Chapter I (5)

“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.

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.

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.