Maritima. In this forest Signor F—— estimated some of the finest specimens of the latter at from sixty to seventy feet in length, while those of the Lariccio could not be less than 120 feet, and perhaps more, with an average circumference of about nine feet. Some little experience enabled us to confirm this estimate. But these dimensions are often exceeded. In the neighbouring forest of Valdianello, which, again, abuts on that of Aitona, the chief of the government reserves, there lately stood a Pinus Lariccio, called by the Corsicans “_Le Roi des Arbres_.” At five feet from the ground its girth was upwards of nineteen feet. The height of the tree is not mentioned. The king of the forest is dead, but it boasts a successor worthy of its honours, the girth being, as Marmocchi relates on report, twenty-six feet at one mètre (three feet three inches) from the ground, and only reduced to twenty-one feet where the trunk is fifty-eight feet high. Its entire height is 150 feet, and its branches cover a circumference nearly 100 feet in diameter. These dimensions are large for European pines, about averaging those of the Norwegian. Growing in a rocky soil, I can easily believe that the timber is, as represented, extremely durable. It was surprising to see in Signor F——'s forest trees of such magnitude springing from fissures in the granite cliffs, and from ledges of rocks having only a scanty covering of barren soil. The growth must be slow; by counting the rings in some of the fallen trees, I calculated that they had stood about two centuries. The choicest specimens were usually grouped on some platform, or in hollows of the precipitous cliffs. In these positions they are often exposed to the worst of enemies, such spots being the haunts of the brigands and shepherds; and it was lamentable to observe the destruction caused by their fires in all parts of the wood. Huge half-burnt logs lay at the foot of some of the finest pines, and the flames had not only scorched all vegetation within reach, but eaten into the heart of the trees. This may be considered as one of the few virgin forests remaining in Corsica. The vast consumption by the Genoese, and afterwards by the French, governments, has greatly exhausted the forests; and it is only in the inaccessible parts of the country, where there are no roads, that timber of large dimensions is found. Even here they were felling the smaller trees, sawing them into planks, and carrying them away on mules, one plank balancing another on each side of the pack-saddle. We ventured to suggest to our “man of the woods” the advantages of sawmills, a machinery of the simplest possible construction, adopted in North America, Norway, and all forest countries, where, as here, there is abundant water-power. All such industrial resources are wanting in Corsica, but our friend was too shrewd not to be alive to the value of the suggestion. Our course through the forest had led us round to the flank of the mountain, shelving down to the torrent we forded on our arrival. A descent is generally considered an easy affair: so we found this in comparison with the ascent; but the declivity was formidable, there being no sort of path, and we had to work our way over and amongst huge masses of rock and slippery boulders, and jumping from crag to crag, sliding, rolling, and tumbling, not without some severe falls, we at last reached the bottom. Remounting our mules, a very pleasant change—active, light-stepping beasts as they were,—we rode slowly on our return to Corte, often looking back at the broad forest-clad mountains, with the snowy dome of Monte Rotondo in the distance. Signor F——, anxious to supply us with all the information we required, lost no opportunity of pointing out remarkable objects. “Do you see that _paése_?” he said, pointing to some grey buildings about five miles off, on the right bank of the Golo; “that is Soveria, the birth-place of Cervione, one of Napoleon's best generals. He fell in the battle of Ratisbon. His last words to the emperor, when ordered on a desperate attack,” said our friend, with Corsican feeling “were, ‘_Je vous recommande ma famille_.’” Valery relates an amusing anecdote of this General Cervione. Having the command at Rome, which he exercised with great severity, it became his duty to convey the order to Pope Pius VII. for abdicating his temporal power and being sent away, which he executed harshly. When Pius VII. was afterwards at the Tuileries, Cervione, with other generals, came to pay him his respects. The pope, struck by his pure Italian pronunciation, complimented him on it. “_Santo Padre_,” said Cervione, “_sono quasi Italiano._”—“_Come?_”—“_Sono Corso._”—“_Oh! oh!_”—“_Sono Cervione._”—“_Oh! oh! oh!_” At this terrible recollection the pope shrank aghast, hastily retreating to the fireside. “Further on,” said our conductor, “I see it plainly, there is an old grey house on the top of a rock; a poor place, but the birthplace of Pascal Paoli. He resided there after he became our chief, but would not have the home of his fathers altered.” Near Soveria is Alando, the native place of Sambuccio, the patriot leader in the first insurrection against the Genoese. All the neighbourhood of Corte is classic ground in Corsican history. We returned there to a late dinner. CHAP. XIX. _The Forest of Asco.—Corsican Beasts of Chase.—The Moufflon.—Increase of Wild Animals.—The last of the Banditti._ Our good “man of the woods” joined us at dinner. It was a just source of pride to him that he had shown his magnificent forest to foreigners as enthusiastic as himself, and who might, perhaps, forward his designs for making it profitable. In this view he now wrote the subjoined particulars.[33] We had already inquired what sport such covers afforded, and the account given of deer and wild boars, not to speak of smaller game, was very tempting. There were bears in the forests in the time of Flippini the historian, but for the last century they have been extinct. There are no wolves; but the foxes are plentiful, and so strong that they venture to attack the flocks of sheep and goats. The Corsican _cerf_ is like the red deer. Their colour is ferruginous. In size they are a little larger than fallow deer with a heavier body, and stronger horns, springing upright, spreading less than any other variety, and slightly palmated. Both male and female have a dark line down the back, rump, and scut. The _moufflon_ or _muffori_ is a most curious animal, almost peculiar, I believe, to this island and Sardinia, though a variety of the species is found in Morocco. Something between a sheep, a deer, and a goat, the male has spiral horns like a goat, rather turned back, with the legs and hind-quarter of a goat, but the head of a sheep. The colour is a reddish brown, with some admixture of black and white, brown predominating. The skin is fine-grained, not woolly but fine-haired, like a deer. It is extremely agile, jumping from rock to rock with surprising leaps, and so wild that, like the chamois and the reindeer, it frequents only the highest mountains, close to the snow-line, in summer, descending, as the snow extends, to lower regions. When the winters are very severe, and the snow covers the ground, it is driven into some of the higher valleys, and has been known to take refuge in the stables among the tame sheep and goats. The _moufflon_ goes in troops of from four to twenty. The females drop their young on the edge of the snow in the month of May. There are full-grown specimens of the _moufflon_ in the Zoological Gardens, Regent's Park, and in the _Jardin de Plantes_, at Paris. Of smaller game, Corsica abounds in hares and red partridges, the only species found in the island. In winter there are woodcocks, snipes, and water-fowl, and a _grande chasse_ of thrushes, which, feeding on the berries of the arbutus, the lentiscus, and the myrtle, become very fat, have a fine flavour, and are esteemed a great delicacy. But all these varieties of game were forbidden fruit, as a _permis_ to carry fire-arms could not be obtained by any class of persons, or for any purpose whatever. The shepherds have only their dogs to protect their flocks. If the prohibition continues long, the wild animals must become the pest of the island, and with their natural increase there will be splendid shooting when the use of fire-arms is again allowed. But for the hope of better sport in Sardinia, we thought of getting up a boar hunt, with spears, in the fashion so picturesquely seen in old pictures, and a much more spirited affair than shooting pigs. For deer and birds there is nothing left but to fall back on bows and arrows, as long as the Corsicans cannot be trusted with fire-arms, lest the _genus homo_ should be their prey. It was the last evening we spent with our “man of the woods.” He was very communicative, and, among other things, told us many stories of the heroic deeds of his countrymen in former times, and of the wild life of Corsica, which has only just expired. I preserve one of his tales, relating a recent event, which happily closes the bloody chapter of Corsican banditism. _The Last of the Banditti._ Two brothers, Pierre-Jean and Xavier-Saverio Massoni, men of extraordinary vigour and desperate courage, banded with Arrhigi, another determined outlaw, had for many years been the terror of the wild district of the _Niolo_ in which they harboured, and of the neighbouring country. Many were the families they had reduced to misery by cutting off their fathers and brothers; but they had numerous friends, whom they protected. They shared the scanty fare of the shepherds in the mountains, and the people entertained them in their houses; some, _par amitié_, with cordiality and kindness, others from fear. Such was the renown of these banditti chiefs that the authorities used every effort to exterminate them, offering large rewards for their heads, and threatening with severe penalties any who should supply them with the means of existence. At length a shepherd, who had received some injury from one of the band, betrayed their hiding-place in the fastnesses of the _Niolo_ to the _gendarmes_. Led by him through tracks known only to the shepherds and banditti, before daylight on a morning of the month of October, 1851, a body of the _gendarmerie_, twenty or thirty in number, reached the neighbourhood in which the three resolute bandits were concealed. It was a place called Penna-Rosa, near Corscia, a village in the canton of Calacuccia, not very far from Corte. The bandits are in the habit of separating for their greater security. At this time Pierre Massoni was alone in one of the caves among the rocks; Xavier Massoni and Arrhigi together occupied another. The _gendarmes_, as active and resolute as the banditti, their mortal foes, with whom they often had desperate encounters, crept towards the cave occupied by Pierre, who, seeing the disparity of numbers, crept into the bush, and attempted to escape, probably intending to join his friends, and with them make a determined resistance. The _gendarmes_ fired a volley, and Pierre fell mortally wounded. Xavier and Arrhigi had, somehow, received intelligence of the approach of the _gendarmes_, and hastening to the spot found them posted in front of the cave. A shot from each of the brigands brought down two of their enemies; and during the confusion caused by this unexpected diversion, the _gendarmes_ drawing off, Xavier Massoni, supposing that his brother was concealed in the cave, shouted to him— “Pierre, come out; I have cleared the way.” This cry drew the attention of the _gendarmes_, and at the same moment he was shot in the thigh by one of the party. A general fire was then opened, but Xavier contrived to creep into the bush, and afterwards made his escape over the mountains, while Arrhigi fled for refuge to a deep and almost inaccessible cavern. The party followed him, and posted themselves, under cover of the rocks, near the mouth of the cave into which they supposed he had retired, for they had not seen him enter; and as the access was so narrow that it could only be attempted by one at a time, the attempt to reconnoitre would have been certain death. The _gendarmes_, though numbering at least twenty to one, thus held at bay by one man, the bravest of the brave, sent a messenger to Corte to demand a reinforcement. Four hundred troops were detached for this service. They were accompanied by the _sous-préfet_, the _procureur imperial_, a captain of engineers, and men with ammunition to blow up the cave. It was a four hours' march from Corte, and they arrived late in the day. Meanwhile the _gendarmes_ beleaguered the spot, keeping under cover. The brave Arrhigi kept close, watchful no doubt. He must have had a stout heart; but we do not paint, we only give the leading details; the reader's imagination will supply the rest. At length the troops marched up. A French _gendarme_, boldly or incautiously, approached the entrance; he was shot dead on the spot. Then, no doubt was left that Arrhigi was there. Either to spare life, or because no one was found bold enough to lead the forlorn hope in storming the entrance, it was resolved to blow up the cave. The engineers set to work, a shaft was sunk from above, a barrel of gunpowder was lodged in it—the explosion was ineffectual; it left the massive vault and sides of the narrow cavern as firm as ever. It was too deep to be reached without regular mining. Besides, the night was bitter, and the whole party shaking with cold. Engineering operations were abandoned. As they could neither beard the bandit in his den, nor blow him up, it was determined to starve him out. The troops bivouacked, fires were lighted, and sentinels posted. The siege was converted into a blockade, all in due military order. “_Centinelle, prend garde à vous!_” was passed from post to post. “_Centinelle, prend garde à moi!_” answered the bold Arrhigi from his rocky hold. The blockade was maintained for five days and four nights, not without some loss on the part of the besiegers, for Arrhigi opened fire from time to time, as opportunity offered, and no less than seven of his enemies were struck down by his unerring bullets. Some were wounded. “Brave soldiers of Napoleon,” cried Arrhigi, “carry off your wounded comrades, who want your assistance.” It seems extraordinary that 400 troops should be held at bay by a single man for so long a period; but such was the fact. Perhaps the officials hoped to take him alive, or they might wish to spare a further effusion of blood in actual conflict with the desperate bandit. Arrhigi's cavern had a small store of provisions and some gourds of water. When these were expended, he resolved on making a last effort to force his way through the troops. Could he have stood out a day longer, he might probably have escaped, as the weather became so tempestuous that it would have been impossible for them to maintain their exposed position in those bleak mountains. On the fourth night, just before the dawn of day, he made the attempt. Dashing from the cavern, and shooting down the nearest sentries right and left with his double-barrelled gun, he gained the thickets. An alarm was raised, and there was a general pursuit. Arrhigi fled towards the Golo, intending, probably, to place that river between him and his pursuers. It was now daylight, and they were upon him before he reached it. Again brought to bay, he took his stand sheltered by a rock. The soldiers cried out to him to surrender; but the resolute bandit, refusing quarter, continued to resist till he was shot through the head. We left Xavier Massoni escaping into the _maquis_, but slightly wounded in the thigh. The _gendarmes_ were so occupied with his brother Pierre and Arrhigi, that he reached, unpursued, a distant forest in the heart of the mountains. Soon, however, an officer of the _Gendarmerie Corse_, with a detachment of forty or fifty men, was laid on his track. After seven days they discovered the lone cave in which, the last of his band, he had hoped for concealment. It was high up the face of the mountain, but the party scaled it, and summoning Xavier to surrender, he gave his _parole_. Just at that moment a _gendarme_ offering a shot, the bandit levelled his gun at him and killed him. He then threw down his arms and came out of the cave, prepared to surrender himself. A sentry posted near, imagining that he intended to escape, shot him dead without challenging him or allowing him time to give himself up. The sentry was punished, as they wished to take the bandit alive, hoping that he would discover those who were in league with him. Thus fell, with a gallantry worthy of a better cause, these renowned banditti chiefs, who for many years had infested the country, and filled it with alarm and grief. The rest of the band dispersed, were killed, or taken prisoners. Arrhigi's heroic defence closed the series of romantic stories on which the Corsicans delight to dwell. His example might have encouraged the outlaws to emulate his daring resistance; but the unusual force brought against him convinced them that the authorities were no longer to be trifled with. The brigands became thoroughly disheartened, and we hear of no more desperate encounters with the _gendarmerie_. In the course of the following year, the deep solitudes of the Corsican forests and mountains, echoing no longer to the crack of the rifle, were left in the undisturbed possession of the shepherds and their flocks, the foxes and the _moufflons_. There is another version of the story of the Massoni and Arrhigi, cleverly wrought up, and giving it, what was scarcely needed, a more romantic character. It differs from that here given in many of the circumstances, and in passing, perhaps, from hand to hand, even the scene has been transferred to the neighbourhood of Monte Rotondo, many miles distant from the spot where the events occurred. My informant was not likely to omit any actual occurrence of a striking nature; and as he lived at Corte, and his occupation often led him to the canton of Callacuccia, he had the best opportunities of learning the facts, if indeed he was not present at the time. His simple narrative is therefore adhered to. CHAP. XX. _Leave Corte for Ajaccio.—A legend of Venaco.—Arrival at Vivario._ The distance from Corte to Ajaccio is about fifty miles; the most interesting objects on the road being the great forest of Vizzavona, and Bocagnono embosomed in chestnut woods. In order to take these leisurely, mules were bespoken at Vivario, a mountain village at the foot of Monte d'Oro, as far as which we determined to avail ourselves of the _diligence_ passing through Corte, _en route_ from Bastia to Ajaccio. For the first two stages after leaving Corte we knew that there was little temptation to linger on the way; and it is unadvisable to waste time and strength by walking or riding on high-roads when coach or rail will hurry you on to a good starting point for independent rambling. To travel systematically from one great town to another by such conveyances, with perhaps an occasional excursion in the neighbourhood, is a very different affair. We were called at midnight, and walking to the _bureau_, shortly afterwards the _voiture_ came rumbling up, a small primitive vehicle, drawn by three mules. It contained five passengers, “booked through;” three rough fellows, all smoking, and a woman with a squalling _bambino_, dignified by the name of Auguste. Under these circumstances, we proposed taking our seat on the roof, as there was no _banquette_. The _commis du bureau_ objected;—we should fall off, and he would be blamed; it was _contre les régles_; and every traveller knows how despotically the rules are administered by foreign officials. He must submit to be a mere machine in their hands, to be stowed away and conveyed like his portmanteau. The rules are, however, generally enforced with great civility; but the _commis_ was not civil. Early rising, or sitting up late, had put him out of temper, and the passion into which he worked himself about this trifle was very amusing. “There was room inside, and why could not _messieurs_ accommodate themselves in the _voiture_ like sensible people?” We did not lose our temper, and carrying our point, had every reason to rejoice in our victory. The moon was up, and showed the sort of scenery through which we passed, by a very hilly but well-engineered road, to great advantage, in its various aspects. Now we were slowly ascending a bare hill-side in the full light; then plunging into hollows buried in the deepest shade of chestnut woods branching over the road. Then there were scattered groups of the rugged ilex, with its pale green leaves silvered by the moonbeams; and, where the land was cultivated, there was the livelier green of the young wheat, and the dark verdure of luxuriant crops of sainfoin: scarcely a house was passed; a solitary habitation is a rare sight in Corsica. Our position also gave us the advantage of the _voiturier's_ conversation, which, under the inspiration of the scene, the woods, and moonlight on a lonely road, was well spiced with stories of banditti. At that corner they stole from the thicket, and gave their victim a mortal stab. There was a cross over his grave, but it has been removed. A deadly shot from behind that grey rock struck down another. Here they had a bloody fight with the _sbirri_. Such tales, as it has been already remarked, are heard everywhere. I forget the particulars; but they are all variations of one wild strain, of which the key-note is blood. One legend of another kind I remember. The _voiturier_ related it as we approached Venaco:— “A long while ago—it was in the tenth century, I believe—there lived here a Count of Corsica, by name Arrhigo Colonna, who was so handsome that he was called _Il Bel Messere_. He had a beautiful wife and seven beautiful children. Feuds arose in the country, and his enemies, jealous of his great power, slew the Count and his seven children, and threw their bodies into a little lake among the hills. There was deep lamentation among the vassals of the _Bel Messere_; and his wife, having escaped, led them against the assassins, who had taken refuge in a neighbouring castle, stormed it, and put them all to the sword. Often are the ghosts of the _Bel Messere_ and his seven children seen flitting by the pale moonlight—on such a night as this—among the woods and on the green hills of Venaco; and the shepherds on the mountains all around preserve the tradition of their sorrowful fate.” We reached Vivario before daylight, and leaving the _voiture_, scrambled up a lane, then some dark stairs, and found ourselves in the gaunt rooms of a rude _locanda_. The people were astir, expecting us, and the best sight was, not indeed a blazing fire of logs—though Vivario is close to the forest, such fires are not to be seen indoors—but at least some lighted embers on the cooking-hearth, giving promise of a speedy cup of hot coffee, for we were very cold. The mountain air was keen, Vivario standing nearly 2000 feet above the level of the sea. The best news was that the mules for our journey were forthcoming. Meanwhile, we got our wash, and, it being too early to eat, had our _déjeûner_ of bread and wine, grapes and ham, packed in a basket, to be eaten on the road. We were objects of much curiosity. Whence did we come? where were we going? what was our business?—were questions of course. “From London.” “_Sono chiesi in Londra?_” “_Inglesi—sono tutti Christiani?_” It may easily be imagined that the communal schools in Corsica give little instruction in ethnology; and even intelligent persons, like our former guide Antoine, appeared to doubt our right to be called Christians. That was often questioned, the people seeming little better informed than they were when Boswell travelled in Corsica, almost a century ago. “_Inglesi_,” said a strong black fellow to him, “_sono barbare; non credono in Dio grande._” “Excuse me, sir,” replied Boswell; “we do believe in God, and in Jesus Christ too.” “_Um,_” said he, “_e nel Papa?_” (and in the Pope?) “No.” “_E perche?_” (And why?) This was a puzzling question under the circumstances, for there was a great audience listening to the controversy. So Boswell thought he would try a method of his own, and he very gravely replied:— “_Perche siamo troppo lontano._” (Because we are too far off.) A very new argument against the universal infallibility of the Pope. It took, however; for his opponent mused awhile, and then said:— “_Troppo lontano! Ha—Sicilia è tanto lontano che l'Inghilterra; e in Sicilia si credono nel Papa._” (Too far off! why Sicily is as far off as England; yet in Sicily they believe in the Pope.) “Ah!” said Boswell, “_Noi siamo dieci volte più lontano che la Sicilia._” (We are ten times farther off than Sicily.) “_Aha!_” said the questioner; and seemed quite satisfied. “In this manner,” concludes Boswell, “I got off very well. I question much whether any of the learned reasonings of our Protestant divines would have had so good an effect.” _Barbari_, _heretici_, whatever we were, we parted on good terms with our kind hostess. Two mules were at the door, attended by a lad, who, at first sight, appeared too young for the long and rather fatiguing journey before us; but he had a most intelligent countenance, with hair, eyes, and features of the true Italian character, and he handled his mules well, and proved a most active and agreeable attendant. [Illustration: VIVARIO.] CHAP. XXI. _Leave Vivario.—Forest of Vizzavona.—A roadside adventure.—Bocagnono.—Arrive late at Ajaccio._ It was broad daylight when we wound up a narrow path to the heights above the village of Vivario, thus saving an angle of the well-engineered high-road by which the _voiture_, preceding us, had gained the summit. Here we seated ourselves on a bank while my friend sketched. His view, reproduced in these pages, happily dispenses with the necessity of any lengthened description. Below, the eye rested on the tall and graceful _campanile_ of the village church, with the houses radiating from it, half concealed by the groves of chestnut-trees embowering the valley. The slope beneath our point of view, as well as that on the left under the high-road, was covered by vineyards in terraces and gardens. The contrast of this verdure with the bare ridge beyond the fertile basin, still in deep shade, and the atmospheric effects of a soft and not overpowering light on the foreground, as well as of the vapour rising in the gorge, and hanging in aërial folds about the mountain tops, can only be imagined. Smoke now began to curl up from the village hearths, and men, in rough jackets of black sheep's wool, with axes slung in their belts, are seen slowly winding up the steep to their work in the forest. The villages on the tops of the hills under the mountain ranges, of which we counted ten or more, reflect the early sunlight. A small fortified barrack, garrisoned by a party of _gendarmes_, held in check the banditti, whose strongest fastnesses were in this wild neighbourhood, and commands the high-road. This we now follow; and the views from it are exceedingly picturesque, the engineers having obtained their level for it by pursuing the sinuosities of the defiles round Monte d'Oro, the rival monarch with Monte Rotondo of the Corsican Alps. Its snowy summit is continually in sight on our right, and we observe streaks of new-fallen snow for some distance beneath. On the left, we have the great forest of Vizzavona, which we shortly entered. Having before described a Corsican pine-forest of similar character, repetition would be wearisome. The trees here are of the same species, with some admixture of oak, many of them on a scale of equal or greater magnificence. The finest masts for the French navy have been drawn from this forest. Heat and hunger now combined to make us look out for a rill of water at a convenient spot for taking our _déjeûner_, and a torrent crossing the road, with a rude bridge over it, we sat down on the low parapet, and, opening our baskets, the boy, Filippi, fetched water from the pure stream to cool and temper our wine. Bread, slices of ham, and grapes, were rapidly disappearing, when unexpected visitors appeared on the scene, in the shape of two country girls, travellers to Ajaccio like ourselves. We had not been so much struck, to speak the truth, as some travellers seem to have been with the beauty and gracefulness of the Corsican women; but these really were two very pretty girls, of the age of fifteen or sixteen, brunettes, bright eyed, slightly formed, and with pleasing and expressive features. They were lightly clad, and one of them carried a small bundle. Accosted by Filippi, we learnt that they came from Corte, and were on their way to Ajaccio, in search of domestic service. Filippi appeared to know some of their family. To desire the boy to share with them the meal he was making at some little distance was only returning Corsican hospitality. The girls were shy at first, and it was only by degrees that we were able to establish a chat with them; and I was struck with the manner in which the eldest, taking a handful of new chestnuts from a bag, offered the contribution to our pic-nic. Poor girls! chestnuts and the running brooks were probably all they had to depend upon for refreshment during their journey. Happily, both were easily to be found. Our road lying the same way, and the girls having walked from Vivario, while we had been riding, they were offered a ride on the mules, and, after some hesitation, the offer was accepted. With Filippi for their squire, the trio being about the same age, they were a merry party, making the glades of the old forest ring with their laughter and the sound of their young voices in the sweetest of tongues. The girls were in such glee, Filippi pressing the mules to a gallop, that though we enjoyed the fun, we really feared they would be thrown off. Our fears were groundless; riding astride, as is the fashion of the country—but with all propriety—they had a firm seat, and laughed at our apprehensions. With all this exuberance of spirits, there were the greatest modesty and simplicity in the demeanour of these poor girls. When they proceeded in a more sober mood, we joined in the conversation, asking questions about their prospects at Ajaccio, and the schooling they had received. They had no friends at Ajaccio; but the “Mother of Mercy” would guide and protect them! The number of the girls receiving education at the communal and conventual schools in Corsica is very disproportionate to that of the boys. Marmocchi states the number of the former, in 1851 or 1852, as 2362, while the males receiving public instruction were 14,196. Of the girls, only 546 are educated in the communal schools, and 1816 in the establishments of the _Sœurs de St. Joseph_ or the _Filles de Marie_. The proportion of boys frequenting the Corsican schools, relatively with those of France, is 137 to 100 in the winter, and 226 to 100 in the summer; but that of the girls is in the inverse, the relative number being much smaller in Corsica—12 only to 100 in the winter, and 21 to 100 in the summer. Our fellow-travellers were among the favoured number. Bridget, the eldest, opened her bundle, and took from among the folds of their slender stock of clothes two little books, which she showed us with modest pride. They contained catechisms, the _Pater-noster_, the _Ave Maria_, and a short litany to the Blessed Virgin. Poor girls! their trust was in Heaven! They had little else to trust in; but there was a “Mother of Mercy” to befriend her loving children. That was the most comfortable article in their creed—ideal, but very beautiful. At the highest point of the _Col_ of Vizzavona, nearly 4000 feet above the level of the sea, we find a loopholed barrack, surrounded by a ditch, where a small force of the _gendarmerie_ is stationed to operate against the brigands. Standing among bare rocks, with the precipices of Monte d'Oro frowning above it, the position is most dismal. Fancy that bleak barrack in the long, dreary winter of such an elevation, when ice and snow reign over the whole _plateau_! And what must have been the severity of the service when the bleak forest was the hiding-place, and Bocagnono, just under, the head-quarters, of the most desperate banditti! [Illustration: BOCAGNONO.] We still walked on, really preferring it, and glad not only to give the girls a lift, but to spare the mules, while carrying their light weight, for the hard service yet before them. After passing the _col_, we had a splendid view of Bocagnono and its hamlets, buried in trees, with bold mountains beyond. The pines now gave way to beech woods, and soon afterwards we reached the level of the chestnut. The fall of the ground became rapid, but, as usual in such cases, the face of the hill being traversed by stages of inclined planes, blasted by gunpowder in the rocks, the gradients of the road were easy. The chestnut trees in the valley are of extraordinary size, and a rich _contour_ of growth. Scattered capriciously among the groves are no less than ten hamlets, all attached to Bocagnono. It is a wild and romantic neighbourhood; and the principal village, though surrounded with verdure, has a most desolate aspect, the houses being built of unhewn stone, black with age, and the windows unglazed. Walking down the long, straggling street, noting appearances, a little in advance of our singular cavalcade, we observed a very magnificent officer of police, with a cocked hat and feathers, and sword by his side, sitting on a bench, smoking his pipe. He scrutinised us closely as we passed, munching chestnuts, and carelessly throwing the shells not very far from his worshipful presence. Filippi soon following with the mules, he was stopped by this important personage, who questioned him sharply about us. Appearances were rather against us. The spruce _gendarme_ might possibly not understand—and it is often a puzzle—how gentlemen in light coats and stout shoes, bronzed, dusty, and travel-stained, could be walking through the country quite at their ease. Foreigners make themselves up for travelling in a very different style. Our juvenile _suite_ also was somewhat singular, and, altogether, as I have said, circumstances were suspicious. We might be the last of the bandits, making their escape to the coast in disguise, with part of their little family. The orders to arrest such characters were very strict. However, it is to be presumed that the official was satisfied with Filippi's report, and we escaped a detention which might have caused us loss of time and patience. Having cleared the town, we took counsel together. The day was wearing away, and we were still some thirty miles from Ajaccio. It was Saturday, and we wished to get to the end of our journey in order to enjoy a quiet Sunday. There was nothing on the road to tempt us to linger, and no probability of finding decent accommodations; while at Ajaccio, we should be in clover, and get a fresh outfit, our baggage having been forwarded there. On the other hand, it was a long pull, and Filippi remonstrated on behalf of the mules and himself. The first objection was overruled, and the other removed by our engaging to take the boy _en croupe_ by turns. Our female attendants we dismissed with the means of procuring lodgings for the night; and we relieved Bridget of her burthen, desiring her to call for it at the hotel at Ajaccio. Bocagnono stands in the gorge of a long valley, watered by the Gravone. This river falls into the sea a little south of Ajaccio, and the road, for the most part following its course, is generally easy. After leaving Bocagnono, the valley opened. We were among green hills, with the river flowing through a rich plain; the Alpine range, from which we had just descended, making a fine background to this pleasant landscape. Further on, some very picturesque villages, perched as usual on heights, increased its interest. We kept the mules to as sharp a trot as was consistent with the work still before us. Unfortunately, in the jolting, poor Bridget's bundle got loose, and the contents being scattered on the road, the wardrobe of a Corsican girl was exposed to profane eyes, and it became incumbent on me, in discharge of my trust, to restore it to order with all possible neatness and security. Again we pricked on, and crossing the Gravone at the Ponte d'Usciano, the road began to ascend, carrying us for some miles over a rugged spur of the mountains. Here we found ourselves again among the shrubbery which forms so characteristic a feature in the landscape of these islands. Having passed the ruins of a house, the inmates of which, even to the infant in the cradle, had been butchered in one of the feuds so common in Corsica, we halted at a roadside _albergo_, near a _baraque_ of the _gendarmerie_. Bread and grapes, with new wine, were spread for us under the shade of a tree, and we refreshed ourselves while our mules got their feed of barley. We had now nearly a level road all the way to Ajaccio. The plain was well cultivated, and we remarked some irrigated fields of maize. Soon afterwards it became dark, and the mules being much distressed, we could only proceed at a slow pace. The fatigue of riding was much lessened by having an English saddle; still it was a hard day's travelling: but the air was deliciously balmy, and the glowworm's lamp and cricket's chirp helped to cheer the weariness of a road which seemed interminable. Presently, we met country people returning from the market at Ajaccio, lights were seen more frequently on the hills, and, at last, the lantern on the pier-head—a welcome beacon—came in view. Half an hour afterwards, we dismounted at an hotel on the Corso. 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._ Sunday morning we attended high-mass at the cathedral of Ajaccio, a building of the sixteenth century, in the Italian style, having a belfry and dome, with the interior richly decorated. The service was well performed, there being a fine-toned organ, and the music of the mass well selected. The congregation was numerous, the girls' school especially. I was struck with the pensive cast of features in many of the girls, so like the Madonnas of the Italian masters. There were formerly six dioceses in Corsica, Mariana being the principal; for many years they have been all administered by the Bishop of Ajaccio, who is at present a suffragan of the Archbishop of Aix, in France. After service, we called on one of the professors of the _Collège-Fesch_, to whom we had letters of introduction. This college and the _Séminaire_ are the best buildings in Ajaccio, both being finely situated fronting the sea. The _Séminaire_ is confined exclusively to the education of theological students intended for the clerical orders. In the other, founded and endowed by Cardinal Fesch, the course of study is that generally pursued in the French colleges. The cardinal appears to have had more affection for his native place than any other member of the Bonaparte family, giving a proof of it in this noble foundation. He also bequeathed to his native place a large collection of pictures, few of them, however, of much merit. His remains are deposited with those of Madame Letizia, his sister, in a chapel of the cathedral of Ajaccio, having been brought from Rome; where I recollect seeing him in 1819,—short and portly in person, with a mild and good-humoured expression of countenance. He had been a kind guardian of the young Bonapartes, and carefully administered the small property they inherited. The _Collège-Fesch_ is a large building, with spacious lecture-rooms, long and lofty corridors, and a yard for exercise; the windows of the front looking out on the Gulf of Ajaccio and the mountains beyond. The professor's apartments had all the air of the rooms of a college fellow and tutor in one of our universities, carpets _et aliis mutandis_; only they were more airy and spacious. There are fifteen professors, of whom the Abbate Porazzi is one of the most distinguished. We were indebted to him for many good offices during our stay at Ajaccio. The number of students at this time was 260. They appeared to be of all ranks and ages; some of them grown men. Everything here has the southern character. We find rows of lemon-trees on the Corso; and the cactus, or Indian fig, flourishes in the environs,—the bright oleander thriving in the open air. The heat was excessive, my thermometer standing at 80° at noon, in the shade of an airy room. From the Corso, a short street leads into the market-place, a square, bounded on one side by the port, and embellished by a fountain. During the last year it has been further ornamented by a statue of the first Napoleon, of white marble, standing on a granite pedestal, and facing the harbour. Concealed during the reigns of the restored Bourbons, its erection was a homage to the rising fortunes of the President of the French Republic. Ajaccio, being the modern capital of Corsica, the _chef-lieu_ of the department, and seat of the _préfetture_ and administration, is more French in habits and feeling than any other town in the island. But even here, I apprehend, there has never been much enthusiasm for the Bonapartes.[34] Among the native Corsicans, Pascal Paoli is the national hero. We visited, of course, the house in which the first Napoleon was born, standing in a little solitary court dignified with the name of the _Piazza Lucrezia_, near the market-place. It has been often described. Uninhabited, and without a vestige of furniture, except some faded tapestry on the walls, the desolate and gloomy air of the birthplace of the great emperor struck me even more than the deserted apartments at Longwood, from which his spirit took its flight. There, sheaves of corn and implements of husbandry still gave signs of human life, singularly as they contrasted with the relics of imperial grandeur recently witnessed by the homely apartments. A man, born in the first year of the French Revolution, and who has followed the career of its “child and champion” with the feelings common to most Englishmen, can have no Napoleonic sympathies; yet, without forgetting the atrocities, the selfishness, and the littleness which stained and disfigured that career, it is impossible that such scenes could be contemplated by a thoughtful mind, not only without profound reflection on the vicissitudes of life, but without a full impression of the genius and force of character which lifted the Corsican adventurer to the dangerous height from whence he fell. One afternoon we hired a boat in the harbour, and sailed down the Gulf of Ajaccio. This fine inlet, opening to the south-west, is from three to four leagues in length and breadth, and forms a basin of about twelve leagues in circumference, from the northern extremity, where the old city stood, to its outlet between the _Isles Sanguinaires_ and the Capo di Moro, on the opposite coast. A range of mountains, considerably inferior in elevation to the central chain from which they ramify, rises almost from the shore, and stretches along the northern side of the gulf. The other coast is more indented, and swells into the ridges of the Bastelica, embracing the rich valley of Campo Loro (_Campo del' Oro_), washed by the Gravone. The Gulf of Ajaccio, like many others, has been compared to the Bay of Naples; but, I think, without much reason, except for the colouring lent by a brilliant and transparent atmosphere to both sea and land. In the case of Ajaccio, the effects are heightened by a still more southern climate, and the grander scale of the mountain scenery. [Illustration: HARBOUR OF AJACCIO.] There were only a few small vessels, employed in the coasting trade, in the port. We rowed round the mole, under the frowning bastions of the citadel, a regular work covering a point stretching into the bay; and then hoisting sail, stood out into the gulf. The wind was too light to admit of our gaining its entrance; we sailed down it, however, for four or five miles in the mid-channel, the rocky islands at the northern entrance gradually opening; one crowned with the tower of a lighthouse, another with a village on its summit. The coast to our right was clothed with the deep verdure of the ever memorable Corsican shrubbery, breathing aromatic odours as we drifted along: otherwise, it appeared desolate; not a village appeared, and the barren and rugged mountain chain towered above. Finding that we made but little progress, the boat was steered for a little reef of rocks on the northern shore, and landing, we dismissed the boatman, determining to walk back to Ajaccio along the water's edge. Meanwhile we sat down on the rocks while my companion sketched. Presently I strolled up to a little chapel, standing by the side of the road which winds round the gulf towards _les Isles Sanguinaires_. A simple and chaste style of Italian architecture distinguished the white _façade_, rising gracefully to a pediment, crowned with a cross; pilasters, supporting arches, divided the portico beneath into three compartments, the central one forming the entrance. The door was closed, but the interior was visible through a _grille_ at the side. The nave was paved with blue and white squares, and marble steps led up to the sanctuary, forming, with two side chapels, a Greek cross. There was no ornament, no furniture, except two or three low chairs for kneeling. Under the portico was a marble tablet, inscribed in good Latin, to the pious memory of a Pozzo di Borgo[35], who restored the chapel in 1632. I read on another tablet:— _“Per gli Orfanelli dei Marinari Naufragati.”_ Under an arch supported by pillars of green marble, a lamp was feebly glimmering, fed perhaps by the offerings of loving mothers and fond wives who here offered their vows for the safe return of those dear to them. The sun was setting behind the islands at the mouth of the gulf, perfect stillness reigned, broken only by a gentle ripple on the granite rocks forming ledges from the water's edge to the base of the chapel. Struck with its singular interest, and wishing to learn more about it, on returning to my friend, who was still sketching, I found him in conversation with some loungers from the town. They could only tell us that it was called “The Chapel of the Greeks,” and, laughing, turned on their heels when I pursued my inquiries. Did they suppose that we Northerns had no sentiment in our religion, or had they none themselves? I afterwards heard two traditions respecting the Chapel of the Greeks. One, that it was founded by the remains of a colony from the Morea, who, having been expelled with great loss from their settlement at Cargese, were granted an asylum here;—the other, that the original building was erected, by Greek mariners, in acknowledgment of their escape from shipwreck on this coast. It would be difficult, I imagine, to find a more favourable point of view, or a happier moment, than that of which my friend availed himself to make the sketch of Ajaccio, which has been selected for the frontispiece of this volume. The gulf was perfectly calm, and of the deepest green and azure, a slight ripple being only discernible where a boat lay in one of the long streams of light reflected from the mass of orange and golden clouds in which the sun was setting behind the islands; while, to the east, flakes of rosy hue floated in the mid-heaven. The sails of the feluccas, becalmed in the gulf, faintly caught the light, and it gleamed on the houses of Ajaccio, particularly those of the modern town, distinguished by its white walls and red roofs from the old buildings about the cathedral. Behind were sugar-loaf hills; and the mountain-sides across the gulf glowed with the richest purple. Then came gradual changes of colour, softer and deeper hues, till, at last, a steamy veil of mist from seaward stole over the gulf. A faint glimmer from the lighthouse at the entrance of the harbour was scarcely visible in the blaze left behind by the glorious sunset. The lights began to twinkle from the windows of Ajaccio, and the cathedral bells tolling for the Ave Maria, stole on the ear across the gulf in the silence of the twilight hour. Reluctant to leave the scene, we lingered till it was shrouded from view, and an evening never to be forgotten closed in. Then we wound slowly towards the city along the shore, at the foot of hills laid out in vineyards hedged by the prickly cactus, or lightly sprinkled with myrtles and cystus, and all those odoriferous plants which now perfumed the balmy night air. Embowered in these, we had remarked some mortuary chapels, the burying-places of Ajaccian families. One of them, high up on the hill-side, was in the form of a Grecian temple; and we now passed another, standing among cypresses, close to the shore. Nearer the city, two stone pillars stand at the entrance of an avenue leading up to a dilapidated country-house, formerly the residence of Cardinal Fesch, and where Madame Bonaparte and her family generally spent the summer. Among the neglected shrubberies, and surrounded by the wild olive, the cactus, the clematis, and the almond, is a singular and isolated granite rock, called Napoleon's grotto, once his favourite retreat. On our return, we found the streets thronged; braziers with roasted chestnuts stood at every corner; strings of mules, loaded with wine casks suspended on each side, were returning from the vineyards; and there was a gay promenade on the Corso—ladies with no covering for their heads but the graceful black _faldetta_, French officers in not very brilliant uniforms, and a sprinkling of ecclesiastics in _soutanes_ and prodigious beavers. Professor Porazzi took us to the only bookseller's shop in Ajaccio, where we made some purchases. It was a small affair, the book trade being combined with the sale of a variety of miscellaneous articles. The _préfetture_, a handsome building, lately finished, contains a library of 25,000 volumes. We were introduced there to M. Camille Friess, the author of a compendious history of Corsica, who was kind enough to show us some of the archives, of which he has the custody. Among the documents connected with the Bonaparte family is a memorial, addressed by Napoleon to the Intendant of Corsica, respecting his mother's right to a garden. I jotted down the beginning and end:— “_Memoire relative à la pépinière d'Ajaccio._ “_Letizia Ramolini, veuve de Buonaparte, d'Ajaccio, a l'honneur de vous exposer...._ “_Votre très humble et très obeissant serviteur_, “BUONAPARTE[36], _Officier d'Artillerie_. “_Hotel de Cherbourg_, “_Rue St. Honoré, Paris, le 9 Nov. 1787._” The claim for a few roods of nursery garden was made by a young man who afterwards distributed kingdoms and principalities! It is said that in the division of some property which fell to the family after he became emperor, his share was an olive-yard in the environs of Ajaccio. M. Friess obligingly gave me copies of the _procès-verbals_ of the proceedings of the Council-General of the Department for the preceding years. These reports are printed annually, and, I believe, similar ones are made in all the departments of France. Those I possess are models of good arrangement in whatever concerns provincial administration. They have supplied more information on the present state of Corsica and its prospects of improvement than all the books of travel, and works of greater pretensions, it has been my fortune to meet with. The Council-General, as many of my readers know, is a body elected by the people; each canton, of which there are sixty-one in Corsica, sending representatives in proportion to the population. The _préfet_, who is _ex-officio_ president, opens the session by a speech, in which he reviews the affairs of the department under the heads of finance, public works, education, &c., &c., and presents a budget, with detailed reports on the various branches of administration. All these are printed, with a short _procès-verbal_ of the debates, and the divisions when the Council-General comes to a vote. The proceedings are submitted to the Minister of the Interior, who approves or rejects the proposals made. Virtually, however, although the Council has no power to act on its resolutions until they are confirmed by the central government, whatever relates to the assessment of taxes, police, roads, and other works, all matters of local interest not only come under discussion in these provincial assemblies, but are shaped and decided by them. The services thus rendered must therefore be very valuable, and it is worth considering whether our over-worked House of Commons might not be relieved of some of its burthens, and the business better done, by similar representative bodies, entrusted with legislative powers so far as concerns matters of local interest. Such assemblies would well accord with our Anglo-Saxon institutions. But to give them a fair field, with sufficient weight, impartiality, and importance, a considerable area should be embraced in each jurisdiction. Durham might be united with Yorkshire; the three western counties, Somerset, Devon, and Cornwall, might form a province; North and South Wales, each one. And what a valuable body of statistics would be furnished by an annual report, corresponding with those which have led to these remarks! We gather some general statistics from these documents and other sources. By the census of 1851, the population of Corsica was 236,251 souls, of whom 117,938 were males, and 118,313 females. All but 54 were Roman Catholics. There were no less than 32,364 proprietors of land. The day-labourers were 34,427; government officials, 1229; clergy, 955; regular troops, _gendarmes_, &c., 5000. The number of students in all the public colleges and schools was from 16,000 to 17,000, of which 15,000 were male, and only from 2000 to 3000 females. The proportion of males frequenting the schools is greater than in France, it being as 137 to 100 in the winter, and 226 to 100 in the summer; while that of the girls is the reverse, being as 12 to 100 in the winter, and 21 to 100 in the summer. This disproportion between male and female scholars in Corsica is very remarkable. The superficies of the island is estimated at somewhat less than two millions and a quarter of English acres. Of this surface, only a six-hundredth part is, on an average, under cultivation, an area which, it is said, might be doubled. Vast portions of the soil belong to the communes, and measures are in contemplation for their improvement. Wheat produces, on an average of years, an increase of nine times the seed sown; barley and oats, twelve or thirteen; maize, thirty-eight to forty; and potatoes, twenty. The rate of daily wages for the year 1851 was fixed by the Council-General at 75 _centimes_ for the towns of Ajaccio and Bastia, and 50 _centimes_ for all the other communes. Among the most important subjects brought to notice by the _procès-verbal_ of 1851 is the state of agriculture in the island; on which the _Préfet_ finds little to congratulate the Council-General except an increase in the cultivation of lucerne and in the plantations of mulberry-trees. The obstacles to its progress are found in the insecurity of life, the want of inclosures, and the unbounded rights of common enjoyed by the shepherds; in the richest plains being uninhabited, and their distance from the villages; in the pestilential air of these plains, and the want of roads.—A stranger will be disposed to add to this list the indolence of the natives. So far as the obstacles to improvement can be surmounted by judicious legislation and encouragement, the _procès-verbals_ of the Council-General exhibit enlightened ideas far in advance of the opinions and habits of the people; and there is much good sense and right feeling in the observation with which the _Prèfet_, in one of his addresses, concludes his statement of the position of affairs:— “Si la Corse,” he says, “devait passer subitement à l'état des civilisations avancées, elle courait risque de perdre dans cette transformation (et ce serait à jamais deplorable) tout ce qu'il y a de primitif, de généreux, d'énergetique dans ses mœurs séculaires. Je n'en citerai qu'un exemple. Le mouvement civilisateur trouve, à certains égards, résistance dans la force des sentiments de famille, dans la cohésion des membres qui la composent. Et, cependant, qui d'entre vous consentirait à acheter les progrès de la civilisation au prix du rélâchement de ces liens sacrés qui sont la clef de voûte de toute société organisée?” Delivered from the scourge of _banditisme_ and the _vendetta_ by severe measures, supposed to be strongly opposed to the popular instinct, and with hopes held out of such further improvement in civilisation as the progress of ideas will admit, Corsica may, perhaps, have no reason to regret that she failed in her long struggles for national independence. But France will not have performed her duty to this outlying department of the empire till she promotes the manufactures and commerce of the island. It is a part of the protective system to which she clings to discourage all direct foreign trade, just as England formerly engrossed the commerce of her colonies. The result is that the poor Corsicans, compelled to purchase the commodities they require—manufactured goods, colonial produce, and even corn and cattle—in the French market, buy at enormously high prices. The balance of trade is much against them, their annual exports to France being only a million and a half of _francs_, while they import from thence articles of the value of three millions. The present Emperor of France is understood to entertain enlightened views on the subject of free trade; and it is to be hoped that, when he is able to carry them out, Corsica will share in the benefits of an unrestricted commerce. 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._ We were quite as well served, and the accommodations were as good, at Ajaccio as in any provincial city of France. They gave us a delicate white wine made in the neighbourhood, an agreeable beverage, which, we thought, resembled _Chablais_; and a _confiture_ of cherries preserved in jelly, which was exquisite. I had told the story of our adventure with the poor girls from Corte to the mistress of the house, and, on Bridget's appearing the day after our arrival to claim her wardrobe, she informed me, with great joy, that our good hostess had taken her into her service. On leaving Ajaccio, Sartene was our next point. The road crosses the Gravone and the Prunelle, flowing into the gulf through fertile valleys, and then winds through a wild and mountainous country, in which Cauro is the only village, till, surmounting the Col San Georgio, 2000 feet above the level of the sea, it descends into a rich plain, watered by the Taravo. In its upper course its branches water two romantic valleys, which formed the ancient fiefs of Ornano and Istria, the seats of powerful lords in the old times. Picturesque scenery, ruins of castles, and mediæval tales lend a charm to this region, in which we would gladly have wandered for some days, but that Sardinia was before us. There are few finer spots in the island than the _paese_ of Olmeto, the principal village being surrounded by mountains, with a plain below, extending to the deep inlet of the Mediterranean, called the Gulf of Valinco, and rich in corn-lands, olive, and fruit trees. At Olmeto we were served with a dish of magnificent apples, some of them said to weigh two pounds. On the Monte Buturetto, 3000 feet high, are seen the ruins of the stronghold of Arrigo della Rocca; and, further on, near Sollacaró, another almost inaccessible summit was crowned by a castle, built by his nephew, Vincentello d'Istria—both famed in Corsican story. It was at Sollacaró, standing at the foot of this hill, that our countryman, Boswell, first presented himself to Pascal Paoli, in a house of the Colonna's, with letters of introduction from the Count de Rivarola and Rousseau. Boswell remained some time with Paoli, who was then keeping a sort of court at Sollacaró, and admitted him to the most familiar intercourse. His conversations with the illustrious Corsican, jotted down in his own peculiar style, form the most interesting part of the account of his tour, published after his return to England. “From my first setting out on this tour,” he states, “I wrote down every night what I had observed during the day. Of these particulars the most valuable to my readers, as well as to myself, must surely be the memoirs and remarkable sayings of Pascal Paoli, which I am proud to record.”[37] Boswell was treated with much distinction, and appears to have been flattered with the character, which ignorance or policy attributed to him, of being _Il Ambasciadore Inglese_. “In the morning,” he says, “I had my chocolate served up on a silver salver, adorned with the arms of Corsica. I dined and supped constantly with the general. I was visited by all the nobility; and when I chose to make a little tour, I was attended by a party of guards. One day, when I rode out, I was mounted on Paoli's own horse, with rich furniture of crimson velvet and broad gold lace, and had my guards marching along with me.” His vanity so flattered, and with what he calls Attic evenings, “_noctes, cœnæque Deûm_,” giving scope to his ruling passion, James Boswell must have been in the seventh heaven while Paoli's guest at Sollacaró. But the most amusing part of the affair is the efforts he made to ingratiate himself with the lower classes of the Corsicans, his admiration of whom is sometimes chequered by a wholesome fear of their wild instincts. “I got a Corsican dress made,” he says, “in which I walked about with an air of true satisfaction. The general did me the honour to present me with his own pistols, made in the island, all of Corsican wood and iron, and of excellent workmanship. I had every other accoutrement.[38] The peasants and soldiers became quite free and easy with me. One day, they would needs hear me play upon my German flute. I gave them one or two Italian airs, and then some of our beautiful old Scotch tunes—‘Gilderoy,’ ‘The Lass of Patie's Mill,’ ‘Corn-riggs are bonny.’ The pathetic simplicity and pastoral gaiety of the Scotch music will always please those who have the genuine feelings of nature. The Corsicans were charmed with the specimens I gave them. “My good friends insisted also on having an English song from me. I endeavoured to please them in this, too, and was very lucky in what occurred to me. I sung to them ‘Hearts of oak are our ships; hearts of oak are our men.’ I translated it into Italian for them; and never did I see men so delighted with a song as the Corsicans were with ‘Hearts of Oak.’ ‘_Cuore di querco_,’ cried they, ‘_bravo Inglese!_’ It was quite a joyous riot.” Boswell's correspondence during this tour is also characteristic. He informs us that he walked one day to Corte, from the convent where he lodged, purposely to write a letter to Mr. Samuel Johnson.—“I told my revered friend, that from a kind of superstition, agreeable in a certain degree to him as well as to myself, I had, during my travels, written to him from LOCA SOLEMNIA, places in some measure sacred. That, as I had written to him from the tomb of Melancthon, sacred to learning and piety, I now wrote to him from the palace of Pascal Paoli, sacred to wisdom and liberty; knowing that, however his political principles may have been represented, he had always a generous zeal for the common rights of humanity. “Mr. Johnson was pleased with what I wrote here; for I received, at Paris, an answer from him, which I keep as a valuable charter. ‘When you return, you will return to an unaltered and, I hope, unalterable friend. All that you have to fear from me is the vexation of disappointing me. No man loves to frustrate expectations which have been formed in his favour, and the pleasure which I promise myself from your journals and remarks is so great, that perhaps no degree of attention or discernment will be able to afford it. Come home, however, and take your chance. I long to see you and to hear you; and hope that we shall not be so long separated again. Come home, and expect such a welcome as is due to him whom a wise and noble curiosity has led where, perhaps, no native of this country ever was before.’”[39] We have a certain sympathy for Boswell. He was the first Englishman on record who penetrated into Corsica, and none but ourselves, as far as we have any account, have followed his steps for nearly a century. Not to weary the reader, we have done him injustice in only making extracts from his work betraying the weak points of his character; for his account of Corsica is valuable for its research, its descriptions, and its history of the times. His _memorabilia_ of Pascal Paoli supply ample materials for any modern Plutarch who would contrast his character with that of his rival countryman, Napoleon Bonaparte. Commencing their political career in unison, widely as it diverged, both ended their lives in exile on British soil. Though Paoli's sphere was narrow, so was that of some of the greatest men in Grecian history; and, like theirs, it had far extended relations. The eyes of Europe were upon him; Corsica was then its battle-field, and the principles of his conduct and administration are of universal application. But Sollacaró may have more interest for the public of the present day from its connection with a romance of Alexandre Dumas, and the play founded upon it, than from Paoli's having held court, or Boswell's visit to him, there. We have traced the wizard's footsteps, in one of his works of genius, at the Château d'If and Monte Cristo[40], we meet them again in the wilds of Corsica. Few of my readers can follow us there; but let them go to the “Princess's” when “The Corsican Brothers” is performed, and they will realise much that we have told them of the Corsican temperament and Corsican life. How true to nature is the reply of Fabian, in the first act, to the suggestion of his friend, “Then you will never leave the village of Sollacaró?”—“It seems strange to you that a man should cling to such a miserable country as Corsica; but what else can you expect? I am one of those plants that will only live in the open air. I must breathe an atmosphere impregnated with the life-giving emanations of the mountains and the sharp breezes of the sea. I must have my torrents to cross, my rocks to climb, my forests to explore. I must have my carbine, room, independence, and liberty. If I were transported into a city, methinks I should be stifled, as if I were in a prison.” The scene of the first act is laid in an old mansion of the Colonna's at Sollacaró, perhaps that in which Boswell lodged. The action turns upon an antient feud between the Orlandi and Colonne, which is with difficulty extinguished by the intervention of Fabian, one of the Corsican brothers. A short dialogue tells the story:— “FABIAN. ‘You come among us to witness a _vendetta_; well! you will behold something much more rare—you will be present at a reconciliation.’ “ALFRED. ‘A reconciliation?’ “FAB. ‘Which will be no easy matter, I assure you, considering the point to which things are come.’ “ALF. ‘And from what did this great quarrel originate, which, thanks to you, is on the eve of being extinguished?’ “FAB. ‘Why, I confess I feel some difficulty in telling you that. The first cause was—’ “ALF. ‘Was what?’ “FAB. ‘The first cause was a hen.’ “ALF. (_astonished_) ‘A hen!’ “FAB. ‘Yes. About ten years ago, a hen escaped from the poultry-yard of the Orlandi, and took refuge in that of one of the Colonne. The Orlandi claimed the hen. The Colonne maintained it was theirs. In the heat of the discussion, an Orlando was imprudent enough to threaten that he would summon the Colonne before the _Juge de Paix_, and put them on their oath. At this menace, an old woman of the Colonna family, who held the hen in her hand, twisted its neck, and threw it in the face of the mother of Orlando. “There,” said she, “if the hen be thine, eat it!” Upon this, an Orlando picked up the hen by the claws, and raised his hand, with the hen in it, to strike her who had thrown it in the face of his mother; but at the moment he lifted his hand, a Colonna, who unfortunately had his loaded carbine with him, without hesitation, fired, and shot him in the breast, and killed him.’ “ALF. ‘Good heavens! And how many lives has this ridiculous squabble cost?’[41] “FAB. ‘There have been nine persons killed and five wounded.’ “ALF. ‘What! and all for a miserable hen?’ “FAB. ‘Yes.’ “ALF. ‘And it is, doubtless, in compliance with the prayers of one of these two families that you have interfered to terminate this quarrel?’ “FAB. ‘Oh! not at all. They would have exterminated one another to the very last man rather than have made a single step towards each other. No, no; it is at the entreaty of my brother.’” ... The action of this scene consists in the formal but unwilling reconciliation of the two clans, represented by their chiefs, in the presence of a _juge de paix_; in token of which a hen was to be presented by the Orlando to the Colonna. The situation affords scope for ludicrous disputes whether it should be a white hen or a black one—dead or alive—which should hold out his hand first, and so on; mixed with the more serious question, whether they met on equal terms, only four Orlandi having been slain against five Colonne, but four Orlandi wounded to one Colonna—the Colonne “counting the wounded for nothing,” if they did not die of their wounds. The main plot is beside our purpose. The scene changes to Paris, and the catastrophe may be imagined from the words of Fabian in the last act, which give, alas! too true a picture of what the social state of Corsica was. “‘A Corsican family is the ancient hydra, one of whose heads has no sooner been cut off than there springs forth another, which bites and tears in the place of the one that has been severed from the trunk. What is my will, sir? My will is to kill him who has killed my brother!’ “‘You are determined to kill me, sir! How?’ “FAB. ‘Oh, be satisfied! Not from behind a wall, not through a hedge, as is the mode in my country, as is the practice there; but, as it is done here, _à la mode Française_, with a frilled shirt and white gloves;—and you see, sir, I am in fighting costume.’” * * * * * But we must return to our Rambles, trusting to the indulgent reader's forgiveness, if our pen sometimes rambles too. On leaving Olmeto, the road skirts the Gulf of Valinco, and, after touching the little port of Propriano, ascends to Sartene. This town, the seat of one of the five _sous-préfettures_ into which the island is divided, stands on the summit of a hill, the plain below being covered with olive-yards and fruit-trees, with vineyards on the slopes, and groves of ilex further up. The place has a melancholy aspect, all the houses being of the rudest construction, built of unhewn granite, black with age, and very lofty. It is divided into two quarters; one inhabited by wealthy families, among which, we were told, there are fifteen worth 200,000 _francs_ each; and the other by the lower class of people, a turbulent race, between whom and the patricians there have long been bloody feuds, breaking out into open war. The country between Sartene and Bonifacio is wild and mountainous; and the road winding along the sides of the hills, many fine points of view are presented. To the northward, the eye rested on the lofty peak of Monte Incudine, and the long ridge of the Cascione, the high pasturages of which are occupied during the summer months by the shepherds of Quenza and other villages of the Serra. Southward, we have the coast, deeply indented, the blue Mediterranean, and, at about two hours from Sartene, the distant mountains of Sardinia, in faint outline. Now, there is in sight the grey tower of one of the old feudal castles, overgrown with wood, and rising among pinnacles of rock; vast forests clothe some of the mountain-sides, and everywhere we find the arbutus, the myrtle, and evergreen shrubbery. Here it contrasts well with the red and grey rocks we see around. That reddish rock is a compact granite, evidently admitting of a high polish. There are quarries by the side of the road, which is cut through it; and we are informed that it is sent to Rome for works of art. Corsica is rich in valuable marbles, as yet turned to little account. Not far from Olmeto, in this route, in the canton of Santa Lucia, is found a beautiful granite, peculiar to the island. They call it _orbicularis_. It has a blueish cast, with white and black spots. I have observed it among the choice specimens with which the chapel of the Medici, at Florence, is so richly inlaid. The Corsican mountains present a variety of other fine granites, with porphyry and serpentine, in some of which agates and jaspers are incorporated. Of marbles proper, there are quarries in the island of a statuary marble, of a pure and dazzling whiteness, said to be equal to the best Carrara. Blocks of it, from five to eight feet thick, can be obtained from a single layer. Blueish-grey and pale yellow marbles are found near Corte and Bastia. But of metalliferous rocks and deposits the island cannot boast; a few iron mines, that of Olmeta in particular, one of copper, another of antimony, and one of manganese, form the scanty catalogue. It is to the island of Elba that we must look for mineral wealth. Connected with the mineralogy of Corsica, I would just mention, in passing, that the island abounds in warm, sulphureous, and chalybeate springs, some of them strongly impregnated with carbonic acid gas. Those of Orezza, Puzzichello, and the Fiumorbo, are in great repute; and I collect from the _procès-verbals_ of the Council-General, that the mineral waters of Corsica are considered objects of much importance, considerable sums being annually voted for making baths, with roads to them, and encouraging parties engaged in opening them to the public. Descending from the heights, after halting at a solitary post-house, we cross a large tract of partially-cultivated flats, through which the Ortolo flows sluggishly into the Gulf of Roccapina. Again we climb a ridge, and the mountains of Sardinia rise distinctly before us over the straits and islands beneath us. The road now approaches the Mediterranean, crossing the heads of the small Gulfs of Figari and Ventiligni. Many streams flow into them through a country uninhabited, and said to be unhealthy. Some miles succeed of the undulating shrubbery of the _maquis_, over a poor and rugged surface, till we surmount the last ridge, and, suddenly, Bonifacio appears across the harbour, crowning a rocky peninsula rising boldly from the sea, which washes almost the whole circuit of its base. The chalk cliffs are of a dazzling whiteness, and scooped out by the action of the waves and the weather into the most fantastic shapes. Their entire _enceinte_ is surrounded by fortifications, screening from sight most of the town; the church domes, with watch-towers and a massive citadel, alone breaking the picturesque outline. At the foot of the road, along the harbour-side, lies the _Marino_, inhabited by fishermen, and the seat of a small coasting trade and some commerce across the straits with the island of Sardinia. [Illustration: BONIFACIO ON THE SEA-SIDE.] To this Marino we rumble down the steep bank on the opposite side of the creek, through ilex woods festooned with wild vines, and, lower down, through olive groves. We travelled in the _coupé_ of the _diligence_ from Sartene with a young Corsican officer in the French service, who had come on leave from Dieppe to bid farewell to his family at Bonifacio, expecting to be employed in the expedition to the East. We talked of the coming war, with an almost impregnable fortress before us, memorable for its obstinate resistance to sieges, as remarkable in old times as that in which both, probably, of my fellow-travellers were, twelve months afterwards, engaged. On approaching the place, we witnessed a scene which gave us some idea of the warmth of family feeling among the Corsicans. At the foot of the descent, a mile from the town, the _diligence_ suddenly stopped. By the road-side a group, of all ages and both sexes, was waiting its arrival. What fond greetings! what tender embraces! A young urchin seized his brother's sword, almost as long as himself; the mother and sisters clung to his side. Leaving him to walk to the town thus happily escorted, we are set down on the quay. The only access to the town itself is by a steep inclined plane, with slopes and steps cut in the rock. No wheel carriage ever enters the place. We pass under a gloomy arch in the barbican, surmounted by a strong tower, and establish ourselves in a very unpromising _locanda_, after vainly searching for better quarters. CHAP. XXIV. _Bonifacio.—Foundation and History.—Besieged by Alfonso of Arragon.—By Dragut and the Turks.—Singularity of the Place.—Its Mediæval Aspect.—The Post-office.—Passports.—Detention.—Marine Grottoes.—Ruined Convent of St. Julian._ Boniface, Marquis of Tuscany, one of the noblest and bravest of Charlemagne's peers, was entrusted by his feeble successor with the defence of the most salient point in the southern frontier of his dominions against the incessant ravages of the Saracen Corsairs from Barbary and Spain. Created Count of Corsica, Boniface founded, in 830, the strong fortress, on the southern extremity of the island, which bears his name. A massive round tower, called _Il Torrione_, the original citadel, still proudly crowns the heights, having withstood for ages the storms of war and the tempests which lash its exposed and sea-girt site. Three other ancient towers, including the barbican already mentioned, strengthened the position; and others, with ramparts, curtains, and bastions, were added to the works in succeeding times, till the whole circuit of the rocky _plateau_ bristles with defensive works. Within these the town is closely packed in narrow streets;—but of that hereafter. [Illustration: BONIFACIO] Of its history it need only be mentioned, that after passing to the Pisans, the Genoese got possession of the place by a stratagem, and it remained for many centuries under their protection, but enjoying great independent privileges. Genoese families of distinction settled there, and, during the wars with the Corsicans and their allies, Bonifacio steadfastly adhered to the fortunes of the Republic. In the course of these wars, the place sustained two sieges, so signalised by the vigour and obstinacy of the attack and defence, especially by the heroic resistance of the Bonifacians and the extremity of suffering they endured, that these sieges are memorable amongst the most famous of either ancient or modern times. In 1420, Alfonso of Arragon, having pretensions on Corsica, invested Bonifacio by sea and land with a powerful force, supported by his partisan, Vincintello d'Istria, at the head of his Corsican vassals. The siege, which lasted five months, was vigorously pressed on the part of the Spaniards, and met by a defence equally determined. Night and day, a terrible shower of stone balls and other missiles was hurled at the walls and into the town by the besiegers' engines, both from the fleet and the position occupied by the king's army on a neighbouring hill. The besiegers also threw arrows from the ships' towers and round-tops, and leaden acorns from certain hand-bombards, of cast metal, hollow, like a reed, as they are described by the Corsican historian, these leaden acorns being propelled by fire, and piercing through a man in armour. Artillery, the great arm in modern sieges, thus helped to sweep the ranks of the devoted Bonifacians. Seventy years before, it had been employed, in a rude shape, by the English at the battle of Créci. The walls and towers crumbled under the storm of heavier missiles discharged by the machines of ancient warfare, and the houses were laid in ruins. Twice, practicable breaches were effected, and the Spaniards, bravely mounting to the assault, which lasted several days, were repulsed with severe loss; the women of Bonifacio, as well as the priests and monks, vyeing with the townsmen in heroic courage while defending the breaches. Then, both sexes and every age worked night and day in throwing up barricades and repairing the walls. In the face of this obstinate defence, Alfonso, despairing of being able to carry the place by assault, determined on forcing the enemy to surrender from starvation, during a protracted siege; and, still pouring missiles incessantly into the place, he maintained a close blockade by sea and land, drawing chains across the harbour to prevent supplies being thrown in. The corn magazine had been burnt; and the besieged, reduced to the last extremity, were compelled to devour the most loathsome herbs and animals. Many, wounded and helpless, would have been carried off by hunger had not the compassion of the women afforded them relief; for the kind-hearted women of Bonifacio, we are told, actually offered their breasts to their brothers, children, blood-relations, and sponsors; and there was no one during the terrible siege of Bonifacio who had not sucked the breast of a woman. They even, it is said, made a cheese of their milk, and sent it to the king, as well as threw bread from the walls, to disguise their state of distress from the Spaniards. The republic of Genoa, receiving intelligence of the extremity to which its faithful town was reduced, lost no time in fitting out a fleet to convey to its aid a strong reinforcement, with supplies of arms and food; but the season was so stormy that for three months, between September and January (1421), the expedition was detained in the harbour of Genoa. Meanwhile, the townsmen, almost in despair, listened to the honourable terms offered by the King of Arragon, and at last agreed to capitulate if no relief arrived within forty days. But the king refusing to allow them to send messengers to Genoa, they hastily built a small vessel, and lowering it by ropes from the rock, then let down the devoted crew, who, at every peril, were to convey the magistrates' letters to the senate of Genoa. Followed to the point of rock by multitudes of the citizens, the women, it is said, by turns offered them their breasts: food there was little or none to take with them. After fifteen days of terrible suspense, during which the churches were open from early morning till late at night, the people praying for deliverance from their enemies and for forgiveness of their sins, and going in procession, barefoot, though the winter was severe, from the cathedral of St. Mary to St. Dominic and the other churches, chanting litanies;—at last, when hopes were failing, the little vessel crept under the rock by night, and the crew, giving the signal and being drawn up by ropes, brought the joyful news to the anxious crowd that the Genoese fleet was close at hand. The period for the surrender was come, when sorrow was turned to joy. The bells pealed, fire signals were lighted on all the towers, and shouts of exultation rose to heaven. The Arragonese thundered at the gates, demanding the surrender, for the relieving fleet was not yet descried. The Bonifacians asserted that relief had arrived in the night; and, to countenance the assertion, there appeared bands of armed men, who marched round the battlements, with glittering lances and armour, and the standard of Genoa at their head; for the women of Bonifacio had put on armour, so that, like the female peasantry of the coast of Cardigan, in their red whittles, when the French landed during the war of the revolution, the force opposed to the enemy was apparently doubled or tripled. Alfonso of Arragon, seeing this, exclaimed, “Have the Genoese wings, that they can come to Bonifacio when we are keeping a strict blockade by land and by sea?” And again he gave orders for the assault, and his engines shot a storm of missiles against the place. Three days afterwards, the relieving fleet anchored off the harbour, and some brave Bonifacians, swimming off to the ships, horrified the Genoese by their haggard and famine-worn features. After a terrible fight, which lasted for seven hours—ship jammed against ship in the narrow channel, and the Bonifacians hurling firebrands, harpoons, and all kinds of missiles on such of the enemy's ships as they could reach from the walls and towers—the Genoese burst the chain across the harbour, and unbounded was the joy of the famished townsmen when seven ships, loaded with corn, were safely moored along the Marino. Alfonso of Arragon raised the siege, and, abandoning his enterprise in deep mortification, sailed for Italy. The citizens of Bonifacio displayed equal heroism in defence of their town in 1554. It was then the turn of Henry IV. of France to invade Corsica. Invited by Sampiero and the other patriot chiefs, the French troops, acting in concert with the island militia, drove the Genoese from all their positions except some fortified places on the coast; while the Turks, the natural enemies of the republic, co-operating with the French, appeared off the island with a powerful fleet, under the command of their admiral, Dragut, and laid siege to Bonifacio. The defence offered by the townsmen was all the more obstinate from their being inspired with the sentiment that it was a religious duty to fight against the Infidel. Again the women rushed to the ramparts, and fell gloriously in the breach. The Turks had been repulsed with great slaughter in repeated assaults, and Dragut had drawn off his forces to some distance, disconcerted, and almost resolved to raise the siege, when an unexpected occurrence brought it to an end. An inhabitant of Bonifacio was entrusted by the senate of Genoa to carry over a sum of money, and announce the approach of succour to the besieged town. Landing at Girolata, he was making his way through the island, when, betrayed by one of his guides, he was arrested, and brought to De Thermes, the French general. Means were found of inducing the Genoese emissary to betray his employers. He was instructed to proceed to Bonifacio with Da Mare, a Corsican noble, and engage the authorities to surrender, informing them that the Genoese could afford them no relief. The stratagem succeeded. The letters of credence with which the traitor had been furnished at Genoa satisfied the commandant of the truth of his mission, and he consented to deliver up the place to Da Mare, on condition that the town should be saved from pillage, and the soldiers conducted to Bastia, and embarked for Genoa. But when the Turks saw those brave men, who had foiled all their assaults by an obstinate defence, file out of the place, they fell on them, and massacred them without mercy. Moreover, Dragut demanded that Bonifacio should be put into his hands, or that he should receive an indemnity of 25,000 crowns. It was impossible to deliver up a town to be sacked by the Turks, the inhabitants of which it was policy to conciliate, nor could De Thermes provide the sum required. He promised, however, speedy payment, and sent his nephew to the Turks as an hostage. Dragut then sailed for the Levant, in dudgeon with his allies, and disgusted with an enterprise which had terminated so little to his honour. Bonifacio, with the rest of Corsica, was soon afterwards restored by the treaty of Château-Cambresis to the Genoese, who repaired and considerably added to the fortifications. One easily conceives that the rock fortress must have been impregnable in ancient times, if bravely defended. Even now it is a place of considerable strength, garrisoned by the French, who have erected barracks and improved the works. But the place still singularly preserves the character of a fortified town of the Middle Ages. Nothing seems changed except that French sentries pace the battlements instead of Genoese. There are the old towers, walls, churches, and houses;—the houses, tall and gloomy, many of them having the arms of Genoese families carved in stone over the portals. A network of narrow and irregular streets spreads over the whole _plateau_ within the walls, which rise from the very edge of the cliffs. There is not a yard of vacant space, except an esplanade and _place d'armes_, where the promontory narrows at its southern extremity. The only entrance is under the vaulted archway of the barbican, still as jealously guarded as if Saracen, Turk, or Spaniard threatened an attack. This tower commands the approach from the Marino by the broad ramp, a long inclined plane, at a sharp angle, the ascent of which, _en échelon_, by the troops of diminutive mules and asses employed for conveying all articles necessary for subsistence and use in the town, it was painful to witness. The streets are as void of every kind of vehicle as those of Venice, and almost as unsavoury as its canals. There is scarcely room for two loaded mules to pass each other. Every morning, nearly the whole population pours forth, with their beasts of burthen, to their labour in the country, there being no villages in the canton; returning to their homes in the evening. They are an industrious race, snatching their subsistence from a barren soil. Few strangers visit Bonifacio, and those who do must be content with very indifferent accommodations. We were lodged _au premier_ of a gaunt _locanda_, our last resource, after exploring the place for better quarters. Its best recommendation was the zeal and kindness of the host; and even the resources of his culinary skill, which, I believe, could have produced a _ragout_ from a piece of leather, failed for want of materials on which to exercise it. The supplies of flesh, fowl, and—strange to say—fish, were scanty and bad. The French officers in garrison messed, _en pension_, at our hotel, but their fare, limited by a close economy, was not only meagre, but, with all the accompaniments of the table, absolutely disgusting. To make matters worse, we were detained several days beyond our allotted time in this ill-provisioned fortress by an unexpected mischance. Armed with Foreign Office passports, current at least through the friendly states of France and Sardinia without the slightest hindrance, we had taken the additional precaution of proposing to have them _visé_ by the French and Sardinian Legations in London, that there might be no sort of obstacle to our crossing from one of the two islands in our route to the other. The _visé_ was refused as perfectly unnecessary; and even at Ajaccio, where we passed some hours at the _Préfeture_, our passports were returned to us on mere inspection. Greatly, however, to our mortification, we discovered, at Bonifacio, that international conventions between friendly governments had no force in this out-of-the-way corner of the civilised world. We could not be allowed to embark for Sardinia without authority from the Administration at Ajaccio, which it would take at least forty-eight hours to procure. All arguments were vain; the Foreign Office passport could not be recognised; the orders were precise for a strict _surveillance_ of all persons endeavouring to cross the Straits. As private individuals and English gentlemen, we were on particularly pleasant terms with the _maire_ and his son; but, officially, such was their language, they had nothing to show that we were not brigands meditating escape. Officials generally, and foreign officials especially, are not to be moved by any force of circumstances from their regular track. Unwilling to submit, and anxious to get forward, we lost twenty-four hours of precious time in vainly negotiating with the master of a small vessel to smuggle us over. He would be well paid, and we proposed going to some unfrequented part of the coast, from whence he could take us off. But, tempting as the offers were, after much deliberation, they were rejected. Such things were common a short time before, and hundreds of the banditti had been ferried over to the coast of Sardinia; but now there was a sharp look-out, and discovery would be ruin. Insignificant as is the commerce of Bonifacio, it is well watched by a staff of _douaniers_, consisting of a captain, four _sous-officiers_, and thirteen or fourteen _préposés_, _matelots_, &c., besides _officiers de santé_ and swarms of _gendarmes_. They were everywhere: at our landing; while sketching; always in pairs; and seeming to dodge our steps. Two presented themselves while we were at supper the evening after our arrival. The passports had been exhibited;—what could they want with us? what offence had we committed? Their business was with the innkeeper; he had omitted to fix a lantern at his door! He hated the French like a true Corsican. He would not pay even decent respect to the officers, his guests, and boasted of starving them to the last fraction his contract for the mess allowed; while nothing was good enough for the Englishmen. Piétro was, indeed, a true Corsican; had killed his man, given a _coup_, as he called it, to his enemy, was condemned to death, but bought off. _Encore_; a man he had offended came to his hotel, and called for food. They sat down to table in company, Piétro observing that his enemy frequently kept his hand on a side-pocket. After supper, the man asked for a chamber to sleep. Piétro replied that they were all occupied, but he might sleep with him. The other was staggered at his coolness, and, hesitating to comply, Piétro seized him, and finding a pistol secreted on his person, doubled him up, and kicked him down stairs. Our host was not singular in his disaffection to the French. The Bonifacians feel their thraldom more perhaps than any other people in Corsica, overshadowed as their small population is by a strong garrison and a host of _douaniers_ and _gendarmes_. Republican ideas prevail; and they have not forgotten the days when their important town was more an ally, than a dependance, of Genoa. Now, from their small population, a single deputy represents them in the departmental council, while Ajaccio sends twenty-nine and Bastia twenty-five members. The Bonifacians despise their masters. “The French are inconstant,” said an inhabitant, high in office, with whom I was talking politics; “they have _tant de petitesses_; they have no national character: we have, and you;—our very quarrels, which are deep and lasting, show it.” Everything is primitive in Bonifacio, except the emblems of French domination. On the evening of our arrival, having threaded my way alone with some difficulty through a labyrinth of dark streets and lanes to the Post Office, I found it closed; and there being no apparent means of announcing my errand, was departing in despair, when a neighbour good-humouredly cried out, “_Tirate la corda, signore!_” After some search, for it was getting dark, I discovered a string, running up the wall of the house to the third story. Pulling it lustily, at last a window opened, and an old woman put her head out, inquiring, in a shrill voice, “_Que volete?_” Having made known my wants, after some delay, steps were heard slowly descending the stairs. Admitted at length into the _bureau_, the old crone, spectacle on nose, proceeded very deliberately to spell over, by a feeble lamplight, the addresses of a bundle of letters taken from a shelf. The process was excruciating, anxious as we were for news from home. She could make nothing of my friend's truly Saxon name;—what foreign official can ever decipher English names? Mine was more pronounceable, and as I kept repeating both, she caught that, and, incapable as I should have thought her of making a pun, she exclaimed at last, in despair, “_Forestier, ecco! sono tutti forestière_,” tossing me the whole bundle to choose for myself. Happily, I was not disappointed. We shall not easily forget Bonifacio. Our detention within the narrow bounds of the fortress-town afforded us leisure to realise the scenes which the crowded _enceinte_ must have offered during its memorable sieges. The combined effects, too, of loathsome smells—the filth of the purlieus being indescribable—of bad diet, confinement, and the irritation natural to Englishmen under detention, brought on suddenly severe attacks of diarrhœa, though we were both before in robust health. Our sufferings shadowed out, however faintly, the miseries endured by a crowded population during the sieges, and again when half the inhabitants of Bonifacio became victims to the plague in 1582—a scourge which then devastated Corsica and parts of Italy. Gasping for pure air, we were forbidden by the everwatchful _gendarmes_ to walk on the town ramparts. From early dawn till late evening, the eternal clang of hand cornmills forbade repose in our _locanda_. The neighbouring country has few attractions, even if we had been in a state to profit by them. All interest is concentrated in the place itself. Our steps were therefore especially attracted to the open area forming the southern extremity of the Cape, as already mentioned. There at least we could breathe the fresh air, look down on the blue Mediterranean washing the base of the chalk cliffs, far beneath, and trace the outline of the coast of Sardinia across the Straits. The Gallura mountains rose boldly on the horizon, and the low island of Madaléna, our proposed landing-place, was distinctly visible. It needed not that we should indulge imagination in picturing to ourselves Castel Sardo, and other places along the coast, which we hoped soon to visit. The esplanade was generally solitary, and suited our musings. One evening, the silence was broken by a melancholy chant from the chapel of a ruined monastery within the guarded _enceinte_. It was a service for the dead, at which a prostrate crowd assisted in deep devotion. The sentries on the walls rested on their arms, and we stood at the open door, facing the western sky and the rolling waves, listening to strains of wailing which would have suited the times of the siege and the plague. [Illustration: OUTLINE OF SARDINIA FROM BONIFACIO.] Nearer the town stands the old church of the Templars, dedicated to St. Dominic, of fine Gothic architecture, full of interest for its armorial and other memorials of the knightly defenders of the faith, and of noble Genoese families. Over the edge of the cliff towers the massive _Torrione_, the original fortress of the Marquis Bonifacio, consecrated in memory as long the bulwark of the island against the incursions of Saracen corsairs. Here, is the spot where the hastily-built galley, with its adventurous crew, was lowered down the face of the cliff, to convey to Genoa the intelligence of the extremity to which the citizens of Bonifacio were reduced when besieged by Alfonso of Arragon. There, is a ladder of rude steps, cut in the chalk cliffs to the edge of the water, two hundred feet beneath, the descent of which it made one dizzy to contemplate. Perhaps, under cover of night, the now ruinous steps have been boldly trodden in a sally for surprising the enemy, or stealthily mounted by emissaries from without, conveying intelligence to the beleaguered party. Perhaps, in the Genoese times, some Romeo and Juliet, of rival families, found the means of elopement by this sequestered staircase. One could imagine shrouded figures gliding from the convent church close by—the perilous descent, the light skiff tossing beneath, with its white sails a-peak, waiting to bear off the lovers to freedom and bliss. For what legends and tales of romance, real or imaginary, have we materials here! [Illustration: CAVE UNDER BONIFACIO.] It is by sea only that one can escape from Bonifacio, except by miles of dreary road. To the sea we looked for ours. _En attendant_, we tried our wings to the utmost length of the chain which bound us to the rock. Procuring a boat, we pulled out of the harbour, and round the jutting points crowned by the fortress, half inclined to pitch the _padrone_ overboard, and make a straight course for the opposite coast of Sardinia. Not driven to that extremity, we wiled away the time pleasantly enough in a visit to the caverns worn by the sea in the chalk cliffs, which front its surges. Some of these are exceedingly picturesque. Their entrances festooned with hanging boughs, they penetrate far into the interior of the rocks, and the water percolating through their vaulted roofs, has formed stalactites of fantastic shapes. The boat glides through the arched entrance, and we find ourselves in the cool and grateful shade of these marine grottoes. Fishes are flitting in the clear water; limpid streams oozing through the rocks form fresh-water basins, with pebbly bottoms; and the channels from the blue sea, flowing over the chalk, become cerulean. These are, indeed, the halls of Amphitrite, fitting baths of Thetis and her nymphs. Poetic imagination has never pictured anything more enchanting. [Illustration: BONIFACIO FROM THE CONVENT IN THE VALLEY.] One afternoon, we walked a mile out of the town, up a narrow valley in the limestone cliffs, to the ruined convent of St. Julian. The bottom of the valley is laid out in gardens, with cross walls, and channels for irrigation. The gardens appeared neglected, but there were some vines and fig-trees, pomegranates, and crops of a large-growing kale. The ruins lie at the head of the glen, facing Bonifacio and the sea; the walls of the convent and church still standing, approached by a broad paved way on a flight of marble steps. Seated on these, we enjoyed at leisure a charming view. Vineyards and plots of cultivated land overspread the slopes on either side of the valley. There were scattered olive-trees, and bamboos waving in the wind. The old convent walls, mantled with ivy, contrasted with a chapel at the foot of the steps, having a handsome dome, covered with bright glazed tiles of green, red, and black, and surmounted by a cross—the only portion of the conventual buildings still perfect. In the distance was the little landlocked haven, with a brig and some small lateen-sailed vessels moored alongside the Marino. Above it rose the fortress-town, with its towers and battlements. The sound of the church bells tolling for vespers rose, softened by distance, up the valley. Ravens were croaking over the ruins of the convent, and lizards frisking on the banks and the marble steps on which we reposed. It was a fitting spot for a Sunday afternoon's meditation—our last in Corsica! 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._ Released, at length, from our irksome detention by the return of the courier with the passports _visés_ from Ajaccio, and a boat we had hired, meanwhile, lying ready at the Marino to carry us over to Sardinia, not a moment was lost in getting under sail to cross the straits. The Bocche di Bonifacio were called by the Romans _Fossa Fretum_, and by the Greeks _Tappros_, a trench, from their dividing the islands of Corsica and Sardinia like a ditch or dyke. These straits are considered dangerous by navigators, from the violence of the squalls gushing suddenly from the mountains and causing strong currents, especially during the prevalence of winds from the north-west during nine months of the year. Lord Nelson describes them during one of these squalls as “looking tremendous, from the number of rocks and the heavy seas breaking over them.” In another letter he says, “We worked the ‘Victory’ every foot of the way from Asinara to this anchorage, [off La Madelena,] blowing hard from Longo Sardo, under double-reefed topsails.” The difficulties of the Bonifacio passage can hardly be understood by a landsman who has not visited the straits, but they are stated to have been so great, “and the ships to have passed in so extraordinary a manner, that their captains could only consider it as a providential interposition in favour of the great officer who commanded them.”[42] [Illustration: LOOKING BACK ON CORSICA.] It has been my fortune to pass these straits on three several occasions when they were perfectly calm. During the passage from Corsica in an open boat, which I am now relating, there was so little wind that, with all the spread of high-peaked sails a Mediterranean boat can carry, we made but little way, and the surface was so unruffled that my friend was able to sketch at ease the outline of the Corsican mountains, from which we were slowly receding. It was, however, pleasurable to linger midway between the two islands, retracing our route in the one by the lines of its mountain ranges, and anticipating fresh delight in penetrating those of the Gallura now in prospect. The appearance of a French revenue cutter to windward tended to reconcile us to the failure of our plan of getting smuggled across the straits, which might have led to more serious consequences than the detention we suffered. The coast line on both sides of the channel, as on all the shores of the two islands, is remarkably bold; and the scene was diversified by the groups of rocky islets scattered across the straits, and described in a former chapter as the broken links of a chain which once united Corsica with the mountain system of the north-east-portion of the island of Sardinia. They are composed entirely of a fine-grained red granite. In some of the islets lying nearest the Corsican coast quarries were worked to supply blocks and columns for the temples and palaces of imperial Rome. Quarries of the same material were also worked by the Romans, as we shall find presently, on the coast of Sardinia, opposite these islands. With two exceptions, these “Intermediate Islands” are uninhabited. They were considered of so little importance that, till the middle of the last century, it was considered a question which of them belonged to Sardinia and which to Corsica. It was then easily settled by drawing a visual line equidistant from Point Lo Sprono on the latter, and Capo Falcone on the former; it being agreed that all north of this line should belong to Corsica, and all south of it to Sardinia. The distance between the two capes is about ten nautical miles. To the westward of Capo Falcone lies the small harbour of Longo Sardo, or Longone, the nearest landing-place from Bonifacio, from which it has long carried on a contraband trade; its proximity to Corsica also making it the asylum of the outlaws exiled from that island. A new town, called Villa Teresa, built on a more healthy spot on the neighbouring heights, has received a considerable access of population from the same source. The Capes Falcone, with La Marmorata close by, and La Testa forming the north-west point of Sardinia, are all of the same formation as the rocky islands in the straits already mentioned, and, like them, this district furnished the Romans with many of the granite columns which still form magnificent ornaments of the Eternal City. Those of the Pantheon are said to have been excavated near Longone; and several similar ones, as well as rude blocks, may still be seen in the quarries on the promontory of Santa Reparata, near which the remains of some Roman villas have also been discovered. In later days we find the value of the Gallura granite appreciated by the Pisans. Their Duomo, built by Buschetto in 1063, soon after their possession of Sardinia, shows the beauty of the Marmorata rocks; and the Battisterio, built in 1152 by Dioti Salvi, has also much of Gallura material in its construction. La Madelena is the largest island in the Sardinian group, and while Porto Longone is a poor place, the town and harbour of La Madelena are much frequented in the communications and trade between Corsica and Sardinia. Our course therefore was shaped for the latter, though twice the distance from shore to shore. The island of La Madelena, the _Insula Ilva_, or _Phintonis_, of the Romans, is about eleven miles in circumference. Till about a century ago it was only inhabited or frequented by shepherds, natives of Corsica, who led a nomad life, and by their constant intercourse with Corsica and Sardinia, and by intermarriages with natives of both, formed a mixed but distinct race, as the Ilvese are still considered. The town of La Madelena was only founded in 1767, some Corsican refugees being among its first settlers; but from its fine harbour, the healthiness of its site, and its convenience for commerce with Italy, it rapidly became a place of considerable population and trade. There are numerous channels and many sheltered bays frequented by ships between the group of islands of which La Madelena is the principal. Our own course from the north-west led us through a strait between the main land of Sardinia and the islands of Sparagi, Madelena, and Caprera, which opened to view all the points of interest in its most celebrated harbour. Right ahead, it was almost closed by the little rocky islet of Santo Stefano, now defended by a fort, and remarkable for having been the scene of a severe repulse received by Napoleon at the outset of his long successful career. A point to the south, on the main land of Sardinia, marking the entrance of the Gulf of Arsachena, is called the Capo dell'Orso, from a mass of granite so exactly resembling the figure of a bear recumbent on its hind legs, that it attracted the notice of Ptolemy 1400 years ago. The island of Caprera, probably deriving its name from the wild goats till lately its sole inhabitants, presents a ridge of rugged mountains, rising in the centre to a ridge called Tagiolona, upwards of 750 feet high, with some little sheltered bays, and a few cultivated spots on its western side. Sheltered by Caprera, La Madelena, and Santo Stefano, we find the fine anchorage of Mezzo Schifo; the town of La Madelena, for which we are steering, lying about half a mile south-west of the anchorage. This harbour, named by Lord Nelson “Agincourt Sound,” was his head-quarters while maintaining the blockade of Toulon, from 1803 to 1805. He formed the highest opinion of its position for a naval station, as affording safe and sheltered anchorage, and ingress and egress with any winds. His public and private correspondence at that period shows the importance he attached to its possession, and his anxiety that it should be secured permanently to the crown of England. “If we could possess the island of Sardinia,” he says, in a letter to Lord Hobart, “we should want neither Malta nor any other island in the Mediterranean. This, which is the finest of them, possesses harbours fit for arsenals, and of a capacity to hold our navy,—within twenty-four hours' sail of Toulon,—bays to ride our fleets in, and to watch both Italy and Toulon.” In another letter, he says:—“What a noble harbour is formed by these islands! The world cannot produce a finer. From its position, it is worth fifty Maltas.” This opinion we find repeated in a variety of forms, and with Nelson's characteristic energy of expression. When at anchor in Agincourt Sound, he kept two or three frigates constantly cruising between Toulon and the Straits of Bonifacio, to signal any attempt of the enemy to leave their port; occasionally cruising with his whole fleet, and then retreating to head-quarters. His sudden appearance and disappearance off Toulon, in one of these exercises, with the hope of alluring the French to put to sea, led their admiral, M. Latouche-Tréville, to make the ludicrous boast, that he had chased the whole British fleet, which fled before him. This bravado so irritated Nelson, that it drew from him the well-known threat, contained in a letter to his brother: “You will have seen by Latouche's letter how he chased me, and how I ran. I keep it; and, if I take him, by God, he shall eat it!” Our boatman pointed out to us the channel through which Lord Nelson led his fleet when at length, after more than two years' watching, the object of all his hopes and vows was accomplished by the French fleet putting to sea. This, the eastern channel, of which the low isle of Biscie forms the outer point, is the most dangerous of all, from the sunken rocks which lie in the fairway, and its little breadth of sea room. Yet Nelson beat through it in a gale of wind, in the dusk of the evening, escaping these dangers almost miraculously. Our sailor pointed out all this with lively interest, for Nelson's name and heroic deeds are still household words among the seafaring people of La Madelena. It was on the 19th of January, 1805, that the look-out frigate in the offing signalled to the admiral that the French fleet had put to sea. At that season there was much gaiety, in dances, private theatricals, and other amusements, on board the different ships in the harbour, and preparations for an evening's entertainment were going on at the moment the stirring signal was discovered. It was no sooner acknowledged on board the “Victory” than the responding one appeared, “Weigh immediately!” The scene of excitement and confusion ensuing the sudden departure and interruption of festivities may be easily conceived. It was a dark wintry evening; but the suddenness of the order to get under way was equalled by the skill and courage with which it was executed. The passage is so narrow that only one ship could pass at a time, and each was guided only by the stern lights of the preceding vessel. At seven o'clock, the whole of the fleet was entirely clear of the passage, and, bidding a long farewell to La Madelena, they stood to the southward in pursuit of the French fleet. The daring and determined spirit exhibited by Nelson on this particular occasion was the subject of especial eulogy in the House of Lords by his late Majesty, then Duke of Clarence; being cited as the greatest instance of his unflinching courage and constant activity. Thus, as we have already found Corsica, we now see Sardinia, witnessing some of the boldest achievements of our great naval hero. Further interest attaches to La Madelena from its having repulsed the attack of Napoleon, and driven him to a precipitate retreat from his first field of arms. The young soldier, after being for some months in garrison at Bonifacio, was attached, by order of Paschal Paoli, to the expedition which sailed from thence in February, 1793, to reduce La Madelena. He acted as second in command of the artillery, the whole force being under the command of General Colonna-Cesari. A body of troops having effected a lodgment on the island of Santo Stefano by night, and a battery having been thrown up and armed, a heavy fire was opened by Bonaparte on the town and its defences. They were held by a garrison of 500 men, and the fire was returned by the islanders with equal fury. The opposite shore of Gallura was lined by its brave mountaineers, who, on the French frigate being dismasted and bearing up for the Gulf of Arsachena, embarked from Parao, and attacked Santo Stefano. Their assault was so vigorous that Bonaparte found himself compelled to make a precipitate retreat from the island with a few of his followers, leaving 200 prisoners, with all the _matériel_, baggage, and artillery. In passing between the other islands, the fugitives were also attacked by some Gallurese, who, concealing themselves near Capo della Caprera, by the precision of their firing committed great havoc on the flying enemy. Mr. Tyndale states that many of the Corsicans and Ilvese who witnessed this action, being still living when he visited La Madelena, and relating various circumstances relative to it, he heard the following story from an old veteran, who was an eyewitness of the fact:— “Bonaparte was superintending the firing from the battery, and watching the effect of it with his telescope, when observing the people at Madelena going to mass, he exclaimed, ‘_Voglio tirare alla chiesa, per far fuggire le donne!_’ (‘I should like to fire at the church, just to frighten the women!’) While in garrison at Bonifacio, as lieutenant [? captain] of artillery, he had mortar and gun practice every morning, and had on all occasions shown the greatest precision in firing. In this instance he was no less successful, for the shell entered the church window, and fell at the foot of the image of N.S. di Madelena. It failed to burst in this presence, and this miraculous instance of religious respect had its due weight with the pious islanders, by whom it was taken up, and for a long time preserved among the sacred curiosities of the town. A natural cause was, however, soon discovered for the harmlessness of the projectile. Napoleon continued his firing; but finding that the shells took no effect, though they fell on the very spot he intended, he examined some of them, and found that they were filled with sand. ‘_Amici_,’ he exclaimed, burning with indignation; ‘_eccole il tradimento_;’ and the troops, who had been suffering much by the fire from Madelena, imagining that the treason was on the part of General Cesari, would have put him _alla lanterna_, had he not made his escape on board the frigate.” It has, indeed, been said that Paoli, reluctantly obeying the orders of the French Convention to undertake the expedition against Sardinia, entrusted the command to Colonna-Cesari, his intimate friend, with instructions to secure its failure, considering Sardinia as the natural ally of their own island. However this may be, the affair terminated by the retreat of the general with the rest of his force, having thrown from Santo Stefano 500 shells and 5000 round shot into Madelena, without much effect. We found in the harbour a Sardinian steam-ship of war[43], and ten or twelve vessels of very small tonnage, engaged in the trade with Corsica, Leghorn, and Marseilles. About twenty of this class belong to the port; besides which it is frequented annually by from 200 to 300 other small vessels, principally Genoese, their united tonnage amounting to about 5000 tons. Besides this legitimate commerce, the Ilvese carry on a prosperous contraband trade, taking advantage of the numerous little creeks and bays along the rocky coasts of the island. They are naturally a seafaring people, while the Sardes manifest a decided repugnance to engage in seafaring pursuits. The quays round the port of Madelena are spacious, and the town, straggling up the side of a hill, has a neat appearance, is said to be healthy, and is cleaner than any Sardinian town we saw. There are tolerable accommodations at Santa's Hotel. The reception of foreign guests is however, I imagine, a rare occurrence, and the means of supplying the table from the resources of the island appeared scanty; so that we should have fared ill but for the kindness of an English officer long settled at Madelena, who sent some substantial contributions to our comforts, in addition to his own hospitality. The name of Captain Roberts, R.N., is so well known to all visitors, as well as among the Sardes, that it is public property, and I may be allowed to bear testimony to the high esteem in which the hearty and genial old sailor is generally held. His loss would occasion a blank at Madelena not easily filled up; and I was happy to hear on my last visit to Sardinia that his health had improved. More English, I believe, are settled in the neighbourhood of La Madelena than in the whole island of Sardinia; if, indeed, there are any to be found, we did not hear of them. The English visitors consist principally of officers on shooting excursions from Malta. We had a very pleasant walk along the shore to the villa of an Australian colonist who, after wandering about the world, had, seemingly to his content, settled down on a small farm on the slopes of a valley a mile or two from the town. A man fond of cultivation might be very happy here, with such a climate, and the means of commanding a profusion of vegetables, fruits, and flowers. Irrigation was effected from a well provided with the simple machinery for lifting the water common in such countries, and by its aid the gardens just seeded and planted for the spring, or rather winter, crops, so early is vegetation, looked greener and fresher than anything we had seen for a long time. The cauliflowers and peas were already making forward progress; the latter, indeed, grow wild in this neighbourhood. But while these carried us in imagination to the latter days of an English spring, the hedges of prickly pear bore witness to the arid nature of the soil and the heat of the climate; of that, indeed, we were very sensible in our walks, though the month of November had now commenced. A cottage occupied, it was said, by an English botanist was pointed out to us; and an English family has been settled for some time in the solitude of the island of Caprera, of whose improvements great things were said. Every one spoke especially of Mrs. C.'s beautiful flower garden, and an anecdote was told respecting it, characteristic, I think, rather of Sarde than of English feeling. On some occasion when the king visited La Madelena, Mrs. C. having been requested to contribute flowers to the decorations of the festa in preparation to do honour to the royal visit, she is said to have replied: “I cultivate my flowers for my own pleasure—_pour m'amuser_—not to ingratiate myself with a court. If his majesty desires to see them, he must come to Caprera.” I cannot vouch for the truth of the story, though it was in every one's mouth. What amused me was, that the islanders considered this as evincing a truly English spirit of independence, which they heartily approved. The principal church of La Madelena, dedicated to St. Mary Magdalene, is a neat structure of granite and marble. Its decorations are less gaudy than those one usually sees, the most valued ornaments being a pair of massive altar candlesticks and a crucifix, all of silver, the gift of Lord Nelson, in acknowledgment of the kindness and hospitality he received from the islanders while his fleet lay in the harbour. On the base of the candlesticks are enchased the arms of Nelson and Brontë, with this inscription: VICE COMES NELSON NILI DUX BRONTIS ECC.E ST.E MAGDAL.E INS.E ST.E MAGDAL.E D.D.D. It is said that when the town publicly thanked Lord Nelson for the donation, he replied: “These little ornaments are nothing; wait till I catch the French outside their port. If they will but come out, I am sure to capture them; and I promise to give you the value of one of their frigates to build a church with. I have only to ask you to pray to La Santissima Madonna that the French fleet may come out of Toulon. Do you pray to her for that, and as for capturing them, I will undertake to do all the rest.” We landed at La Madelena on the anniversary of the day when Nelson first anchored his fleet off the town just fifty years before. As we trace his career among the Mediterranean islands, recollections of those eventful times crowd on our memories. In the half century that has intervened, how has the aspect of affairs changed! It was the eve of the feast of All Saints (1st Nov.), devoutly observed, with that of All Souls on the day following, in all Catholic countries. From daylight till ten at night the bells of St. Magdalene incessantly clanged, and the church was thronged with successive crowds, absorbed in pious and affectionate devotion to the memories of their departed friends, according to the rites of the Roman Church. How thrilling are the deep tones of the _De Profundis_ from the compositions of a good musical school! And what observance can be more touching than this periodical commemoration of the dead? There is none that more harmonises with the best feelings of our nature; and yet of all the dogmas rejected by ecclesiastical reforms, I know of none which has less pretensions to Scriptural authority or has been more mischievous, corrupting alike the priesthood and the laity, than that which makes the masses and prayers incident to the commemoration of the dead propitiatory for sins committed in the flesh. The solemn festival brought out all the women of La Madelena, never perhaps seen to more advantage than in a costume of black silk, suited to the solemnity, with the Genoese mantle of white transparent muslin attached to the back of the head, and falling gracefully over the shoulders. 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._ The halt at La Madelena was only a step in our route to the main island. We had still to cross a broad channel, and landing at Parao, on the Sardinian shore, horses were to be waiting for us. This arrangement, kindly made by Captain Roberts, required a day's delay. We were to proceed to Tempio, in the heart of the Gallura Mountains, under guidance of the courier in charge of the post letters. Ferried across the channel in less than an hour, we found the horses tethered among the bushes. House there was none, which must be inconvenient when the weather is too tempestuous for crossing the strait from Parao. We took shelter from the heat under a rook, making studies of a group of picturesque shepherds, and amusing ourselves with some luscious grapes,—baskets of which were waiting for the return of the passage-boat to La Madelena,—while a pack-horse was loaded with our baggage. The outfit for this expedition was more than usually cumbersome, as it comprised blankets and other appendages for camping out, if occasion required. The cavallante, however, made nothing of stowing it away, cleverly thrusting bag and baggage into the capacious leather pouches which hung balanced on each side of the stout beast, with a portmanteau across the pack-saddle. When all was done, the cavallante mounted to the top of the load, where he perched himself like an Arab on a dromedary. The cavallo Sardo _par excellence_, such as the higher classes ride, is a strong spirited barb, highly valued. These horses are carefully broken to a peculiar step, called the “portante,” something between an amble and a trot, for which we have neither a corresponding word or pace. I cannot say that I admired the pace. It only makes four or five miles an hour, and, to my apprehension, might be described as a shuffle, not being so easy as a canter, nor having the invigorating swing of a trot. The natives, however, consider the movement delightful; and a writer on Sardinia says: “_Il viaggiare in Sardegna è perciò la più dolce cosa del mondo; l'antipongo all'andare in barca col vento in poppa_”—“The travelling in Sardinia is, on this account, one of the pleasantest things in the world; I prefer it to sailing in a vessel with the wind astern.” The ordinary Sarde horse is a hardy, sure-footed animal, undersized, but capable of carrying heavy burthens. Great numbers of them are kept, as the poorest native disdains walking. They are ill fed, and have rough treatment. As pack-horses they convey all the commodities of home produce, or imported and interchanged, throughout the interior of the island, there being scarcely any roads, and consequently no wheel-carriages employed, except on the Strada Reale, through the level plains of the Campidano, between Cagliari and Porto Torres. The _viandanti_ who conduct this traffic are a numerous and hardy class of people, much enduring in the long and toilsome journeys through such a country as their vocation requires them to traverse. We found them civil, patient, and attentive, but hard at a bargain,—so that this mode of travelling is more expensive than might be expected,—and occasionally rather independent. A curious instance of this occurred at Tempio. We had made a bargain, on his own terms, with one of these people, for horses to proceed on our route, and they were brought to the door ready for loading up and mounting, when the cavallante refused to allow our using our English saddles. Not wishing to lose time, we took considerable pains to point out that the saddles being well padded would not wring his horses' backs, conceiving that to be what he apprehended. But it was to no purpose; there seemed to be no other reason for the scruple than that a Sarde horse must be caparisoned _à la Sarde_, with high-peaked saddle and velvet housings. The cavallante, persisting, led his horses back to the stable, losing a profitable engagement rather than being willing to submit to their being equipped in a foreign fashion. After a short delay we procured others from a cavallante who made no such difficulties, and proved a very serviceable and attentive conductor. [Illustration: VALLEY OF THE LISCIA.] After leaving Parao, and calling at a solitary _stazza_ or farm, the track we pursued led through a wide plain watered by the Liscia. The river made many windings among meadows clothed with luxuriant herbage, and fed by numerous herds of cattle, and sheep, and goats; forming a pastoral scene of singular beauty, of which my companion's sketch, here annexed, conveys a good idea. The valley is bounded by ridges of no great elevation, partially covered with a shrubbery of myrtle, cistus, and other such underwood, among rocks and cliffs worn by the waters into fantastic shapes. We occasionally crossed spurs of these ridges, commanding extensive views of the Straits of Bonifacio, with the mountains of Corsica in the distance on the one hand, and the nearer island of Madelena on the other. Nearly all the province of Gallura, washed by the Mediterranean on three sides, consists of mountainous tracts, with valleys intervening, similar to this of the Liscia. There is scarcely any cultivation, and they are uninhabited; almost all the towns and villages of the Capo di Sopra lying on the coast. On these plains a few shepherds lead a nomad life during the healthy season, being driven from them by the deadly _intempérie_ prevailing in summer and autumn. Until lately, the whole district was notorious for the crimes of robbery and vindictive murder, for the perpetration of which, and the security of the offenders, its solitudes and natural fastnesses afforded the greatest facilities. Continuing our route we crossed some park-like glades, with scattered forest trees, and fringed by the graceful shrubbery, the _macchia_, common to both the islands of Corsica and Sardinia. At some distance on our left (south-east) appeared a beautifully wooded hill, with a chapel on the summit, Santa Maria di Arsachena, one of the sanctuaries held in great veneration by the Gallurese. To these holy places they flock in great numbers on certain festivals, when the lonely spots, often hill-tops, surrounded by the most wild and romantic scenery, witness devotions and festivities, to which the revels form the chief allurement. There is a still holier place further to the south of our track, the Monte Santo, and I think its lofty summit, with a small chapel scarcely visible amid the dark verdure of the surrounding woods, was pointed out to us. It overhangs the village of Logo Santo, well described as the “Mecca of the Gallurese.” The sanctity of the place was established in the thirteenth century, the tradition being that the relics of St. Nicholas and St. Trano, anchorites and martyrs here A.D. 362, were discovered on the spot by two Franciscan monks, led to Sardinia by a vision of the Virgin Mary at Jerusalem. A village grew up round the three churches then erected in honour of the Saints and the Blessed Virgin, with a Franciscan convent, long stripped of its endowments, and fallen to ruin. On the occurrence of the festivals celebrated at these holy places, the people of the neighbouring parishes assemble in multitudes, marching in procession, with their banners at their head; and the sacred flag of Tempio, surmounted by a silver cross, is brought by the canons of the cathedral and planted on the spot. The devotions are accompanied by feasting, dancing, music, and sports, the people prolonging the revels into the night, as many of them come from far, and the festivals occupy more than one day. That Christian rites were, from very early times, blended with festivities accordant to the national habits of the new converts, with even some alloy of pagan usages, is understood to have been a policy adopted by the founders of the faith among semi-barbarous nations—a concession to the weakness of their neophytes. Our own village wakes and fairs, with their green boughs and flags, cakes and ale, originally held in the precincts of the church on the feast-day of the patron saint, partook of a similar character as the festivals of the Gallurese; but with us the religious element has been long extinct. The festivals are not confined to the Gallura; they have their stations throughout the island, every district having some shrine of peculiar sanctity. Their celebration is distinguished by some peculiarities, which, in common with many other customs of the Sardes, and numerous existing monuments and remains, leave no doubt of Sardinia having been early colonised from the East. Traces may also be found in the customs of the Sardes of similarity with the Greek life and manners, derived indeed by the Greeks from the same common source. Thus the usages of the Sardes afford, in a variety of instances, a living commentary, perhaps the best still existing, on the modes of life and thought recorded in Homer and the Bible. This they owe to their insular position, their slight admixture with other races, and the consequent tenacity with which they have adhered to their primitive traditions. Of some of these indications of origin we may take occasion to treat hereafter, as they fall in our way. For our present purpose may we not refer to the worship in “high places” and in “groves,” to which the Sardes are so zealously addicted, as a relic of practices often denounced in the Old Testament, when the sacrifice was offered to idols? They appear also to have been common and legitimate in the patriarchal age and the earlier times of the Israelitish commonwealth, Jehovah alone being the object of worship. What more biblical, as far as the Old Testament is concerned, than the idea that worship and prayer are more acceptable to the Almighty when offered on certain spots, holy ground, remote, perhaps, from the usual haunts of the worshipper! What a living picture we have in the festivities of the religious assemblies at Logo Santo and Santa Maria di Arsachena, of the feasting and music, the songs and dances accompanying the rites of Israelitish worship in common with those of other eastern nations; not to speak of the festive character of Greek solemnities, derived, indeed, from the same source, vestiges of which, left by the Hellenic colonies, may also be traced. However contrary these ideas and practices may be to the spirit and precepts of the Gospel, they are so inherent in the genius and traditions of the Sarde people, that I have heard it asserted that these festas give, at the present day, almost the only vitality to the ecclesiastical system established in the island. Their religious character has almost entirely evaporated, though the forms remain. The “solemn meetings,” instead of merely ending in innocent merriment, have degenerated into scenes of riot, and often of bloodshed. I was informed by the same person who made the remark that the festas were the main prop of the priesthood in Sardinia—and a more competent observer could not be found—that, from his own observation, men of the most sober habits of life lost all command of themselves, became absolutely frantic when tempted by the force of example, and led by what may be called an instinctive national passion to participate in these religious orgies. And Captain Smyth, R.N., who gives an interesting account of one of these feasts, at which he was present[44], after mentioning that “prayers, dances, poems, dinner, and supper concluded [occupied] the day,” remarks, “that the feast of Santa Maria di Arsachena has seldom been celebrated without the sacrifice of three or four lives.” “The year preceding my visit,” he states, “two of the carabiniere reale had been killed; and I was shown a young man who, on the same occasion, received a ball through the breast, but having thus satisfied his foe according to the Sarde code of honour, and fortunately recovering, was, with his wife and a beautiful child, now enjoying the gaieties of the day.” Captain Smyth adds:—“I could not learn why there were no carabineers in attendance on this anniversary; but the consequence was a numerous concourse of banditti from the circumjacent fastnesses, notwithstanding the presence of a great many ‘barancelli,’[45] who, it is known, will not arrest a man that is only an assassin.” The themes suggested by wayside objects have led us away from our track, and we have still a long and rugged road to Tempio. We shall be in the saddle for hours after sunset. Let us devote another chapter to the continuation of our journey. 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._ After following the course of the Liscia for about an hour, we struck up a lateral valley, the water of which stood in pools, separated by pebbly shallows, but overhung by drooping willows, and fringed with a luxuriant growth of ferns and rank weeds. The hills were covered with dense woods, intersected by rare clearings and inclosures on their slopes. Here and there stood a solitary _stazza_, as the stations or homesteads of the few resident farmers are here called. We observed that they were generally fixed on rising ground. At some of these the courier stopped, his errands consisting not in the delivery of letters, that office appearing to be a sinecure in this wild track, but in leaving packets of coffee, sugar, &c., and, in one instance, a cotton dress,—commodities none of which had probably been taxed to the Customs at La Madelena. The valley narrowed, and its water quickened into a lively trout stream, gurgling over a rocky bed, bordered on one side by thick underwood, feathering down to its edge. The myrtles here were thirty feet high, and, blended with the tall heath (Erica arborea), the branching arbutus, the cistus, lentiscus, with scores of other shrubs, formed thickets of as exquisite beauty as any we had seen in Corsica. The stream on its hither bank washed a narrow margin of grass beneath the woods. Here we rested our horses and dined. Wayfarers in such countries generally select the right spot for their halt. This was a delightful one, and we fared well enough on the contents of a basket provided at La Madelena. Such rough _al fresco_ meals, the uncertainty when you will get another, even when and where your ride will end, the living in the present, with fresh air and sunshine, and perpetual though gradual change of scene, with the absence of all care about the future—these form the charms of such travelling as ours. Again in the saddle, we soon afterwards entered a forest of magnificent cork trees, festooned with wild vines, relieving the sombre tints of the forest by the bright colours of their fading leaves. It hung on a mountain's side, and the gloomy depth of shade became deeper and deeper, as, after a while, the dusk of evening came on, and we began to thread the gorges which led to the summit of the pass. Salvator Rosa himself might have studied the wild scenery of Sardinia to advantage. If I recollect right, we are informed that he did. Nor would it require much effort of the imagination to add life to the picture in forms suited to its savage aspect,—to conjure up the grim bandit bursting from the thickets on his prey, or lurking behind the rock for the hour of vengeance on his enemy. Such scenes are by no means imaginary. [Illustration: A SALVATOR ROSA SCENE.] Even now, numbers of the _fuorusciti_ find shelter in the fastnesses of the Gallura; the remnant of bands once so formidable that they spread terror through the whole province, bidding defiance alike to the law and the sword. Only within the present century the government has succeeded in quelling their ferocity, but not without desperate resistance to the troops employed, eighty of whom were destroyed by a party of the bandits in a single attack. Still, though a better spirit begins to prevail, and outrages have become less common and flagrant, we found, in travelling through the island, a prevailing sense of insecurity quite incompatible with our ideas of the supremacy of law under a well-ordered government. Some of the mountainous districts were in so disturbed a state that we were cautioned not to approach them; and every one we met throughout our journey was armed to the teeth. For ourselves, we felt no apprehensions, and took no precautions. In the first place, we were not to be easily frightened by possible dangers; and, in the second, we knew that a peaceable guise, in the character of foreign travellers, was our best protection. The violences of the _fuorusciti_ are, it is well understood, mingled and tempered with a strong sense of honour. I imagine, indeed, that they originate for the most part in that principle, developed in _vendetta_, though degenerating into rapine and robbery. Outlaws must find means of subsistence as well as honest men, and are not likely to be very scrupulous as to the mode of obtaining them. Among such characters there will be miscreants capable of any crime, and therefore there is always danger. But, still, the virtue of hospitality to strangers, so inherent amongst the Sardes, as in most semi-barbarous races, is not extinguished in hearts which are hardened against every other feeling of humanity. As the stranger is secure when he has “eaten salt” in the tent of the Bedouin, the Caffre's kraal, or the wigwam of the Red Indian, so there are numerous instances of the Sarde outlaws having afforded shelter and assistance to strangers throwing themselves on their honour and hospitality. Mr. Warre Tyndale relates such an adventure by a friend of his. We will venture to give the details. “In passing over the mountains from Tempio to Longone he fell in with five or six _fuorusciti_, who, after the usual questions, finding that he was a stranger in the country, offered to escort him a few miles on his road, for ‘security.’ According to his story of the occurrence, he could not at all comprehend the meaning of their expression; for the fact of finding himself completely at the mercy of six men, any one of whom might, could, or would in an instant have deprived him of life, gave him very different ideas as to the meaning of the word. In thanking them for their offer he elicited their interpretation of the phrase, and was not a little amused and comforted by their assurance that the proffered security consisted in delivering him safely into the hands of the very party with whom they were waging deadly warfare. ‘_Incidit in Scyllam qui vult vitare Charybdim_,’ thought my friend; but having no alternative he accepted their offer, and, after partaking of an excellent breakfast with them, they all proceeded onwards. For three hours they continued their slow and cautious march through defiles to which he was a perfect stranger; and while in conversation with them on matters totally unconnected with the dangers of the place, they made a sudden and simultaneous halt. Closing in together, a whispering conference ensued among them, and as my friend was excluded from it, he began to suspect he had been ensnared by the offer of escort, and that the fatal moment had arrived when he was to fall their dupe and victim. His suspicions were increased by seeing one of the party ride forward, and leave his companions in still closer confabulation; but the suspense, though painful, was short, for in a few minutes the envoy returned, and an explanation of their mysterious halt and secrecy took place. It appeared that the keen eyes and ears of his friends had perceived their foes, who were concealed in the adjoining wood, and that, having halted, one of them had gone as ambassador with a flag of truce and negotiated an armistice for his safe escort. My friend parted from his first guard of banditti with all their blessings on his head, and having traversed a space of neutral ground, was received by the second with no less kindness, and treated with no less honourable protection. They accompanied him till he was safely out of their district, assuring him that his accidental arrival and demand on their mutual honour and hospitality did not at all interfere with their dispute and revenge; and that if they were to meet each other the day after they had discharged the duty of safely escorting him, they would not be deterred by what had happened from instantaneously shedding each others' blood. “This scene,” adds Mr. Warre Tyndale[46], “took place in the forest of Cinque-Denti, or ‘five-teeth,’ a tract of several miles in extent, said to contain upwards of 100,000,000 trees and shrubs, principally oak, ilex, and cork, with an underwood of arbutus and lentiscus; and such is the thickness of the foliage, that the sunbeams and the foot of man are said never to have entered many parts of it.” Another instance of the honourable feeling and forbearance hospitably shown by the Sarde mountaineer outlaws, under circumstances of great temptation to plunder, was related to me by a friend long resident in the island, as having occurred in his own experience. Not many years ago, he was passing through the wild district in the defiles of which we have just described ourselves as being engaged. My friend had a considerable sum of money in his possession, more, he remarked, than he should have liked to lose. “_Cantabit vacuus coram latrone viator_”—“A traveller who meets robbers with his purse empty may hope to escape scot free.” That was not my friend's case when he fell in with a party of outlaws armed to the teeth. The rencontre was not very pleasant, but putting the best face on it, he replied to their inquiries “whither he was bent,” that he was in search of _them_; knowing that they were in the neighbourhood, and would give him shelter, as night was approaching, and on the morrow put him on his way, which he had lost. This appeal to their best feelings had the desired effect. Pleased with my friend's assurance of the confidence he placed in them, the outlaws conducted him to their place of refuge, treated him with the best they had, and, next morning, escorted him to the high-road, where they parted from him with good wishes for the prosecution of his journey. “These men must have known,” said my friend, “from the weight of my valise, which they handled, that I had a large sum of money with me. It was no less than 600_l._” The weight of such an amount of _scudi_ could not have escaped their notice. Pages might be filled with tales of the secret assassinations and wholesale butcheries perpetrated, at no very distant period, by the _malviventi_ who swarmed in the woods and mountains of Sardinia; of deadly feuds in which families, and sometimes whole villages, were involved with an implacable thirst for revenge; of places sacked, and of travellers murdered and plundered in lone defiles. Some instances of a generous sympathy for adversaries in distress, and more of a gallantry displayed by some of the bandits which would have graced a better cause, might serve to relieve the dark shades of these pictures. But enough of this kind has found a place in our chapters on Corsica. I prefer relating a story which may leave on the mind pleasing recollections of the Robin Hoods of the Sardinian wilds. My friend, lately mentioned, who is universally esteemed and respected by all classes of the Sardes throughout the island, has been thrown by circumstances into communication with the better sort of outlaws, and occasionally been the medium of communication between them and the Sardinian authorities, to their mutual advantage. He has thus acquired considerable influence over those unhappy men, enjoying their full confidence, without which the circumstances I am about to relate could not have occurred. It appeared that, not very long since, my friend had kindly undertaken to conduct an English party from La Madelena to Tempio, the same route on which we are now engaged. The party consisted of an officer and his lady, and I believe some others. The lady was fond of sketching; attractive subjects, we know, are not wanting, and the indulgence of her taste caused frequent delays on the road, notwithstanding my friend's repeated warnings of the ill repute in which that district was held in consequence of its proximity to the haunts of the banditti. Of all things the tourists would have rejoiced to have seen a real bandit, but, probably, under any other circumstances than in a wild pass of the Gallura mountains. So when the shades of night were closing in, as they do very soon after sunset in southern latitudes, and the party became apprehensive that they should be benighted in those dreary solitudes, there was considerable alarm:—what was to be done? My friend, having politely suggested that he had not been remiss in pointing out the consequences of delay, replied that they must make for shelter in some _stazza_, which they might possibly reach. Accordingly he led the way by a rough track through dusky thickets, and after pursuing it for some time, great was the joy of his companions at discovering a house, where they were received with great hospitality, and the promise of all the comforts a mountain farm could offer. The ladies had thrown aside their travelling equipments, the table was spread, and, congratulating themselves on having found such an asylum, the party sat down to supper, in all the hilarity which their escape from the perils and inconveniences of a night spent in the forest was calculated to promote. The occurrence was regarded as one of those unexpected adventures which give a zest to rough travelling. While, however, their gaiety was at the highest, it was interrupted by loud knocking at the house door, and hoarse voices were heard without, demanding immediate admittance. A short consultation took place between my friend and their host, who agreed that no resistance could be offered, that the door should be opened, and they must all submit to their fate. Then the banditti rushed in with fierce gestures; truculent men, with shaggy hair and beards, wrapped in dark _capotes_, with long guns in their hands, and daggers in their belts and bosoms. “Spare our lives, and take our money, and all that we have,” was the cry of some of the travellers. Nor were the bandits slow in falling upon the _sacs_ and _malles_, and beginning to rummage their contents, without, however, offering the slightest molestation to any of the party, who stood aghast witnessing their movements. So far from it, suddenly, as if by a concerted signal, the outlaws, relinquishing their booty, throw off their dark mantles, disclosing all the bravery of the picturesque costume of Gallurese mountaineers, and grouping themselves round the table, leaned on the slender barrels of their fusils with a proud expression of countenance which seemed to say:—“We are outlaws, indeed; but we hold sacred the laws of hospitality and honour.” The travellers found that they were safe, and, recovering from their panic, finished their supper with renewed gaiety. The outlaws withdrew, but shortly returning, some of them accompanied by their wives and children _en habits de fête_, the evening was spent in the exhibition of national dances, with songs and merriment. This formed the concluding scene in the little drama which my informant had got up for the gratification of his friends. Travellers might naturally wish to see specimens of a race so unique and so celebrated as the Corsican and Sardinian bandits, if they could do so with impunity, just as they would a lion or a tiger uncaged and in his native woods, from a safe point of view. My informant was able to gratify his friends at the expense of a temporary fright. Perhaps they might have been better pleased if the “_Deus ex machinâ_” had not appeared to disclose the plot, and they had been suffered to consider the happy _dénouement_ as the natural result of the outlaws' magnanimity. Such, by all accounts, it might have been. But I can assure my readers that it requires a stout heart, and a strong faith in what one has heard of the redeeming qualities in the outlaws' character, to meet them in the open field without shuddering. It was in the dusk of early morning, that, soon after leaving a village on the borders of the Campidano, where we had passed the night, we suddenly fell in with a party of ten or twelve of these men, who crossed our track making for the hills. They were mounted on small-sized horses, stepping lightly under the great weight they carried; for the bandits were stalwart men, and heavily accoutred. Their guns were, variously, slung behind them, held upright on the thigh, or carried across the saddle-bows; short daggers were stuck in each belt, and a longer one hung by the side; a large powder-horn was suspended under the arm. Saddles _en pique_, with sheepskin housings, and leathern pouches attached on both sides, supplying the place of knapsack and haversack, completed the equipment. The “cabbanu,” a cloak of coarse brown cloth, hung negligently from the shoulders, and underneath appeared the tight-fitting pelisse or vest of leather; and the loose white linen drawers, which give the Sardes a Moorish appearance, were gathered below the knee underneath a long black gaiter tightly buckled. Already familiar with the garb and equipments of a Sarde mountaineer, these details were caught at a glance. The gaze was riveted on the features of these desperate men,—the keen black eyes flashing from their swarthy countenances, to which a profusion of hair, falling on the shoulders from beneath the dark _berette_, gave, with their bushy beards, a ferocious aspect;—and, above all, the resolute but melancholy cast of features which expressed so well their lot of daring—and despair. Whether the party was bent on a plundering raid, or returning from some terrible act of midnight murder, there was nothing to indicate; but the impression was that they were the men “to do or die” in whatever enterprise they were engaged. The party kept well together, riding in single file with almost military precision. Their pace was steady, with no appearance of haste, though they must probably have been aware that some carabineers were stationed in the place hard by, which we had just left. It was a startling apparition,—these “children of the mist”—sweeping by us in grim cavalcade over a wild heath, in the cold grey dawn of a November day, every hand stained with blood, every bosom steeled to vengeance. They took no notice of us, though we passed them closely, not even exchanging salutations with our _cavallante_. We gazed on them till they were out of sight. No such thoughts as those suggested by the occurrences just related occupied our minds while we ascended the defile which penetrates the mountain chain intervening between Tempio and the valleys terminating on the coast. The savage character and the traditions of the locality might have inspired them, but we were under the protection of the courier, a privileged person—probably for good reasons,—and, besides this, as I have already said, under no sort of personal apprehension. Our attention was divided between the stern magnificence of the gorge, the more striking from its being now half veiled in darkness, and the difficulties of the ascent which, as usual, increased step by step, until, at last, winding stairs cut in the rock surmounted the highest cliffs and landed us at the summit of the pass. On emerging from the gloomy defile, there was a total change of scene. We found ourselves on open downs, apparently of great extent, with a flood of light shed over them by a bright moon, and two brilliant planets in the south-west, pointing like beacon lights to the position of Tempio. An easy descent of the sloping downs brought us to the level of a vast elevated plateau, extending, with slight undulations, and broken by only one rocky ridge, to the vicinity of the town. When at the summit of the pass, we had still eight or ten miles to accomplish. Late as it was, the ride would have been highly enjoyable, in that pure atmosphere, with the vault of heaven blazing overhead, and the stillness of the night broken only by our horses' hoofs, but for the weariness of the poor beasts after a long day's journey and the toilsome ascent of a mountain pass, and the ruggedness of the tracks along which we had to pick our way. Welcome, therefore, were the lights of Agius, Luras, and Nuches, villages standing some little way out of the road, at from two to three miles' distance from Tempio. These places, Agius in particular, were formerly notorious for robbery and vendetta, notwithstanding which the population, which is chiefly pastoral, has always maintained a high character for kindness, hospitality, industry, and temperance. Our path lay now through very narrow lanes, dividing vineyards and gardens, extending all the way to Tempio. The replies of the courier to our inquiries after a hotel had left a complete blank in our prospects of bed, board, and lodging at the end of our journey. For travellers, such as ourselves, there was no accommodation. Tempio was rarely visited by strangers. This looked serious, after a mountain ride of nearly thirty miles, and between nine and ten o'clock at night;—what was to be done? We had letters of introduction to persons of the highest distinction in the place, but they hardly warranted our intruding ourselves on them, hungry, travel-stained, and houseless, at that late hour. The case, however, being desperate we decided, at last, on presenting ourselves to the Commandant of the garrison, as the most likely person to give or procure us quarters. The horses' feet clattered sharply on the _pavé_ in the stillness of the narrow deserted streets; and the huge granito-built houses overhanging them, gloomy at all hours, appeared doubly inhospitable now that all lights were extinguished, the doors closed, and none ready to be opened at the call of weary travellers. Thus we traversed the whole city, the Commandant's mansion lying at the furthest extremity. Our tramp roused to attention a drowsy sentry at the gate; there were lights _à la prima_—the family then had not retired for the night. The strange arrival is announced, and our _viandante_ makes no scruple of depositing our baggage in the hall. The Commandant receives us with politeness, regrets that he is so straitened in his quarters that he cannot offer us beds, and sends an orderly who procures us a lodging, meanwhile giving us coffee. Attended by two soldiers, carrying our baggage, we retrace our steps to the centre of the town, and take possession of very sorry apartments, the best portion of a gaunt filthy house. We are installed by the mistress, a shrewish person, who, making pretensions to gentility, receives her guests under protest that she does not keep a hotel, but is willing to accommodate strangers,—a phrase repeated a hundred times while we were under her roof, and emphatically when presenting a rather unconscionable bill on our departure. And this was the only refuge in a city of from six to eight thousand inhabitants, many of them boasting nobility, the capital of a province, the seat of a governor and a bishop, and head-quarters of a military district. I may be pardoned for being circumstantial in details giving an idea of what travelling in Sardinia is. Things are much the same throughout the island. The tourist who sets foot on it must be steeled against brigands, vermin, _intempérie_, and indifferent fare. “_Per aspera tendens_” would be his suitable motto. He must be prepared to rough it. 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._ Unpropitious as first appearances were, we found no want of real hospitality and kindness among the Tempiese, and I have seldom spent a few days more pleasantly in a provincial town. Daylight, indeed, failed to improve the internal aspect of the place, but rather disclosed the filth of the narrow streets, without entirely dissipating the gloom shed upon them from the dusky granite of which the buildings are constructed, and the heavy wooden balconies protruding over the thoroughfares. The houses have, however, a substantial air, some of them are stuccoed, and Tempio can even boast its palaces of an ancient nobility, with coats of arms sculptured in white marble over the entrances. It possesses not less than thirteen churches, of which the collegiate and cathedral church of St. Peter is the only one worth notice,—a large and lofty building of a mixture of styles, with some tawdry ornaments, but a handsome high altar and well carved oak stalls in the choir. The foundation consists of a dean and twelve canons, with eighteen other inferior clergy. Since 1839 it has ranked as a cathedral, Tempio having been erected into a see united with those of Cività and Ampurias, and the bishop residing here six months of the year. There is a massive old nunnery, now, I believe, suppressed, in the centre of the place, and outside the town a reformatory for the confinement of criminals sentenced to secondary punishment, a large building with a handsome elevation. A finer position for a large city, of greater importance than Tempio, can scarcely be imagined. Placed on a gentle swell of the wide undulating plain already mentioned—the Gemini plain,—a plateau of nearly 2000 feet above the level of the sea, it stands midway between two grand mountain ranges, the Limbara stretching the bold outlines of its massive forms in a course south of the town, its summit rising to 4396 feet; and, to the north-east, a chain not quite so elevated, but of an equally wild and irregular formation, and presenting to the eye, when viewed from Tempio, even a more rugged and serrated ridge. The defiles of this chain we passed in approaching Tempio; those of the Limbara were to be penetrated in our progress southward. Its high situation and exposure render Tempio healthy, and it is even said to be cold in winter, of which we found no symptoms in the month of November, when Limbara is supposed to assume its diadem of snow, retaining it till April. [Illustration: THE LIMBARA, FROM TEMPIO.] I hardly recollect anything finer of its kind than the panoramic view of the country between Tempio and the mountains on either side, as seen from its terraces. It combined great breadth, striking contrasts, and a most harmonious blending of colour. For a wide circuit round the town, gardens, orchards, vineyards, and a variety of small inclosures, occupying the slopes and hollows of the undulating surface, and well massed, give an idea of fertility one should not expect at this elevation. Here and there, a single round-topped pine, or a group of such pines, crowns a knoll, and breaks the flowing outlines. The open pastoral country beyond is linked to this cultivated zone by detached masses of copse and woods of cork and ilex, extending to the base of the mountains. The Tempiese are a hardy and industrious people, exhibiting their spirit of activity in the careful cultivation about the town and the occupations of vast numbers of the population as shepherds, _cavallanti_, or _viandanti_. The dull town also shows some signs of life by a considerable trade in the country produce of cheese, fruits, hams, bacon, &c. They manufacture here the best guns in Sardinia, and know how to use them; being capital sportsmen, _cacciatori_, as well as formidable enemies in the vindictive feuds for which they have been celebrated, and not yet entirely extinct. A short time ago, two factions fought in the streets, and, though the bloody strife was quelled, they are said still to eye each other askance. Returning one night from the Casino, in company of the Commandant, he stopped on the piazza in front of the cathedral and related to us the circumstances of an assassination perpetrated a short time before on the very steps of the church. The office of viceroy of Sardinia having been abolished, each of the eleven provinces into which the island is divided, the principal being Cagliari, Oristano, Sassari, and Tempio including the whole of Gallura, is administered by an _Intendente_, who communicates directly with the Ministers at Turin. The military districts correspond with the civil divisions of the island. We found two companies of the line, and a squad of _carabinieri_, mounted gendarmes, stationed at Tempio. Sardinia returns twenty-four members to the national parliament at Turin. The ecclesiastical jurisdiction is administered by three archbishops, filling the sees of Cagliari, Sassari, and Oristano, and eight bishops, seated in the other principal cities. High official appointments at Tempio are not very enviable posts; governors and commandants not being exempt from the summary vengeance, for real or supposed wrongs, at which the Sardes are so apt. The Commandant told us that his immediate predecessor had received one of the death-warnings which precede the fatal stroke: I believe he was soon afterwards removed. For himself, his successor said, he took no precautions, did his duty, and braved the consequences. A few years before, the Governor, having compromised himself by acts of injustice, was assassinated, after receiving one of these “death-warnings” peculiar to Sardinia. “During the night he heard a pane of glass crack, and on examining it in the morning he found the fatal bullet on the floor. The custom of the country is that, whenever the _vendetta alla morte_, revenge even to death, is to be carried out, the party avenging himself shall give his adversary timely notice by throwing a bullet into his window, in order that he may either make immediate compensation for the injury or prepare himself for death. The Governor for some time used every caution as to when and where he went, but at length disregarded the warning, imagining he was safe. The assassin, however, had watched him with an eagle's eye, and he fell in a moment he least expected. Report further says,” observes Mr. Tyndale, in whose words we relate the occurrence, “that he is not the only Governor of Gallura to whom this summary mode of obtaining justice, or inflicting vengeance, has been intimated.” The present Intendente of Tempio, the Marchese Clavarino, though he only entered on his office in the month of April before our visit, had already done much by his firm and enlightened administration to restore order and confidence. He had been able to collect the arrears of taxes, and, by impartial justice between all factions, had removed every pretence for a resort to deeds of violence for the redress of injuries. “The Governor's palace, establishment, and retinue,” observes Mr. Tyndale, “consist of three rooms on a second story, a female servant, and a sentry at the door.” Things were little changed in 1853, but, in the absence of all state, we were impressed on our first visit of ceremony that the government of a turbulent province could not have been intrusted to better hands. In the antechamber we found a priest waiting, as it struck me from his deportment, to prefer his suit with “bated breath,” and the feeling that the wings of the priesthood are now clipped in the Sardinian states. The Marquis conversed with frankness on his own position and the state of the island. He had been in London at the time of the “Great Exhibition,” and his views of the English alliance, and of politics generally, were just such as might be expected from an enlightened Sardinian. A worthy coadjutor to such statesmen as D'Azeglio and Cavour, I would venture to predict that the Intendente of Tempio will ere long be called to fill a higher post. Our rambles in the environs of Tempio were very pleasant. It was the season of the vintage, late here; and great numbers of the people were busily employed in the vineyards and the “lodges”[47] attached to them. Observing smoke issuing from most of these, we learned, in answer to our inquiries, that a portion of boiled lees is added in the manufacture of wine, to insure its keeping, the grapes not sufficiently ripening in consequence of the coldness of the climate. We found no such fault with those we tasted. A very considerable extent of surface is planted with vines, divided, however, into small vineyards. At the entrance of each stands an arched gateway, generally a solid structure of granite, with more or less architectural pretensions, and a date and initials carved in stone, commemorative, no doubt, of the planting of so cherished a family inheritance. One of these is represented in the foreground of the accompanying plate. There are several fountains in the neighbourhood of Tempio, the waters of which are deliciously cool and pure. One of them, on the road beyond the Commandant's house, gushes out of the rock, under shade of some fine Babylonian willows. Sheltered by these in the heat of noon, and in still greater numbers at eventide, one saw the damsels of Tempio resort with their pitchers, as in ancient times Abraham's steward, in his journey to Mesopotamia, stood at the well of Nahor, when the daughters of the men of the city came out with their pitchers[48]; as Saul, passing through Mount Ephraim and ascending the hill of Zuph, met the maidens going out to draw water[49]; or as the spies of Ulysses fell in with the daughter of Antiphates at the well of Artacia.[50] Sardinia abounds with such mementos of primitive times. The Tempiese women have the singular habit of raising the hinder part of the upper petticoat, the _suncurinu_, when they go abroad, and bringing it over the head and shoulders, so as to form a sort of hood. So far from this fashion giving them, as might be supposed, a _dowdy_ appearance, it is not inelegant when the garment is gracefully arranged. It has generally broad stripes, and is often of silk or a fine material. The under-petticoat, of cloth, is either of a bright colour, or dark with a bright-coloured border. Both of them are worn very full. The jacket is of scarlet, blue, or green velvet, fitting very tightly to tho figure, the edges having a border of a different colour, and sometimes brocaded. The simple head-dress consists of a gaily-coloured kerchief wound round the head, and tied in knots before and behind. We expected to get some shooting in the woods at the foot of the Limbara, as they abound with wild hogs, _cingale_, and deer, _capreoli_, a sort of roebuck. Our letters of introduction to some gentlemen of Tempio failed of assisting us. They were from home, probably engaged in the vintage. But the Sardes of all ranks are determined sportsmen, _cacciatori_, and we did not despair, though hunting excursions in the island require, as we shall find, a certain organisation. In our dilemma we made the acquaintance—of all people in the world—of a little barber, who appeared deeply versed in the politics of the place, and undertook to arrange the desired _chasse_ with the Tempiese hunters. We were to meet him the same evening, at a low _caffè_, where he was to introduce us to the leaders of the band. A singular conference it was, that meeting of ourselves, men of the north, with the wild _chasseurs_ of the Gallura, between whom there was nothing in common but enthusiastic love of the field and the mountain. The low vault of the _Caffè de la Costituzione_ was lighted by a single lamp, by whose glimmerings we dimly discerned, amidst wreaths of tobacco-smoke, the grim features of the men with whom we had to do. They were honest enough, no doubt, according to Sarde notions of honour, and received us with great cordiality; but the consultation between themselves was carried on in a patois quite unintelligible, except that we gathered that there were some difficulties in the way. _La caccia di cingale_, a boar-hunt in Sardinia, requires a number of hunters, besides those who beat the woods to rouse the game; and, whether there were any feuds to be stifled, any jealousies to be allayed, which, with armed men in that state of society, might endanger the peace, the difficulties appeared serious. Whatever they were, our _Barbière di Seviglia_, who, to use a familiar phrase, seemed up to everything, and conducted the treaty on our part, did not think proper to disclose them. One thing, however, we soon learned, that the services of these men were not to be hired; their ruling passion for the chase and the national principle of hospitality were incentives enough to the proposed expedition. We were also informed that there were other parties to be consulted, and the meeting was adjourned to the following day. Very different was the scene at the Casino to which we were introduced by the Commandant shortly after our consultation with the hunters. At the Casino there is a _réunion_ of the best society in Tempio every evening. We found good rooms, well lighted, with coffee and refreshments nicely served. There were newspapers, and a small collection of books,—the standard works of Italian writers, with some French. The society was unexpectedly good for such a place as Tempio, consisting, besides the officers of the garrison, of many of the resident nobles and gentry. We spent some pleasant hours there, finding among the members well-informed and intelligent persons. Politics were freely discussed, liberal opinions prevailing even to the degree of such ultra-liberalism as might have better suited the class of persons we met at the _Caffè de la Costituzione_, if politics are discussed there also. No doubt they are, the Tempiese, like the rest of the islanders, being a shrewd race, devotedly patriotic, and jealous of their independence. We could not, as already hinted, reckon Madame Rosalie's _ménage_ among the pleasant things that reconciled us to a longer stay than we intended in the rude capital of Gallura; but, at least, she supplied us in her own person with a fund of amusement. My companion, who had the happy gift for a traveller of being almost omnivorous, used to laugh heartily at my vain attempts to extract something edible from the meagre _carte_ offered by Madame. Her replies parrying my demands, and uttered with amazing volubility, in shrill tones and a patois almost unintelligible, invariably ended to this effect:—“Signore, my house is not a locanda, though I have opened my doors to accommodate you.” It was a species of hospitality that cost us dear. Madame's airs of gentility, though very amusing, were of course treated with due respect. But what gave zest to my friend's mirth, and, with the hopeless prospect of dinner, produced in me a slight irritation, sometimes, perhaps, ill concealed, was Madame Rosalie's evolutions on these occasions. I fancy, now, that I see her slight figure skipping into the room, dancing a jig round the table, never at rest, screeching all the while at the highest pitch of her voice, with every limb in motion, as if she had St. Vitus's dance, or, as they say, went on wires. I can only compare the play of her limbs to that of one of those children's puppets of which all the limbs—head, legs, and arms—are set in motion by pulling a string. Nothing detained us at Tempio but the proposed boar-hunt. We attended a second meeting of the principal hunters, committing ourselves unreservedly to their disposal, and, after some further consultation, among themselves, our little barber had the glory of bringing the negotiations to a successful issue. All the difficulties, whatever they were, had been removed, and it was settled that the affair should come off on the morrow. Accordingly, at an early hour, there was an unusual stir in the dull streets of Tempio, snapping of guns, trampling of horses, and barking of dogs. On our joining the party at the rendezvous in front of the _caffè_, we found some twenty horsemen, carrying guns,—rough and ready fellows, looking as if a dash into the forest, whether against hogs or gendarmes, would equally suit them. We were followed by a rabble on foot, attended by dogs of a variety of species, some of them strong and fierce. After winding through the narrow lanes among the vineyards, our cavalcade was joined by one of the gentlemen on whom we had called with a letter of introduction, and his son, who mixed freely with our rank and file. There is a happy fellowship in field sports which, to a great degree, levels for the time distinctions of rank; and this we found particularly in Sardinia, where all classes are so devoted to these sports, and they are of a character requiring extended and rather promiscuous operations. Our irregular cavalry shaped their march in broken order towards a spur of the mountains, covered with dense thickets, at the foot of the Punta Balestiere, the highest point of the Limbara. After clearing the inclosures our track led us over the wide undulating plain already described, interspersed with scattered thickets, but with few signs of cultivation. On approaching the mountains there were indications giving promise of sport in patches of soil grubbed up by the wild hogs in search for the root of the Asphodel, which they greedily devour. This handsome plant springs from a bunch of long fibrous bulbs, something like the Dahlia, throwing up straight stems two or three feet high, with numerous angular filiformed leaves and yellow flowers.[51] It grows freely on all the wastes throughout the island. The root contains so large a portion of saccharine matter, and is so plentiful, that while we were in Sardinia a Frenchman was forming a company for distilling alcohol from it on an extensive scale. A distillery was to be established at Sassari, with moveable stills throughout the island, wherever the bulbs could be most easily procured. The projector gave us a sample-bottle of the alcohol, a strong and purely tasteless spirit. I heard afterwards that the speculation did not succeed. There is fine feeding for the wild hogs, in season, on the acorns of the vast cork and other oak woods in the interior of the island, where we afterwards hunted them. They commit great ravages in the cultivated grounds. One was shot in the vineyards skirting the town during our stay at Tempio. Approaching the mountains we threw off our attendants on foot, with their mongrel pack, whose business it was to scale the wooded ridge from behind, and beat the thickets for the game. The rest of our party soon afterwards struck up a valley parallel with the ridge, and facing the mountain side, which rose above it a vast amphitheatre of hanging woods, shelving and precipitous cliffs, rocks and pinnacles,—so glorious a spectacle that it riveted my attention, and almost drew it off from the work before us. But now our leaders proceeded to “tell off” the party, stationing them singly at distances of about seventy or eighty paces along the bottom of the valley, within gunshot of the verge of the wood, which sloped to it. In this open order the line extended more than half a mile. The horses were tethered in the rear. It was my lot to be posted near the extreme right on a detached rock, slightly elevated, so as to command the ground. I could just distinguish my neighbours on either hand, “low down in the broom,” the valley being rather thickly covered with brakes of underwood. The instructions for my noviciate in boar-hunting were,—not to quit my post, and to maintain strict silence; injunctions not likely to be disregarded, as a breach of the former might have exposed me to be winged, in mistake for a pig among the rustling bushes, considering that there were dead shots on either flank, with two or three balls in their barrels. As to the other word of order, silence, the injunction was needless, for the ear of my nearest neighbour could only have been reached by shouts which might scare the game, and prevent their breaking cover, and that I was not quite novice enough to risk. So I sat down on the rock, with my gun across my knees, watching the play of light and shade on the mountain sides as the clouds flitted round them. But this did not last long, for the line of _vedettes_ could have been scarcely formed when the shouts of the party who had now gained the heights, and were beating the woods in face of our position, summoned the hunters in the valley beneath to be on the alert. The interval of suspense and silence being now broken, the scene became very exciting. The dogs in the wood gave tongue, and the short and snapping bark was shortly followed by a full burst, which told that the game was on foot. Then, no doubt, every gun was at full cock, every eye intently watching the avenues in the thickets through which boar or deer, driven from the woods, might cross the valley. The shouts and cries sounded nearer and nearer, till at length a shot from the extreme left announced that some game had been marked as it broke cover. A dropping fire now extended at intervals along the line, as cingale or capreole burst from the thickets. Several fell to the guns of the party, some escaped; others, wounded, were pursued by the dogs to the rear of the position, with a rush of some of the hunters on their trail. The thickets having been completely swept, the line was now broken, and the party remounting their horses bore their trophies to a woody glen, where we dined, the spot chosen being the grassy bank of a little rivulet. Arms were piled; some gathered wood and lighted fires, others fetched water from the brook, and the more handy opened the baskets of provisions we had brought from Tempio and spread them on the grass. A wild boar was cut open, and, in Homeric style, the choicest portions of the intestines were torn out, and, broiled on wooden skewers, offered to the hunting-knives of the guests. The wine cup went round, and the hunters' feast was seasoned with rude merriment. “When they had eaten and drank enough,”[52] the party mounted their horses and returned to Tempio, carrying the game across their saddle-bows. The cavalcade was as joyous as the feast. Jumping from their horses when they got among the vineyards, some dashed over the fences and brought away large bunches of grapes. And so we entered the city in triumph. In the course of the evening the skin of the finest wild boar was sent to our quarters as a trophy of our share in the work of the day, with a joint of the meat. Madame Rosalie's _cuisine_ failed to do it justice; but, when well cooked, wild boar is excellent eating. This mode of hunting, generally practised by the Sardes, resembles the _battue_ of wolves and leopards at which I have assisted in South Africa, where the Boers, assembling in numbers, make an onslaught on the ravagers of their flocks; having the dens and thickets driven, and stationing themselves on the outskirts with their long roers to shoot down the vermin as they issue forth. Such meetings are jovial, and the sport is exciting, but not to be compared, I think, to deer-stalking or fox-hunting, to say nothing of a foray against lions and tigers. 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._ I have reason to believe from information received during a recent visit to Sardinia that the insecurity which, to some extent, prevailed when we were in the island in 1853, had considerably lessened. But while at Tempio in that year we learnt by an official communication from Cagliari that some of the central mountain districts, through which we proposed to pass on a shooting excursion, were in a disturbed state and must be approached with caution. In consequence, the _Lascia portare arma_ forwarded to us was accompanied by an open order from the Colonel commanding the royal Caribineers, addressed to all the stations, for our being furnished with an escort. So, also, on our visit of leave to the Intendente of Tempio he pressed us to allow him to send us forward under escort, though I did not learn that there had been any recent outrages in his own province. On our declining the offer, as at variance with our habits and feelings, the Intendente said, “I assure you that, here, the lowest government employé will not travel without an escort;”—and he again urged our accepting it, adding, “the Marchese d'Azeglio having put you under my especial protection, I am responsible for your safety, and wish to use every precaution, lest anything unpleasant should occur.” On our again respectfully declining the offer, the kind Intendente said, with a shrug, “Well, gentlemen, I have done my duty, and I hope that when you get to Turin you will so represent it.” Such precautions exhibit a singular state of society in the midst of European civilisation; I apprehend, however, that the Piedmontese officials, and the continentals in general, paint the Sardes in darker colours than they merit; and there is little good blood between them. Having no such prejudices, and entertaining no apprehensions, we started, as usual, having a honest viandante, with his saddle and pack-horses, for our only escort. The sun was just rising over the serrated ridge of the eastern mountains, when, emerging from the fetid shade of the narrow streets of Tempio, we came suddenly into his blessed light. The mountain sides still formed an indistinct mass of the richest purple hue, while, over the whole plain beneath, light mists rolled in fantastic waves, floating like a mysterious gauze-like veil, shreds of which touched by the sun's rays became brilliantly coloured, and others drifting through the scattered woods had the appearance of being combed out into long and fine-spun threads like the spiders'-webs which, gemmed with dew-drops, hung from spray to spray. It was a magnificent view, of great breadth, like one of Martin's mysterious pictures, and seen under the most splendid effects; but so transitory that after we crossed the first ridge all was changed. Meanwhile denser, but still light, wreaths close at hand mingled with the mists, as the blue smoke curled up from the vineyard sheds where the industrious Tempiese had already commenced their labours. The temperature was delicious, and rain had fallen in the night cooling the air and refreshing vegetation. Pleasanter than ever was our early ride through the pretty winding lanes dividing the vineyards and gardens skirting the town, and again, as we descended through deep banks among scattered woodlands to the open plains extending to the foot of the Limbara Mountains. A long but easy ascent led to the top of the pass, the ridge we mounted being thickly clothed with evergreen shrubbery, the arbutus predominating, profusely decked with fruit and flower. The summit of the pass opened to us a double view in strong contrast. Looking back, we once more saw through a gap the mountains of Corsica, in faint outlines, eighty miles distant, with a glimpse of a blue stripe of water, the Straits of Bonifacio. Turning southward, we stood at the summit of a long winding glen richly wooded with ilex and cork trees, and far away beneath there lay before us a broad plain partially covered with a sea of vapour, not like the gay wreaths of mist that lightly floated over the elevated plateau surrounding Tempio, but so still, so condensed, so white, as to have been easily mistaken for a frozen lake powdered with snow, and its hills for islands rising out of the water.[53] But such an image is unsuited to the climate of Sardinia at any season. Smiling as the landscape now appeared, its most striking feature was associated with the idea of death. That dense creamy vapour, formed by the pestiferous exhalations of the lowlands, is the death shroud of the plain outstretched beneath it. [Illustration: DESCENT TO THE CAMPIDANO.] During the heats of summer, nay, sometimes from April till the latter end of November, the ravages of the deadly _intempérie_ extend throughout the island to such a degree that in Captain Smyth's list of nearly 350 towns and villages included in his “Statistical Table of Sardinia,” full a third are noted as insalubrious. The disorder has the same character as malaria, but is far more virulent. Captain Smyth thus describes the symptoms: “The patient is first attacked by a headache and painful tension of the epigastric region, with alternate sensations of heat and chilliness; a fever ensues, the exacerbations of which are extremely severe, and are followed by a mournful debility, more or less injurious even to those accustomed to it, but usually fatal to strangers.” We have conversed with natives and residents who have recovered from repeated attacks of _intempérie_; foreigners suffer most. “Instances have been related to me,” observes Captain Smyth, “of strangers landing for a few hours only from Italian coasters, who were almost immediately carried off by its virulence; indeed, the very breathing of the air by a foreigner at night, or in the cool of the evening, is considered as certain death in some parts.”[54] Not twelve months before our visit, an English officer was suddenly struck down and carried off while on a similar excursion in this part of the island. Sir Harry Darrell was one of the last men I should have thought liable to so fatal an attack. A few years ago, when returning from Caffreland just before the breaking out of the last war, I met him on the march to the frontier. I had off-saddled at noon, and while my horses were grazing, knee-haltered, on a slip of grass by the side of a running stream, was lying under the shade of a wild olive-tree, when the head-quarters' division of the —— Dragoon Guards passed along the road. Sir Harry and some other officers rode down into the meadow, and we talked of the state of Caffreland and of the principal chiefs, most of whom I had recently seen. I heard afterwards that he had got out fox-hounds and hunted the country about Fort Beaufort. He was a keen sportsman and clever artist. Some of his sketches in South Africa were published by Ackerman. His remains lie at Cagliari, where he was conveyed when struck by the _intempérie_, dying a few days after. A friend of mine, who was there at the time, informs me that Sir Harry's constitution had become debilitated, and he had rendered himself liable to the attack by exposure and over-fatigue. I mention the circumstance as a warning, but do not think there is much risk, with proper precautions, for men in good health, through most parts of the island, after the November rains have precipitated the miasma and purified the air. We ourselves slept in most pestiferous places, where the ravages of the disease were marked in the sallow countenances of the inhabitants, without experiencing the least inconvenience. We rested at the summit of the pass commanding the distant view of the Campidano, which led to these remarks on the insalubrity of the country and the scourge of the _intempérie_. They are not, however, confined to the plains, but of course are more prevalent where marshes, stagnant waters, and rank vegetation engender vapours rising in the summer. Leaving my companion to finish the sketch copied in a former page, I slowly trotted on with the _viandante_, and, the descent becoming rapid, proceeded leisurely down the wooded glen, a depth of shade in which the heat, as well as the picturesque character of the scenery, tempted to linger. Old cork and ilex trees, with their rugged bark and grey foliage, throwing out rectangular arms of stiff and fantastic growth, wild vines hanging from the branches in festoons of brilliant hues, other trees with tawny orange leaves,—I believe a species of ash,—some of a rich claret, and the never-failing arbutus, here quite a tree, with its orange and crimson berries, all these massed together formed admirable contrasts in shape and colour. And then there was the gentle brook, never roaring or boisterous, but purling among rocks dividing it into still pools, with giant ferns hanging over the stream and bunches of hassock-grass luxuriating in the alluvial soil of its little deltas, and, where the forest receded, a graceful growth of shrubbery feathering the winding banks. Some of the cork-trees were fine specimens, of great age. Several I measured in a rough way by embracing their trunks with extended arms. This, repeated four or five times, gave a circumference of twenty or twenty-five feet. The bark was ten inches thick. While so employed I was startled by a wild boar rushing by me into the thickets. The cork wood gradually thinned into scattered clumps on the slopes of the hills, and the winding valley, five or six miles long, was abruptly terminated by a bold mamelon, or green mound, covered with dwarf heath or turf; so shorn and smooth it appeared, probably from being pastured, in immediate contrast with the shaggy sides of the mountain glen. The horsetrack, avoiding this obstacle, led up the eastern acclivity of the glen, and the summit commanded the Campidano, now clear of fog, spread out before us, far as the eye could reach, in a broad level, broken only by some singular flat-topped hills in the foreground. Striking and novel as this landscape appeared at the first glance, I confess that, at the moment, my attention was most directed backward on the track I had just followed. It was now some hours since I parted from my fellow-traveller. I had often listened for his horse's steps in the deep glen, where there was no seeing many hundred yards backwards or forwards; and though the present elevation commanded some points in the track, he did not appear. I was getting fidgetty, and the guide's replies to my inquiries did not tend to reassure me, for there are “_malviventi_” as well as “_fuorusciti_” in the wilds—a well known distinction—when, just as we were on the point of returning back, after half an hour's additional suspense, I got a glimpse of my friend trotting out of the woods close under the point of view. He, too, had lingered in the romantic glen after finishing his sketch. We had now cleared the defiles of the Limbara, and, descending to the level of the plains, made up for lost time by galloping _ventre à terre_ over the boundless waste. Here were no shady nooks, no forest masses, no fantastic growths, no grey crags, no bright-flowered thickets, so grouped as one might never see again, and tempting to linger. All the features were now on a broad scale; they were caught at a glance, and the few which broke the monotony of the scene were repeated again and again. But they were not without interest. The rivulet had expanded into a wide stream, making long bends through the deep loam of the grassy meads, and looking so cool and refreshing, that, but for the pebbly shoals in its bed, it was difficult to conceive the midsummer heats rendering these verdant plains desolate and pestilential. Along the banks of the river, and far away in every direction, were scattered herds of cattle, guarded by armed shepherds, wild bearded fellows in goatskin mantles and leather doublets, mostly on horseback. We meet such figures on the grassy track, looking fiercely as we sweep along; we see them at a distance on the edge of some of the gentle slopes in which the plain is rolled, when only the profile of the horse, the stalwart rider and his long gun, comes out clear against the sky. There is more life on the Campidano than in the mountains. Not that it is inhabited; there is scarcely a house on this whole plain, fifty or sixty miles in circumference. Not that there is much cultivation; here and there, at rare intervals, we see patches of a livelier green than the surrounding expanse of grass, and the young wheat just springing up, the strong blade and rich loamy furrow, remind us that Sardinia was reckoned in former times a granary of Rome. We see also the grey mounds of the Nuraghe scattered over the plain, some mouldering down to its level, a few still rearing their truncated cones, like solitary watch-towers, for which they have been mistaken. They, too, remind us of times long past, of a primitive age. But they are to be found in all parts of the island, and we shall fall in with them again, more at leisure to examine their structure and hazard a conjecture as to their origin. Now we gallop on over the level plain. The sward on the beaten track is close and elastic, and our cavallante's spirited barbs, spared in the glen during the noontide heat, spring as if they had never been broken to the _portante_ pace. The morning fog and the cadaverous features of the shepherds have warned us that the teeming Campidano is no place to linger in after nightfall. Their homes are in the villages scattered round the edge of the great plain; not much elevated, as the _paese_ in Corsica, but standing on gentle acclivities. We marked them at a distance. Already we have passed Sassu on our right and Oschiri on our left; they are poor places. Codriaghe and Codrongianus and Florinas stand at the extremity of the plain towards Sassari, and we shall see them on our road thither, if we ever get there. Ardara, once the capital of the province of Logudoro, founded as early as 1060, and having many historic traditions, crowns, with its massive towers rising above the ruined walls, a hillock on the plain right before us. It boasts also a fine church, enriched with curious objects of art; but the town has dwindled to a collection of hovels with a small population, few of whom, we are told, survive their fiftieth year, so destructive is the _intempérie_. We turn away: Ozieri stands invitingly on rather a bold eminence at the head of a gorge where the plain narrows towards the hills. The rays of the setting sun are full upon its houses and churches. It is a place of some importance, and lies in our proposed line through byroads to the forest districts of the interior. If our pace holds on we may reach it by an hour after sunset. Perhaps we shall find good cheer, the best preservative, I should imagine, against the miasma that produces _intempérie_. [Illustration: THE PLAIN OF OZIERI.] 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._ Vast open plains, such as that described in the preceding chapter, form a singular feature in the physical aspect of the island of Sardinia. There are few travellers, I think, of much experience who, in traversing such tracts of country, have not been struck at one time by the desolation of their depths of solitude, or been pleased, at another, by the glimpses of nomade life, their occasional accompaniments; and who would not be willing to admit that, in their general impressions on the imagination, they sometimes rival even mountain scenery. For if grandeur be one main ingredient in the sublime, when an object such as a seemingly boundless level, or rolling plain, the extent of which the eye is unable to scan, lies before you, when, after long marches, it still appears interminable, the mind is perhaps more impressed with the idea of magnitude than by large masses, however enormous, with defined outlines presented to the view. In the former instance, the imagination is called into play and fills out the picture on a scale corresponding with the actual features, as far as they are subject to observation; but the imagination proverbially adopts an extravagant measure. One of my friend's sketches of Campidano scenery, introduced here, cleverly represents the effects produced by great distances on one of these rolling plains. [Illustration: THE CAMPIDANO.] Perhaps the idea of illimitable extent is better conveyed by the lithographic sketch, No. 8, in which the level, not being interrupted by the intersection of a mountain ridge, as in the former, vanishes in distance. But the termination of the plain in the woodcut is only apparent as, winding round the base of the mountains, the level is still continued though lost to sight. It is not however intended to intimate that these Sardinian plains can at all vie with the great continental levels in various quarters of the globe, the immensity of which occurred to my mind, and some of them to my recollection, when remarking on the impressions such scenes produce on the traveller's sensations. The most extensive of the Sardinian Campidani is only fifty miles in length, and they are all of far less breadth. Their effect is therefore only comparative, but being proportioned to the scale of other surrounding objects, to the area of the insular surface, and the limited height and extent of the mountain ranges, they produce a proportionate effect; but that, as it has been already remarked, is sufficiently striking. Some brief details of these interesting features in Sardinian scenery—the larger of which are termed _Campidani_, and the secondary _Campi_—will be fitly combined with a general sketch of the geological formations of the island; as we are now approaching the same standing point, the central districts, from which we took occasion to review the orology of Corsica. It was then remarked that the mountain systems of the two islands are of similar character and were formerly united; of which there is evidence in the rocky islets scattered from one coast to the other, across the Straits of Bonifacio.[55] Sardinia, however, though apparently a continuation of Corsica, is essentially different in its physical aspect; the elevations being less, the plains more extensive and fertile, its mineralogical riches far more varied, and volcanic action on a large scale being traced throughout the island, while few vestiges of it are discovered in Corsica. While these sheets have been passing through the press, General Alberto de la Marmora has published two volumes in continuation of his “_Voyages en Sardaigne_,” devoted exclusively, with an accompanying Atlas, to the geology of the island; a work of the greatest scientific value, from the high character of the author, and the time he has zealously spent in his researches, but too elaborate for any attempt to reduce its details within the compass or the scope of these pages. Our brief sketch must be confined to a few general remarks derived from La Marmora's former volumes, and Captain Smyth's very accurate account of Sardinia; availing ourselves also of Mr. Warre Tyndale's digest of these accounts, and giving some results of our own limited observation. The principal chain of primitive mountains trends from north to south, extending through the districts of Gallura, Barbagia, Ogliastra, and Budui, along the whole eastern coast of the island. This range consists of granite, with ramifications of schist, and large masses of quartz, mica, and felspar. It is intersected by transverse ranges, and by plains and valleys partly formed by volcanic agency; indeed, the connection between the Gallura group and that of Barbagia is entirely cut off by the great plain of Ozieri. The most northerly of the series is the Limbara group. Its highest peak, according to La Marmora 4287 feet, is an entire mass of granite. The Genargentu in the Barbagia range, of the same formation, the highest and most central mountain in Sardinia, has two culminating points of the respective heights of 6230 and 6118 feet. They are covered with snow from September till May, and the inhabitants of Aritzu, who make it an object of traffic, are, I believe, able to continue the supply throughout the year.[56] The Monte Oliena in the central group near Nuoro, 4390 feet high, is calcareous, as are two others, between 2000 and 3000 feet high, in the same chain. It terminates with the Sette Fratelli, prolonged to Cape Carbonaro, the eastern point of the gulf of Cagliari, the highest point of the group, which is entirely granite, being 3142 feet. We find a detached formation called the Nurra mountains, composed of granite, schist, and primitive limestone, filling the isthmus of the Cape at the north-west extremity of the island, and extending to the little isle of Asinara. The mountains of Sulcis, at the extreme south-west, and terminating in the Capes Teulada and Spartivento, are similarly composed; their highest peaks, the Monte Linas and Severa, being from 3000 to 4000 feet high. But the most striking geological feature in Sardinia consists in the great extent of the volcanic formations. These, as well as the slighter traces of such action in Corsica, are doubtless connected with the subterranean and submarine fires of which the coasts and islands of the central Mediterranean basin afford so many evidences in active and extinct volcanoes (some of them in activity in the times of Homer, Pindar, and Thucydides), and ranging in a circle from the Roman territory to that of Naples, to the Lipari islands, Sicily, and those forming the subject of our present inquiry. Sardinia has been widely ravaged by internal fires, but at too remote an era to admit of our conjecturing the period. The volcanic action can be traced from Castel Sardo, where it has formed precipices on the northern coast, to the vicinity of Monastir, a distance southward of more than 100 miles; its central focus appearing to have been about half-way between Ales, Milis, and St. Lussurgiu, where, as Captain Smyth remarks, “the phlægrean evidences are particularly abundant.” The action was principally confined to the western side of the island, though, south of Genargentu, the volcanic formations approach the primitive chain, and the rounded hills we remarked in the present rambles, after crossing the Limbara, as far east as Oschiri on the Campo d'Ozieri, are, I doubt not, craters of extinct volcanoes. The flat-topped hill, or truncated cone, figured in the lithograph drawing, No. 8, represents one of them, and, scattered as these verdant cones are over the long sweeps of the Campidani, they formed additional features in the interest with which, as I have already said, we regarded those immense tracts. From the supposed centre of volcanic action just suggested, it may be traced northward through the districts of Macomer, Bonorva, Giavesu, Keremule, with the hillock on which Ardara stands, and Codrongianus, to its termination in the cliffs of Lungo Sardo. But its most salient feature is the detached group of mountains on the western coast between Macomer and Orestano, which are entirely volcanic. This group has the name of “Monte del Marghine,” in the small map prefixed to Captain Smyth's survey, but I do not find that or any other distinct name attached to it in La Marmora's large “Carta dell'Isola.” The village of St. Lussurgiu is literally built in a crater connected with t