Part 9

And so they parted; the civilised man to tell his little story of human feeling and native intelligence, “spending their sweetness in the desert air,”—the shepherd to relate his adventure over the watchfire, and perhaps draw forth from some sexagenarian herdsman his boyish recollections of the fall of San Fiorenzo and Bastia, and the march of the English red-coats over the mountains.

CHAP. XII.

_Chain of the Serra di Tenda.—A Night at Bigorno.—A Hospitable Priest.—Descent to the Golo._

After crossing for some distance an elevated plateau of this wild country, we came to a boundary wall of rough boulders, and turned to take a last view of the gulf of San Fiorenzo and the blue Mediterranean. A heavy gate was swung open, and, on advancing a few hundred yards, the scene suddenly changed. We found ourselves on the brink of a steep descent, with a sea of mountains before us, branching from the great central chain, and having innumerable ramifications. This part of the chain is called the Serra di Tenda; and its highest peak the Monte Asto, upwards of 5000 feet above the level of the sea, rose directly in front of our point of view. A single altar-shaped rock crowned the summit, from which the continuation of the ridge, right and left, fell away in a singularly graceful outline, the face of the mountain being precipitous with escarped cliffs. In other parts of the line, the summits were sharply serrated. Northward it was lost in the far distance among clouds and mist, but to the south-west of Monte Asto a similar, but more blunted peak towered above all the others. I observed on our maps that several of the summits in this range have the name of _Monte Rosso_; and the centre of the group was indented by a deep gorge richly wooded, as were other ravines, and forests hung on some of the mountain sides.

We were struck with the extraordinary warmth of colouring which pervaded the surface of the vast panorama, the slopes as well as the precipitous cliffs. They had the ruddy hue of the inner coating of the ilex bark, with a piece of which we compared it on the spot. Again, I felt convinced that this colouring was not merely an atmospheric effect,—though doubtless heightened by the bright sunshine through so pure a medium as the mountain air—but that the brilliance indicated the nature of the formation. Whether it was granitic or porphyritic, I had no opportunity of examining, but incline to think it belonged to the latter.

Of the general features of the geological system of Corsica, an opportunity may occur for taking a short review. Our present position, embracing so vast an amphitheatre, was excellent for forming an idea of the physical structure of this lateral branch from the central range. Various as were its ramifications, appearing sometimes grouped in wild confusion, the general unity of the whole formation, both in colour and form, was very observable, from the loftiest peak to the offsets of the ridge which gradually descended to the level of the valleys, just as the peculiar character of a tree runs through its trunk and boughs to the minutest twig. Through a gorge to the northward we traced the pass, the Col di Tenda, the summit being 4500 feet, through which a road is conducted to Calvi and l'Isle Rousse, on the western coast; while immediately under us lay the valley through which the Golo, rising in the central chain, makes its long and winding course to the _littorale_, eastward.

The bason, on which we now looked down, was distinguished by the same features as that of Oletta,—gentle hills, wooded slopes and glens, and olive groves, vineyards, and orchards, in almost equally exuberant richness. A dozen villages were within view, crowning, as usual, the tops of the hills, or perched far up the mountain sides. Of these, Lento and Bigorno are the most considerable, although Campittello gives its name to the canton. The strong position of Lento caused it to be often contested during the wars for Corsican independence, and it was General Paoli's head-quarters before his last and fatal battle.

We selected Bigorno, a small village, as our quarters for the night. The descent to it, about 1000 feet from the level of the sheep-walks, is extremely rapid; the village itself being still many hundred feet above the banks of the Golo, which is seen pouring its white torrent several miles distant. The approach was interesting, winding through the evergreen copse and scattered ilex, with the sound of the church-bell at the _Ave-Maria_ rising from below in the still air as we descended the mountain side.

Our quarters here were the best we had yet met with. My companion having staid behind to sketch the village, and taken shelter from a shower of rain, had been courteously invited by a gentleman, who passed, to accept the accommodations of his house for the night, but, in the meantime, Antoine had conducted me and the baggage to another house. It belonged to a small proprietor, who was profuse in his politeness, but, we thought, lacked the really hospitable feeling we had found in houses of less pretensions. Curiosity or civility brought about us quite a _levée_ of the better class while we were arranging our toilet. The supper was execrable, consisting of an _olla podrida_ of ham, potatoes, and tomatoes stewed in oil and seasoned with garlick, and the wine and grapes were sour. However, we had excellent beds. In my room there was a small collection of books, on a dusty shelf, which I should not have expected to find in such hands. Among them were some old works of theological casuistry, Metastasio, a translation of Voltaire's plays, and a geographical dictionary in Italian. I learnt that they had belonged to the proprietor's uncle, a _medico_ at Padua, and were heirlooms with his property, which our host inherited. The position of these small proprietors is much to be pitied. By great penuriousness they contrive to make a poor living out of a vineyard and garden with a few acres of land, having neither the spirit nor industry, and perhaps very little opportunity, to better their condition. There was evidently some struggle in the mind of our host between his poverty and gentility—added to what was due to the national character for hospitality—when we came to proffer some acknowledgment for our reception. It was just an occasion when, travelling in this way, one is rather puzzled how to act, but we were relieved from our difficulty by finding that our offering was received without much scruple.

Next morning, to my great surprise, for I was too sleepy to notice it on going to bed, I found a gun standing ready loaded on one side of the bed, in curious contrast to the crucifix and holy-water pot on the other,—succour close at hand against both spiritual and mortal foes. We had walked through the country without any alarm, and concluded that the reign of the rifle and stiletto was ended in Corsica. But how came the gun to be loaded? was it from inveterate habit even now that fire-arms were proscribed, or was Louis Napoleon's decree still eluded?

I shall never forget the view from my chamber windows as I threw open the long double casement at six o'clock in the morning. It was my first view of Monte Rotondo, the loftiest of the Corsican mountains. A long ridge and its crowning peak were capped with snow. The range to the eastward was in deep shade, but with a rich amber hue behind them as the sun rose. I watched its kindling light as it touched the snowy top of Monte Rotondo, and spread a purple light over the sides of the eastern ridge. The night mists had not yet risen from the valley of the Golo. We hastened to descend towards it, after the usual small cup of _café noir_ and a piece of bread. The environs of Bigorno on this side are very beautiful. Groves of olive with their silvery leaves and green berries not yet ripened mingled with vines planted in terraces, the vines festooning and running free, as one sees them in Italy. Gardens full of peach and fig trees filled all the hollows—a charming scene through which the path wound down the hill. Antoine brought us fresh figs from one of the gardens—a relish to the dry remains of our crust. Before the sun had gained much elevation, it became exceedingly warm on a southern exposure; the green lizards darted from crevices in the vineyard walls, all nature was alive and fresh, and the air serene, with a most heavenly sky.

All this was very delightful. Nothing can be more so than this style of travelling in such a country, with a friend of congenial spirit and taste. My companion was very well in this respect; but, as I before observed, his genius led him to be rather excursive in his rambles, so that he was sometimes missing when he was most wanted. Now, we had just started on this very agreeable morning walk with the prospect of breakfast in due time at the post-house on the banks of the Golo. But, instead of our enjoying this together, my friend, by a sudden impulse, leaped over a vineyard wall, and saying he should like to take a sketch from that point, desired me to saunter on, and he would soon overtake me.

[Illustration: NEAR BIGORNO.]

What with a Pisan campanile, a Corsican manse, festooning vines, a cluster of bamboo canes—indicative of the warm south—and the group of mountains with the truncated peak in the distance, a very clever sketch was produced, though not one of my friend's best;—and I have great reason to be obliged to him for his sketches, without which I fear this would be a dull book. At that moment, indeed, I would have preferred his companionship. However, bating this feeling and a certain hankering for my breakfast in the course of a two hours' walk, I trudged on alone in a very pleasant frame of mind. Nothing could be more charming than the green slopes round which the path wound, with occasional glimpses of the Golo beneath,—its rapid stream white as the milky Rhone,—after leaving behind the orchards and gardens. The rest of the descent lay through evergreen shrubbery so frequently mentioned, and a more exquisite piece of _máquis_ I had not seen. Thus sauntering on, sometimes talking with Antoine, a species of shrub, which I had not much observed before, attracted my particular attention among the arbutus and numerous other well-known varieties. It was a bushy evergreen, of shapely growth, five or six feet high, with masses of foliage and clusters of bright red berries, having an aromatic scent.

“What do you call this shrub, Antoine?” plucking a branch.

“_Lustinea_; the country people express an oil from the berries for use in their lamps.”

“Ah! I perceive it is the _Lentiscus_.” In Africa and the isle of Scios they make incisions in the stems, from which the gum mastic is procured. The Turks chew it to sweeten the breath. It grows also in Provence, Italy, and Spain.

Presently, I sat down on a bank, casting anxious glances up the path after my friend, and, basking in the sun, finished Antoine's basket of figs, which only whetted my appetite, while I was endeavouring to indoctrinate Antoine with the persuasion that our countrymen in general are neither “_Calvinistes_” nor “_Juives_.” Antoine, who had been asking a variety of questions about “_Inghilterra_” and “_Londra_” was not better informed on this subject than a great many foreigners I have met with in Catholic countries, who, by the former term, class all Protestants with the Reformed churches of the Continent. I have often had to inform them, to their manifest surprise, that we have bishops, priests and deacons, cathedrals, choirs, deans and canons, vestments, creeds, liturgies and sacraments, in the English church, and were, in short, very like themselves, at least in externals. Matters of faith I did not feel inclined to meddle with.

The discussion ended as we struck the level of the valley of the Golo, not far from Ponte Nuovo. The heat in this deep valley became suffocating, and the dusty high road was an ill exchange for the fresh mountain paths. Here, then, I made a decided halt, and this being the battle-field on which, in 1769, the French, after a desperate struggle, gained a decisive victory over General Paoli and the independent Corsicans, I had just engaged Antoine in pointing out the positions of the two armies, and tracing the tide of battle which, they say, deluged the Golo with blood and corpses for many miles,—when my lost companion came rushing down the hill-path among the rustling evergreens.

“You have been waiting long—excuse me; I have had a little adventure. That has detained me.”

“Humph!” My friend's sketching propensities often led him into a “little adventure,” ending in a story which, I should almost have imagined, he coined for a peace-offering, but that I had chapter and verse for the main incidents. There was that story of his being kicked off the mule, and—only the evening before—his _rencontre_ with the interesting young shepherd.

“What now?”

“But you want your breakfast.”

“I should think I do.”

“I have had mine.”

“The deuce you have, you are luckier than I am.”

“Now, my dear old fellow, we will push on to Ponte Nuovo, and you will soon get your's. I really am very sorry, but I could not help it.”

“But this is the famous battle-field, you know, and Antoine was just going to describe it.”

“That will keep. We will make our _reconnaissance_ after you have had your breakfast. As we go along, I will tell you how I got mine.”

The story shall be told as nearly as possible in my friend's own words.

* * * * *

“After you left me, I sat down to sketch in a little terraced garden, shaded by fig-trees and vines. My sketch was nearly finished, and I was thinking how I should overtake you, when a bright-eyed young maiden came up, and, with the childlike wonder of a race of people living far out of the track of sketching tourists, asked me ‘what I was doing.’

“‘Sit down, pretty maiden, and you shall see.’

“She obeyed with a _naïve_ simplicity, and we soon prattled away, she telling me that she had never gone beyond the neighbouring villages, and could not understand how I should come so far from _Inghilterra_, a country she had never heard of, to draw pictures of their wild mountains.

“‘Ah! you cannot comprehend how it is that I love your wild mountains, and children of nature like yourself.’

“‘Will you come again?’—a question put with a spice of _espièglerie_ which, from some other pretty lips, would be rather flattering. ‘Yes, you will come again, and I shall be grown up.’

“She did not seem, I found, quite pleased at being called ‘_mon enfant_’ by a young stranger, though it was all very well from her uncle, who, I learnt, was the priest of the church in my sketch. Presently, away she ran, blushing and smiling, to tell her uncle that there was a traveller come from a far-off land who must be hungry, and who must eat and rest under their roof.

“The good priest received me with much _empressement_, having been brought out to meet me by the little Graziella, as I was following the path to the cottage door.

“‘Ah! you are English, you are a Protestant, no doubt. It matters not; the stranger is welcome under my humble roof were he a Jew or a Turk. We are all brothers.’

“I found the priest well informed on English affairs, into which, and matters connected with them, we soon plunged. Meanwhile, Graziella, with the assistance of a hard-faced but kindly old crone, prepared a repast of fruits, eggs, coffee; and the priest brought out a bottle of wine, the produce of his own vineyard, which I have seldom found equalled. It was all very appetising. I only wished you were there.”—

“I was just then, curiously enough, indoctrinating Antoine, nothing loath, with the priest's sentiment of universal brotherhood, a simple Gospel truth, which, overlaid with ecclesiastical systems, never took deep root, and is sadly out of vogue now-a-days. I imagine we shall find the Sards far more bigoted than their neighbours here.”

“And you were doing your good work, fasting, while I feasted. It was all tempting, but I was puzzled how to eat my egg; there were no spoons.”

“Why not ask for one; you were talking French? Had you been attempting Italian, you might have stuck fast. _Cucchiaio_ is one of the most uncouth words in that beautiful language. Well I remember it being one of the first I had to pronounce, when, in early days, I got out of the line of French _garçons_: _cuc—cucchi_,—give me our Anglo-Saxon monosyllables for such things as spoons, knives, and forks,—at last I blurted out _cucchiaio_, in all its quadrosyllabic fulness. The Rubicon was passed (by the way, it was on the _carte_ of my route); after that I stuck at nothing, though for some time it was the _lingua Toscana—in bocca—Inglese_.—But how did you manage your egg?”

“Why, it is good manners, you know, to do at Rome as others do, so I watched the priest. He removed the top, as we do, and then very nicely sipped the contents of the shell, which—charming Graziella! excellent _duenna!_—were done to a turn, just creamy.”

“Ah! I perceive it was suction, a primitive idea, when spoons were not. Now I understand the old proverb about not teaching our venerable progenitors ‘to suck eggs.’”

“Old fellow, cease your banter, or I shall never get to the end of my story. As to the eggs, I did not manage mine as cleverly as the priest did his. I made a mess of it, bestowing good part of the yolk on my moustache, much to Graziella's amusement. I perceived she could hardly refrain from tittering. But she was soon sobered,—the conversation turning on the last days of Corsica—and tears came in her eyes. Alas! the ruthless spirit of _vendetta_ in this wild country had cost her the lives of her father and brothers; and, her mother being dead, she was left an orphan under the care of the good priest.”

“‘Uncle, persuade him to stay, if only for another hour. I should like to hear more of those countries where there is no _vendetta_; where they plough and reap and dwell in safety; where fathers and brothers are not compelled to flee from their villages to the wild _máquis_ and the mountain crags.’

“‘My pretty child, I cannot stay now. Perhaps some day I may return.’

“‘_Addio!_ then. _Evviva! Evviva!_ In two years I shall be grown up, and uncle will no longer call me child, and you shall tell me more of lands I shall never see. But ah! I know it will never be. _Bon voyage!_ Forget not the priest's home among the mountains of Corsica.’

“I shall not forget it. How often one says hopefully ‘I will come back,’ when it would be idle ever to expect it; and yet I would wish to see once more the little girl who said, ‘Come, if it is but for an hour!’

“I rushed down the mountain side, and found you scorched with a burning sun, thirsty, breakfastless,—the very image of the knight of tho woeful countenance,—I all joy and fun with my morning's adventure, you perplexed, out of patience, hungry, and tired. I cannot help laughing at the contrast.”

CHAP. XIII.

_Ponte Nuovo.—The Battle-field.—Antoine's Story._

Half an hour's walk along the high-road brought us to the solitary building of which we were in search. Uniting the character of an _albergo_ and a fortified post, of which there are several scattered throughout the island on commanding spots, the loop-holed walls, with projecting angles for a cross-fire, and the barrack round a court within, still occupied by a small party of _gendarmes_, were striking mementos of the state of insecurity in Corsica, and what travelling was at no very distant period. Shut in by the mountains, the air of the valley is close and stifling, disease marked the countenances of the few inmates, and the barrack-room into which we climbed, with its benches and tables, were all miserably dirty. The promise of a dish of fresh trout from the Golo was a redeeming feature in the aspect of affairs to one who had waited long, and walked far, without his breakfast. But the dish reeked as if the Golo ran oil, and the fish were still floating in the unctuous stream, spite of my injunctions to the weird priestess of the mysteries of the cave beneath—“_Senza olio, senza olio_,” reversing the phrase in the Baron de Grimm's story of the Frenchman, who, having sacrificed his own _goût_ to his guest's _penchant_ for asparagus _au naturel_, on his friend's falling down in a swoon, rushed to the top of the staircase, shouting to his cook, “_Tout à l'huile, tout à l'huile_.”

We stood on the bridge of Ponte Nuovo, just beneath the post, the scene of the last struggle for Corsican independence; and there Antoine pointed out the details. The Corsicans, under Pascal Paoli, having occupied the strong position in the Nebbio through which we had been rambling for the last few days, the Count de Vaux, the French generalissimo, concentrated his forces, amounting to forty-five battalions, four regiments of cavalry, and a powerful artillery, determined to crush Paoli's brave but ill-organised militia, and finish the war by a single blow. The French commenced the attack on the 3rd of May, 1769. For two days it was an affair of outposts, but, on the 3rd, De Vaux pressed Paoli with such vigour in his fortified camp at Murato, that the Corsican general was forced to retire beyond the Golo. He established himself in the _pieve_ of Rostino, a few miles above the bridge, leaving orders for Gaffori to hold the strong heights of Lento, while Grimaldi was to defend Canavaggia,—two points by which the French might penetrate into the interior. Bribed by French gold, Grimaldi—“_Ah! il traditore!_” exclaimed Antoine,—and Gaffori, unmindful of his honourable name, offered no resistance to the advance of the French.

On the 9th of May, the militia left by Paoli to defend the passes into the valley, finding themselves unsupported, abandoned their posts and fled.

“Down the pass we descended this morning from Bigorno,” said Antoine, “through those other gorges you see in the mountains, our people poured in wild confusion, closely pursued by the enemy. They thronged to the bridge. It was held by a company of Prussians, who had passed from the Genoese to the Corsican service; and a thousand Corsican militia lined the river bank. If the French carried the bridge, all was lost. The Prussians were the only regular troops in Paoli's army. They stood firm in their discipline. The fugitives threw themselves upon them, charged with the bayonet by the French in the rear. The Prussians had to hold their position against friends and foes, indiscriminately, after a vain attempt to rally the flying Corsicans. Unfortunately they fired into the mass. A cry of ‘Treachery!’ was raised, the panic became general, disorder spread throughout the ranks, the enemy profited by it to secure their victory; the rout was complete, and the Corsicans scattered themselves among the mountains and forests. The Golo was red with blood, and the corpses of my countrymen, mingled with their enemies, floated in its current for many miles. It was a day of woe, a fatal day!”