Chapter I (4)

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by prohibiting their plantation in soils capable of other kinds of cultivation; but shortly afterwards the decree was revoked on the report of no less a political economist than the celebrated Turgot.[18] _Vivent donc ces châtaigniers magnifiques, quand même!_ And may the Corsicans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.

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.

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.”