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RAMBLES
IN
CORSICA AND SARDINIA.
WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
I.
RAMBLES IN NORWAY, 1848-1849; including Remarks on its Political,
Military, Ecclesiastical, and Social Organization. With a Map,
Wood Engravings, and Lithographic Illustrations. 1 vol. 8vo.
Longman and Co., 1860.
* * A few copies only of this Edition are on hand.
*
II.
THE SAME, in 1 vol. post 8vo. without the Illustrations.
(_Traveller's Library._) Longman and Co., 1855.
III.
EVERARD TUNSTALL: A South-African Tale. Bentley, 1851.
* * A New Edition is in preparation.
*
IV.
THE DANUBE AND THE BLACK SEA. A Memoir on their Junction by a
Railway and Port; with Remarks on the Navigation of the Danube,
the Danubian Provinces, the Corn Trade, the Antient and Present
Commerce of the Euxine; and Notices of History, Antiquities,
&c. With a Map and Sketch of the Town and Harbour of
Kustendjie. 1 vol. 8vo. E. Stanford, 6 Charing Cross, 1857.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO.
NEW-STREET SQUARE.
[Illustration]
RAMBLES
IN THE ISLANDS OF
CORSICA AND SARDINIA.
WITH
NOTICES OF THEIR HISTORY, ANTIQUITIES, AND PRESENT CONDITION.
BY THOMAS FORESTER
AUTHOR OF “NORWAY IN 1818-1819,” ETC.
LONDON
LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, LONGMANS, AND ROBERTS.
1858
PREFACE
Nearly a century ago, James Boswell made an expedition to Corsica, and
was entertained with distinction by Pascal Paoli. Next to conducting
Samuel Johnson to the Hebrides, the exploit of penetrating to what was
then considered a sort of _Ultima Thule_ in southern Europe, was the
greatest event in the famous biographer's life; and, next to his
devotion to the English sage, was the homage he paid to the Corsican
chief.
Soon after his return from this expedition, in 1767, Boswell printed his
Journal, with a valuable account of the island; but from that time to
the present, no Englishman has written on Corsica except Mr. Robert
Benson, who published some short “Sketches” of its history, scenery, and
people in 1825. During the war of the revolution, Nelson's squadron hung
like a thunder-cloud round the coast, and for some time an
expeditionary force of British troops held possession of the island. Our
George the Third accepted the Corsican crown, but his reign was as
ephemeral as that of King Theodore, the aspiring adventurer, who ended
his days in the Fleet Prison.
These occurrences, with any knowledge of the country and people arising
out of them, have passed from the memory of the present generation; and
it may be affirmed, without exaggeration, that when the tour forming the
subject of the present work was projected and carried out, Corsica was
less known in England than New Zealand. The general impression
concerning it was tolerably correct. Imagination painted it as a wild
and romantic country,—romantic in its scenery and the character of its
inhabitants; a very region of romance and sentiment; a fine field for
the novelist and the dramatist; and to that class of writers it was
abandoned.
Corsica had yet to be faithfully pictured to the just apprehension of
the discerning inquirer. Naturally therefore the author, whose
narratives of his wanderings in more than one quarter of the globe had
been favourably received, was not indisposed to commit to the press the
result of his observations during his Corsican rambles. Just then,
translations of an account of a Tour in the island by a German
traveller, appeared in England, and being written in an attractive
style, the work commanded considerable attention. It seemed to fill the
gap in English literature on the subject of Corsica; and though the
writer of these pages felt that M. Gregorovius' pictures of Corsican
life were too highly coloured, he was inclined to leave the field in the
hands which had cultivated it with talent and success. Eventually,
however, being led to think that Corsica was still open to survey from
an English point of view, and that it possessed sufficient legitimate
attractions to sustain the interest of such a work as he had designed,
the author was induced to undertake it.
If the field of literature connected with Corsica was found barren when
examined in prospect of this expedition, that of Sardinia presented an
_embarras de richesses_. The works of La Marmora, Captain, now Admiral,
Smyth, and Mr. Warre Tyndale, had seemingly exhausted the subject, with
a success the mere Rambler can make no pretensions to rival; but the
former being a foreign work, and the two latter out of print, neither of
them is easily accessible. They have been sometimes used, in the
following pages, to throw light on subjects which came under the
author's own observation. He has also consulted a valuable work,
recently published at Naples, by F. Antonio Bresciani, of the Society
of Jesus[1], on the manners and habits of the Sardes compared with those
of the oldest Oriental nations. The comparisons are chiefly gathered
from scenes and usages depicted in the narratives of Homer and the
Bible, still singularly reflected in the habits and traditions of the
primitive and insular people of Sardinia.
Some of these are noticed in the present volume, and the author intended
to draw more largely on the rich stores accumulated by the researches of
the learned Jesuit; but time and space failed. Like truant boys, the
Ramblers had loitered on their early path, idly amusing themselves with
very trifles, or stopping to gather the wild flowers that fell in their
way, till the harvest-field was reached too late to be carefully
gleaned. For a work, however, of this description, attention enough has
perhaps been paid to the subject of Sarde antiquities; it being intended
to be amusing as well as instructive, to convey information on the
character of the people on whom it treats, as well as on their
institutions and monuments.
If, in conclusion, it be mentioned that the delay in bringing out the
volume, long since announced, has been caused by ill health and other
painful circumstances, the Author is only anxious that it should not be
misinterpreted, as attaching to the work an importance to which it does
not pretend. But there is the less reason for regretting this delay, as
it has afforded him another opportunity of visiting Sardinia, as well as
of witnessing the operation of laying down the submarine electric
telegraph cable between Cagliari and the African coast; an event in
Sardinian history, some notice of which, with the accompanying trip to
Algeria, may form a not uninteresting episode to the Rambles in that
island.
May, 1858.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Inducements to the Expedition.—Early impressions concerning
Corsica.—Plan of the Tour.—Routes to Marseilles.—Meeting
there Page 1
CHAP. II.
Marseilles.—Cafe de l'Orient.—Cannebière and Port.—Sail to the
Islands in the Gulf.—The Château-d'If and Count de
Monte-Cristo.—A sudden Squall 8
CHAP. III.
Embark for Corsica.—Coast of France and Italy.—Toulon.—Hyères
Islands, Frejus, &c.—A stormy Night.—Crossing the Tuscan Sea
21
CHAP. IV.
Coast of Capo Corso.—Peculiarity of Scenery.—Verdure, and
Mountain Villages.—Il Torre di Seneca.—Land at Bastia 28
CHAP. V.
Bastia.—Territorial Divisions.—Plan of the Rambles.—Hiring
Mules.—The Start 38
CHAP. VI.
Leave Bastia.—The Road.—View of Elba, Pianosa, and
Monte-Cristo.—The Littorale.—An Adventure.—The Stagna di
Biguglia 44
CHAP. VII.
Evergreen Thickets.—Their remarkable Character.—A fortunate
Rencontre.—Moonlight in the Mountains.—Cross a high
Col.—Corsican Shepherds.—The Vendetta.—Village Quarters 53
CHAP. VIII.
The Littorale.—Corsican Agriculture.—Greek and Roman
Colonies.—Sketch of Mediæval and Modern History.—Memoirs of
King Theodore de Neuhoff 65
CHAP. IX.
Environs of Olmeta.—Bandit-Life and the Vendetta.—Its
Atrocities.—The Population disarmed.—The Bandits exterminated
77
CHAP. X.
The Basin of Oletta.—The Olive.—Corsican Tales.—The Heroine of
Oletta.—Zones of Climate and Vegetation 90
CHAP. XI.
Pisan Church at Murato.—Chestnut Woods.—Gulf of San
Fiorenzo.—Nelson's Exploit there.—He conducts the Siege of
Bastia.—Ilex Woods.—Mountain Pastures.—The Corsican Shepherd
102
CHAP. XII.
Chain of the Serra di Tenda.—A Night at Bigorno.—A hospitable
Priest.—Descent to the Golo 117
CHAP. XIII.
Ponte Nuovo.—The Battle-field.—Antoine's Story 129
CHAP. XIV.
Filial Duty, Love, and Revenge: a Corsican Tale 134
CHAP. XV.
Morosaglia, Seat of the Paolis.—Higher Valley of the
Golo.—Orography of Corsica.—Its Geology 145
CHAP. XVI.
Approach to Corte.—Our “Man of the Woods.”—Casa Paoli.—The
Gaffori.—Citadel.—An Evening Stroll 156
CHAP. XVII.
Pascal Paoli more honoured than Napoleon Buonaparte.—His
Memoirs.—George III. King of Corsica.—Remarks on the
Union.—Paoli's Death and Tomb 164
CHAP. XVIII.
Excursion to a Forest.—Borders of the
Niolo.—Adventures.—Corsican Pines.—The Pinus Maritima and
Pinus Lariccio.—Government Forests 179
CHAP. XIX.
The Forest of Asco.—Corsican Beasts of Chase.—The
Moufflon.—Increase of Wild Animals.—The last of the Banditti
191
CHAP. XX.
Leave Corte for Ajaccio.—A Legend of Venaco.—Arrival at
Vivario 200
CHAP. XXI.
Leave Vivario.—Forest of Vizzavona.—A roadside
Adventure.—Bocagnono.—Arrive late at Ajaccio 205
CHAP. XXII.
Ajaccio.—Collège-Fesch.—Reminiscences of the Buonaparte
Family.—Excursion in the Gulf.—Chapel of the Greeks.—Evening
Scenes.—Council-General of the Department.—Statistics.—State
of Agriculture in Corsica.—Her Prospects 213
CHAP. XXIII.
Leave Ajaccio.—Neighbourhood of Olmeto.—Sollacaró.—James
Boswell's Residence there.—Scene in the “Corsican Brothers”
laid there.—Quarrel of the Vincenti and Grimaldi.—Road to
Sartene.—Corsican Marbles.—Arrive at Bonifacio 227
CHAP. XXIV.
Bonifacio.—Foundation and History.—Besieged by Alfonso of
Arragon.—By Dragut and the Turks.—Singularity of the
Place.—Its Medieval Aspect.—The
Post-office.—Passports.—Detention.—Marine Grottoes.—Ruined
Convent of St. Julian 242
CHAP. XXV.
ISLAND OF SARDINIA.—Cross the Straits of Bonifacio.—The
Town and Harbour of La Madelena.—Agincourt Sound, the Station
of the British Fleet in 1803.—Anecdotes of Nelson.—Napoleon
Bonaparte repulsed at La Madelena 258
CHAP. XXVI.
Ferried over to the Main Island.—Start for the Mountain Passes
of the Gallura.—Sarde Horses and Cavallante.—Valley of the
Liscia.—Pass some Holy Places on the Hills.—Festivals held
there.—Usages of the Sardes indicating their Eastern Origin
272
CHAP. XXVII.
The Valley narrows.—Romantic Glen.—Al fresco Meal.—Forest of
Cork Trees.—Salvator Rosa Scenery.—Haunts of Outlaws.—Their
Atrocities.—Anecdotes of them in a better Spirit.—The Defile
in the Mountains.—Elevated Plateau.—A Night March.—Arrival
at Tempio, the Capital of Gallura.—Our Reception 280
CHAP. XXVIII.
Tempio.—The Town and Environs.—The Limbara
Mountains.—Vineyards.—The Governor or Intendente of the
Province.—Deadly Feuds.—Sarde Girls at the
Fountains.—Hunting in Sardinia.—Singular Conference with the
Tempiese Hunters.—Society at the Casino.—Description of a
Boar Hunt 295
CHAP. XXIX.
Leave Tempio.—Sunrise.—Light Wreaths of Mist across the
Valley.—A Pass of the Limbara.—View from the Summit.—Dense
Vapour over the Plain beneath.—The Lowlands unhealthy.—The
deadly Intempérie.—It recently carried off an English
Traveller.—Descend a romantic Glen to the Level of the
Campidano.—Its peculiar Character.—Gallop over it.—Reach
Ozieri 310
CHAP. XXX.
Effects of vast Levels as compared with Mountain
Scenery.—Sketches of Sardinian Geology.—The primitive Chains
and other Formations.—Traces of extensive Volcanic
action.—The “Campidani,” or Plains.—Mineral Products 320
CHAP. XXXI.
Ozieri.—A Refugee Colonel turned Cook and Traiteur.—Traces of
Phenician Superstitions in Sarde Usages.—The Rites of
Adonis.—Passing through the Fire to Moloch 331
CHAP. XXXII.
Expedition to the Mountains.—Environs of Ozieri.—First View of
the Peaks of Genargentu.—Forests.—Value of the Oak
Timber.—Cork Trees; their Produce, and Statistics of the
Trade.—Hunting the Wild Boar, &c.—The Hunters' Feast.—A
Bivouac in the Woods.—Notices of the Province of
Barbagia.—Independence of the Mountaineers 344
CHAP. XXXIII.
Leave Ozieri.—The New Road, and Travelling in the
Campagna.—Monte Santo.—Scenes at the Halfway House.—Volcanic
Hills.—Sassari; its History.—Liberal Opinions of the
Sassarese.—Constitutional Government.—Reforms wanted in
Sardinia.—Means for its Improvement 358
CHAP. XXXIV.
Alghero—Notice of.—The Cathedral of
Sassari.—University.—Museum.—A Student's private
Cabinet.—Excursion to a Nuraghe.—Description of.—Remarks on
the Origin and Design of these Structures 376
CHAP. XXXV.
Sardinian Monoliths.—The Sepolture, or “Tombs of the
Giants.”—Traditions regarding Giant Races.—The Anakim, &c.,
of Canaan.—Their supposed Migration to Sardinia.—Remarks on
Aboriginal Races.—Antiquity of the Nuraghe and
Sepolture.—Their Founders unknown 389
CHAP. XXXVI.
Oristano.—Orange-groves of Milis.—Cagliari.—Description
of.—The Cathedral and Churches.—Religious
Laxity.—Ecclesiastical Statistics.—Vegetable and Fruit
Market.—Royal Museum.—Antiquities.—Coins found in
Sardinia.—Phenician Remains.—The Sarde Idols 407
CHAP. XXXVII.
Porto-Torres.—Another Italian Refugee.—Embark for Genoa.—West
Coast of Corsica.—Turin.—The Sardinian Electric
Telegraph.—The Wires laid to Cagliari 422
CHAP. XXXVIII.
Sardinian Electric Telegraph.—The Land Line completed.—Failures
in Attempts to lay a Submarine Cable to Algeria.—The Work
resumed.—A Trip to Bona on the African Coast.—The Cable
laid.—Importance of Cagliari as a Telegraph Station.—Its
Commerce.—The return Voyage.—CONCLUSION 432
INDEX TO THE ILLUSTRATIONS.
LITHOGRAPHS.
AJACCIO _frontispiece_
MAP OF CORSICA AND SARDINIA _facing p._ 1
ERSA, CAPO CORSO “ 33
CORTE “ 157
VIVARIO “ 205
BONIFACIO “ 242
VALLEY OF THE LISCIA, SARDINIA “ 275
THE LIMBARA, FROM TEMPIO “ 296
THE PLAN OF OZIERI “ 318
WOOD ENGRAVINGS.
CORSICA.
MARSEILLES, FROM THE RAILWAY 7
ISLETS OFF MARSEILLES 12
CHÂTEAU-D'IF 14
MARSEILLES, FROM THE CHÂTEAU-D'IF 17
FRENCH COAST, OFF CIOTAT 23
OFF TOULON 24
IL TORRE DI SENECA 34
ISLE OF MONTE-CRISTO 47
MEETING OF MOUNTAIN AND PLAIN NEAR BASTIA 48
OLMETA 77
ISLE OF MONTE-CRISTO, THROUGH A GORGE 91
BETWEEN OLMETA AND BIGORNO 95
PONTE MURATO 103
CAPO CORSO, FROM CHESTNUT WOODS 107
NEAR BIGORNO 122
CITADEL OF CORTE 161
PINUS MARITIMA 185
PINUS LARICCIO 185
CONE OF THE PINUS LARICCIO 186
BARK OF THE PINUS LARICCIO 186
BOCAGNONO 209
HARBOUR OF AJACCIO 217
BONIFACIO, ON THE SEA-SIDE 240
OUTLINE OF SARDINIA, FROM BONIFACIO 253
CAVES UNDER BONIFACIO 255
BONIFACIO, FROM THE CONVENT IN THE VALLEY 256
SARDINIA.
LOOKING BACK ON CORSICA 259
A SALVATOR ROSA SCENE 282
DESCENT TO THE CAMPIDANO 313
THE CAMPIDANO 321
EXTERIOR OF A NURAGHE 379
ENTRANCE TO A NURAGHE 381
INTERIOR OF A NURAGHE 381
SEPOLTURA DE IS GIGANTES 390
THE SAME 391
SARDO-ROMAN COIN 417
CARTHAGINEAN COIN 418
SARACEN COIN 418
PORTO-TORRES 425
[Illustration: CORSICA AND SARDINIA (MAP)]
RAMBLES
IN
CORSICA AND SARDINIA.
CHAPTER I.
_Inducements to the Expedition.—Early impressions concerning
Corsica.—Plan of the Tour.—Routes to Marseilles.—Meeting
there._
It would be difficult to say, and it matters little, what principally
led to the selection of two islands in the Mediterranean, not generally
supposed to possess any particular attractions for the tourist, as the
object for an autumn's expedition with the companion of former rambles.
At any rate, we should break fresh ground; and I imagine the hope of
shooting _moufflons_ was no small inducement to my friend, who had
succeeded in the wild sport of hunting reindeer on the high Fjelds of
Norway. If, too, his comrade should fail in climbing to the vast
solitudes in which the bounding _moufflon_ harbours, there were boar
hunts in the prospect for him; not such courtly pageants as one sees in
the pictures of Velasquez, but more stirring, and in nobler covers.
Should these prove to be false hopes, the enthusiastic sketcher, and the
lover of the grand and beautiful in nature, must find ample compensation
in the scenery of mountains lifting their snowy peaks from bases washed
by the sunny Mediterranean,—mountain systems of a character yet
unvisited, and with which we could at least compare those of Norway and
Switzerland. This power of comparison is what imparts the most lively
interest to travelling; and thus it becomes, for the time,
all-engrossing, the eyes and the memory alike employed at every turn on
contrasts of form, colour, and clothing.
Not less attractive, to any one desirous of extending his knowledge of
human kind, would be the prospect of studying the races inhabiting
islands as yet unknown to him. The oldest writer of travels, bringing on
the stage his hero-wanderer along the shores of the Mediterranean, gives
the finishing touch to his character in two significant words, νόον
ἐγνῶ.[2] Not only did he “visit the abodes of many people,” but he
“studied their Νοῦς;” all that the term involves of its impress on
character, habits, and institutions was keenly investigated by the
accomplished navigator. And what studies must be afforded by these
singular islanders, who, we were informed, in the centre of the
Mediterranean, at the very threshold of civilisation, combined many of
the virtues, with more than the ferocity, of barbarous tribes!
My own impressions regarding Corsica were early received. In my younger
days, there was the same sort of sympathy with the Corsicans which we
now find more noisily, and sometimes absurdly, displayed for the Poles.
I had seen Pascal Paoli, and talked with General Dumouriez about his
first campaign against the Corsican mountaineers, of which his
recollections were by no means agreeable. Pascal Paoli had found an
asylum in England, where he maintained a dignified seclusion, not always
imitated by patriot exiles. His memory has almost passed away, and it is
quite imaginable that some stump orator may reckon him among the exiled
Poles of former days. Pascal Paoli was, however, a truly great man. In
my boyish enthusiasm—all “Grecians” are in the heroics about patriots
who have fought and struggled for their country's liberty—I compared him
with Aristides or Themistocles; the Corsicans were heroes; the country
which rudely nursed those brave mountaineers—I had also a touch of
sentiment for the sublime and beautiful in nature which a schoolboy does
not always get from books,—such a country must be romantic. Should I
ever ramble among its mountains, forests, and sunny valleys?
At last, long after the chimera, for such it inevitably was, of Corsican
independence had vanished, my cherished hopes have been realised,—with
what success will appear in the following pages. I will only say for
myself, and I believe my fellow-traveller participates the feeling, a
more delightful tour I never made.
Corsica had an ugly reputation for _banditisme_, and Sardinia for a
deadly _intempérie_; but we did not attach much importance to such
rumours. The enthusiastic traveller disregards danger. If told that
there is “a lion in his path,” he only goes the more resolutely forward.
As for the banditti, we would fraternise with them if they, best knowing
the mountain paths, would track the moufflons for us.
The true traveller must “become all things to all men,” if he desires to
familiarise himself with the habits and characters of other races.
Without forgetting that he is an Englishman, he will cast off that
self-conceit and cold exclusiveness which make so many of your
countrymen ridiculous in the eyes of foreigners, and, adapting himself
to the situation, become, if needs be, a bandit in Corsica, a bonder in
Norway, drink sour milk without a wry face in a Caffre's kraal, take
snuff with his wives—be any thing except a Turk in Turkey; though even
there, when he comes to talk the language, he will adopt the eastern
custom of taking his pipe, his coffee, and his repose, not chattering,
but sententiously uttering his words between whiffs of smoke, which,
meanwhile, he _drinks_, as the Turks well express it.
We envy not the man, the T. G. (travelling gent.) of society, whose
principal aim in travelling is to gratify a miserable vanity; to be able
to boast of crossing or climbing such a mountain; to have to say, “I
have been here, I have been there; I have done Bagdad; I have seen the
Nile,” or such and such a place. The true traveller is unselfish. Though
to him it is food, breath, a renewal of life, a fresh existence, to
travel,—half his pleasure is to carry home from his wanderings, to an
English fireside, a tale of other lands. That happy English home is ever
present to his mind, and, with all his enthusiasm, he meets with nothing
in his rambles he would exchange for its blessings.
Being strongly recommended to defer our visit to Sardinia until the
latest possible period of the autumn, the plan finally laid was to take
Corsica in detail from Capo Corso to Bonifaccio, and then cross the
straits, as best we might, there being no regular communication. Having
landed in Sardinia, we should continue the tour through that island as
long as circumstances permitted; leaving it by one of the Sardinian
government's steam-boats which ply between the island and Genoa and so
take the route by Turin, over the Mont-Cenis, to Lyons, Paris, and
Boulogne.
As these islands lie on the same parallel of longitude (11° 50' E.
nearly cutting the centre of both), by the route thus chalked out, we
should make a straight course from north to south, with no considerable
deviations, the islands being, as every one knows, in the form of
parallelograms of much greater length than breadth.
Marseilles was finally arranged to be our port of embarkation, and the
postponement of the visit to Sardinia till November leaving time on our
hands, we had ample leisure for the accomplishment of some secondary
projects, which brought us into training for the _grand coup_. My friend
pushed through the more frequented parts of Switzerland for Zermatt and
the Matterhorn. He was much struck by the remarkable contrast of that
stupendous obelisk of rock, piercing the clouds, with the vast, but
still sublime, expanse of the high Fjelds of snow we had seen in Norway;
and the remark applies generally to the grand distinctive features of
the two countries. Descending the valley of Aosta, my friend travelled
by Genoa and Nice through the Maritime Alps to Marseilles, going on to
Avignon with some friends he happened to fall in with on the way;—such
meetings with those we know, and sometimes with those we do not know,
being among the pleasures of travelling in the more frequented routes.
Agreeable acquaintances are made or renewed; perhaps a day or two is
spent in travelling together, with a charm that is very delightful; and
you part with the hope of meeting again.
Meanwhile the author, who had been delving in the Norman Chronicles till
every castle and abbey through the length and depth of the old Duchy
were become familiar names, feeling a strong desire to revisit scenes
thus brought fresh to his memory, shouldered his knapsack at Dieppe, and
spent a most delightful fortnight in rambling through that fine
province.
Many a pleasant story he could tell of wayside greetings and fireside
hospitalities among the Norman peasantry. The old soldier of the empire
stopped his _camarade_, as something in our _tenue_ led him to imagine,
asking eager questions about the coming war and the united service, both
which seemed to be popular; while market and fair, and the communal
school, each in their turn, drew forth amusing companions for the road.
But these episodes, and more serious talk of Norman abbeys buried in the
depths of forests or girded round by the winding Seine—rich in memories
of the past, but ruins all—and of Norman churches and cathedrals, in all
their ancient grandeur, or well restored, are beside the present
purpose.
Hastening southward by _diligence_ and _chemin-de-fer_, the first
vineyards appeared between Chartres and Orleans, with an effect much
inferior, as it seemed, to that produced by the orchards of Normandy,
loaded as they were with ruddy fruit; but this may be the prejudice of a
native of the West of England. From Lyons, one of the long narrow
steamboats afforded a most agreeable passage down the stream of the
rapid Rhone to Avignon. The autumn rains, which sometimes caused a weary
march through the byroads of Normandy, had cooled the air, freshened
vegetation, and made travelling in the south of France pleasant. While
journeying on, every hour and every league bringing me nearer to the
intended meeting, it was natural to feel some anxiety lest in such great
distances to be traversed, with little or no intermediate communication,
something might go wrong, and our plans, however well laid, be delayed
or frustrated. The last stage of the journey commenced—should I be first
at the rendezvous, or was my companion for the future waiting my
arrival?
[Illustration: MARSEILLES FROM THE RAILWAY.]
At last, after spending the warm noon of an unclouded day amongst the
noble ruins of Arles, the train landed me at the station at Marseilles,
and my friend was on the platform. The pleasure of casual meetings _en
route_ has been just adverted to. How joyous was that of two travellers,
wanderers together in times gone by, who now met so far from home, after
their separate courses, with a fresh field opening before them!—the
recognition, doubt and uncertainty vanishing, the glorious chat,—all
this the warm-hearted reader will easily imagine.
CHAP. II.
_Marseilles.—Café de l'Orient.—Cannebière and Port.—Sail to the
Islands in the Gulf.—The Château d'If and Count de
Monte-Cristo.—A sudden Squall._
We met then at Marseilles in the second week of October, punctual to the
appointed day. Our several lines of route had well converged. Want of
companionship was the only drawback on the pleasure they had afforded;
but they were only preludes to the joint undertaking on which we now
entered. Each recounted his past adventures, and measures were concerted
for the future.
Steamboats leave Marseilles three times every week for Corsica;—I like
to be particular, especially when one gets beyond Murray's beat. One of
these boats calls at Bastia on its way to Leghorn; the others make each
a voyage direct to Calvi, or l'Isle de Rousse, and Ajaccio.
It suited us best to land at Bastia, but we were detained three days at
Marseilles waiting for the boat. That also happened to suit us. We had
hitherto travelled in the lightest possible marching order, and some
heavier baggage, containing equipments for our expedition in the
islands, had not yet turned up. Knapsack tours are not the style beyond
the Alps. In the south and east, all above the lowest grade ride. It is
so in Corsica; still more in Sardinia,—where all is eastern. We trudged
on foot sometimes in Corsica, to get into the country, and should have
been considered mad; but, as Englishmen, we were only eccentric. We
waited then for our baggage, which contained, among other things,
English saddles,—a great luxury. My companion thought it a professional
duty to reconnoitre the fortifications of Toulon. By travelling in the
night, going and returning, he contrived to get a clear day for the
purpose.
Marseilles had interest enough to occupy my attention during his
absence. Being the great _entrepôt_ of commerce, and centre of
communication, in the Mediterranean, all the races dwelling on its
shores, and many others, are represented there.
“Let us go to the _Grand Café_,”—I think it is called _Café de
l'Orient_—said my companion, the evening we met.
Any one who has merely visited Paris may imagine the brilliance of this
vast _salon_, the lights reflected on a hundred mirrors. But where else
than at Marseilles could be found such an assemblage as now crowded it?
See that Turk, with the magnificent beard. What yards of snowy
gauze-like cambric, with gold-embroidered ends, are wound in graceful
folds round the fez, contrasting with the dark mahogany colour of his
sun-burnt brow. And what a rich crimson caftan! Perhaps he is from Tunis
or Barbary. He sits alone, smoking, with eyes half-closed, grave and
taciturn.
They must be Greeks,—those two figures in dark-flowing robes. They too
wear the red fez. Mark the neat moustache, the clean chiselled outline
of their features, the active eye. They are eagerly conversing over that
round marble table while they sip their coffee. Their talk must be of
the corn markets. Now is their opportunity, as the harvest in France
has failed. And see that man with the olive complexion, keen features,
and ringlets of black hair and pendent ear-rings under his dark
_barrette_. He may be the _padróne_ of some felucca from Leghorn or
Naples. Beside him is a Spaniard. He, too, seems a seafaring man; and no
felucca-rigged vessels in the Mediterranean are smarter, finer-looking
craft than the Spanish.
There are plenty of Arabs, swarthy, high-cheeked-boned, keen-eyed
fellows, in snowy bournouses, with hair and moustache of almost
unnatural blackness. French officers of every arm in the service are
grouped round the tables, drinking _eau-sucré_ and playing at dominoes
or cards, or lounge on the sofas reading the gazettes. The _garçons_ in
scarlet tunics, relieved by their white turbans and cambric trowsers,
are hurrying to and fro at the call of the motley guests.
“Those two gentlemen just entering are Americans, not of the Yankee
type, with free and easy air, and tall lanky forms. I made their
acquaintance in the steam-boat down the Rhone. They are men of great
intelligence, perfect _savoir-vivre_, and calm dignity of manner,
patrician citizens of a republic. One of them wore his plaid as
gracefully as a toga. I set him down for a senator from one of the
Southern states.”
“I have seen no English here,” said my companion. Next day he met his
friend Captain H—— returning on leave from Malta to England. Marseilles
is on the highway to all the East, and on the arrival or departure of
the packets connected with the “Overland Route” there must be a strong
muster of our countrymen, and women too.
Turning out of the shady avenue of the Corso on a sultry afternoon, I
sauntered down the _Rue de la Cannebière_ towards the port. It was the
busiest part of the day, for there seemed to be no idle time for the
_siesta_ here. The streets and quays were thronged with people of the
same varieties of race we had seen in the _café_; most of them, of
course, of an inferior class. There can be no mistaking that
wild-looking creature, bare-legged, and in a white bournouse, who is
staring with curious eyes at the splendid array of jewellery and plate
displayed to his eager gaze in that shop window. Again he pauses before
that elegant assortment of silks and shawls. What tales of European
luxury will the child of the desert carry back to the tents of the
Bedouins!
I found the port crowded with ships of all nations, the quays encumbered
with piles of _barriques_ and mountains of Egyptian wheat discharged in
bulk. What blinding dust as they shovel it up! What a suffocating heat!
What smells in this hollow trough which receives the filth of all the
town! How curiously names on the sterns of vessels, and _annonces_ over
the shops of _traiteurs_ and ship-chandlers, in very readable Greek,
carry the mind back to the Phocæan founders of this great emporium of
commerce!
It was a cooler walk along the _Rue de Rome_, and by the
_Marché-aux-Capucins_, gay with fruits and flowers, to the Museum
library, in search of books relating to Corsica. There was some
difficulty in discovering it. Literature and science do not appear to be
much in vogue in this seat of commerce. The Museum was closed, the
_custode_ absent, but a good-humoured porter allowed me a stranger's
privilege, and took me into the library; giving me also some details of
Corsican roads from his personal knowledge. The only book I discovered
was Vallery's Travels. I made a few extracts, and found no reason to
desire more. Few foreigners write travels in a style suited to the
English taste. They are at home among cities, and galleries, and works
of art, but have little real feeling for natural objects, and ill
disguise it by pompous phrases, glitter, and sentiment.
“Let us take a boat and sail over to the islands lying off the harbour,”
said my fellow-traveller one afternoon.
“With all my heart.”
[Illustration: ISLETS OFF MARSEILLES.]
These islets, most of them mere rocks, form a sort of sheltered strait,
or roadstead, of which the island of Rion, with Cape Morgion on the
mainland opposite, are the extreme points. Pomègue and Ratoneau are
connected by a breakwater.
“_Garçon_, put a roast fowl and some _pâtés_, with a loaf of bread and a
bottle of Bordeaux, into a _corbeille_ and send it down to the port.”
We bought some grapes as we went along. There are landing-stairs at the
upper end of the harbour, where pleasure-boats lie. We stepped into one,
and were rowed down in a narrow channel between four or five tiers of
ships, loading and unloading at the quays on each side. An arm of the
Mediterranean, a thousand yards long, forms a noble harbour; but, foul,
black, and stagnant, how different were its waters from the bright sea
without! After passing the forts defending the narrow entrance, we
hoisted sail. On the right was the new harbour of _La Joliette_,
connected with the old port by a canal. At present it did not appear to
be much frequented, but, during the war in the East, both scarcely
sufficed for the vast flotilla employed in conveying troops and stores.
It must be difficult for any one who has not witnessed it to conceive
the scene Marseilles then presented.
We now discussed the contents of our hamper with great _goût_, the
boatman occasionally pulling an oar as the wind was scant. But we had
sufficiently receded from the shore to command a view of the basin in
which Marseilles stands, and the amphitheatre of hills surrounding it,
studded with the country-houses of the citizens; small cottages, called
_bastides_, thousands of which spot the slopes of the hills like white
specks.
High upon a rocky summit stands the chapel of _Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde_,
held in great reverence, and much resorted to, by mariners and
fishermen; the walls and roof being hung with votive offerings,
commemorating deliverances from shipwreck and other ills to which
mariner-flesh is heir.
Seaward lay the islands for which we were bound, but without any
immediate prospect of reaching them, as the wind died away. It was
pleasant enough to lie listlessly floating on the blue Mediterranean,
with such charming views of the coast and the islands, and the
picturesque craft in every direction becalmed like our own skiff: but we
had another object in our evening's excursion; so, lowering the lateen
sail, my companion took one of the oars, and the boatman, reinforced by
a strong and steady stroke, pulling with a will, we soon landed at the
foot of the black and frowning rock, crowned on the summit by the square
massive donjon of the _Château d'If_.
[Illustration: CHÂTEAU D'IF.]
The whole circuit of the cliffs, containing an area of, perhaps, two
acres, is surrounded by fortifications. Climbing some rocky steps, we
waited in the guardroom till the _concièrge_ brought the keys of the
castle. It was formerly used as a state prison; and the vaulted
passages, echoing to the clang of keys and bolts, and deep and gloomy
dungeons, from which air and light were almost excluded by the thick
walls, reminded one of the unhappy wretches, victims of despotic or
revolutionary tyranny, who had been immured there without trial and
without hope. The island now serves as a depôt for recruits to fill up
the regiments serving in Algiers; and some of the larger apartments of
the château are used as a caserne.
But the _Château d'If_ is probably best known to many of my readers as
connected with a remarkable incident in the adventures of the Count de
Monte-Cristo, the hero of the celebrated novel of Alexandre Dumas. The
story is shortly this:
Dantès (the count) being thrown into one of the dungeons, remains in
hopeless captivity for a great number of years. In the end, by working
his way through the massive walls, he establishes a communication with
the cell of another prisoner, who was in a still more deplorable
condition. His fellow-prisoner dies, and Dantès effects his escape by
contriving to insert himself in the sack in which the corpse of his
friend was deposited; having first dressed the body in his own clothes,
and placed it in his bed, to deceive the gaolers. In the dead of the
night the sack is thrown into the sea from the castle walls, and Dantès
sinks with a thirty-two-pound shot fastened to his feet. He cuts the
cord with a knife he had secreted, and, disengaged from the sack, rises
to the surface and swims to a neighbouring island.
We were looking over the battlements towards these islands. One of them
is covered by a vast lazzeretto,—a place, for the time, only a few
degrees worse than the prison. The isles of Ratoneau and Pomègue lay
nearest. Farther off was Lémaire, to which Dantès is described as
swimming. They are all mere rocky islets washed by the sea, the group
being very picturesque.
“_Mon ami_,” said I, pointing to the isle of Lémaire, “do you think you
could do what the count is represented to have done.”
“What! swim from hence to that island? I would try, if I was shut up in
this horrid place, and had the chance.”
The distance I reckoned to be about three miles; and as my friend has
since swum across the Bosphorus, where the current is strong, he would
probably have found no difficulty in that part of the affair.
“But how about cutting the cord to get rid of the thirty-two-pound shot,
and extricating yourself from the sack?”
“_Ça dépend!_ All this is not impossible for a strong man in good
health; for a prisoner, exhausted by fourteen years' captivity in a
dungeon—_c'est autre chose_. Have you read the book?”
“Not much of it; I tried, but could not get on. That class of works is
by no means to my taste.”
“French literature of this school is, I admit, bad for the weak: it is
pastime to the strong, and serves to wile away an idle hour. This work
exhibits great genius, and a powerful imagination.”
“So, indeed, it seems; but may not the _vraisemblable_ be preserved even
in works of fiction? Let us have a story which, _se non è vero, è ben
trovato_. Writers of this school, my dear fellow, create, or pander to,
a vicious taste.”
“In a play or novel, I grant you, the plot, characters, and incidents,
in order to enlist our sympathies, should be true to nature and real
life. But who looks for this in a romance? such works are not read for
profit, and the boldest nights of fancy, and some extravagance, are
fairly admissible.”
“_Ah, mon cher_, my age is double yours, and that makes a great
difference in our views on such subjects.”
The recruits flocked round us, asking for _eau-de-vie_. Many of them
were Italians, deserters from the armies in Lombardy, Piedmont, and
the Papal states, glad to change their service for better pay and
treatment under the French flag, even on the burning plains of Africa.
Perhaps some of them were drafted into that “foreign legion” which
rivalled the Zouaves in the Crimea,—_âmes perdus_, the most reckless
before the enemy, the most licentious in the camp. These were merry
fellows, launching witty shafts against Austrians, Pope, and
Cardinals,—_maladetti tutti_, and good-humoured gibes at their
comrade, who, standing in an embrasure, bent his back with laudable
patience to the right angle for an easel, while my friend was making
sketches of the rocky islets and lateen-sail vessels reflected on the
mirror-like sea, or of the amphitheatre of mountains at the foot of
which Marseilles stands.
[Illustration: MARSEILLES FROM THE CHÂTEAU D'IF.]
Others, leaning over the battlements, whiled away the listless evening
hours, watching fishermen drawing the seine at the foot of the rocks.
We pulled round to the cove and watched them too; a very different set
of fellows from the _malbigatti_ stationed above. Fine, athletic,
muscular men, their heads bare, except that a few wore the red cap so
common in the Mediterranean,—in woollen shirts, with naked feet planted
on the slippery rocks, they were hauling up and coiling the rope,
singing cheerily.
The wind had shifted some points while we were on the island, and it now
freshened to a stiff breeze,—one of those sudden squalls for which these
seas are remarkable. The craft, which an hour before lay sleeping on the
waters, had caught the breeze. A brigantine came dashing up the straits
under all sail, her topgallants still set, though the poles quivered;
and smaller craft, with their long, pointed sails, like sea-fowl with
expanded wings, were crossing in all directions on their several tacks,
making for the harbour or inlets along the coast.
The sea was already lashed into foam, and tiny waves broke on the rocks.
Loud and hoarse rung the fishermen's voices as they hauled away to save
their nets. It was time for us to make for the port. A few strokes
shoved the boat from under the lee of the island; the oars were shipped,
and the lateen sail run up by all hands. Hauling close to the wind, my
friend seized the tiller: it was doubtful if we could make the harbour,
which the little craft, struggling with the breeze, just headed; the
towers of St. Victor being the point of sight in the increasing haze.
“_Comme les Anglais font des braves marins_,” said the _padróne_, as he
stood by the halyards, looking out ahead, after all was made snug.
We were, indeed, in our element. The sudden squall had stirred our
blood. Many such rough cruises we had shared together in old times.
The boat flew through the water, which roared and broke over the bows.
“It will be a short run,” said the steersman, “if the wind holds on.”
“_Port, monsieur, port!_” cried the _padróne_, who had learnt some
English nautical phrases.
But it would not do. Approaching the land, the wind veered and headed
us.
“We must make a short tack to gain the harbour.”
“_Je l'ai prévu_,” said the _padróne_.
“About” it was. She stayed beautifully, even under the single sail, and
in a trice was lying well upon the other tack, as we stood out to sea.
In five minutes we went about again, fetching under the stern of a
felucca, also beating into the port; perhaps from Algiers or the Spanish
coast. It was now a dead race with the felucca, which had forged ahead
while we were in stays.
“_Nous gagnerons, j'en gagerais une bouteille de vin!_” cried the
_padróne_, much excited, for he was proud of his boat.
“_Vous l'aurez, toutefois, pour boire à la santé de vos camarades
Anglais._”
Again we flew through the water, making a straight course for the
harbour. The felucca had much the advantage of us in breadth of canvas
and her high-peaked sails; but being heavily laden, she was deep in the
water. As it turned out, we did not overhaul her till just before she
lowered her foresail at the _consigne_ office, to wait for her _permis
d'entrer_, when we shot ahead right into the port.
We made out the evening at the theatre, well entertained by a _petite
comédie_. “One is sure to be amused,” said my companion; “and it is good
practice. It helps to get up one's French.”
“_Monsieur ne manque que d'être plus habitué_,” as it is politely
suggested when one is at a loss for a phrase.
CHAP. III.
_Embark for Corsica—Coast of France and Italy.—Toulon.—Hyères
Islands, Frejus, &c.—A Stormy night.—Crossing the Tuscan Sea._
Once more we are at the water stairs. A stout boat is ready to convey us
with our baggage to _L'Industrie_, one of Messrs. Vallery's fine
steam-boats, in turn for Bastia. Just as we are pushing off, a carriage
drives to the quay, with a niece of General the Count di Rivarola,
formerly in the British service. She is returning to Corsica. We do the
civil, spread plaids, and place her in the stern sheets; and she is very
agreeable.
It is Sunday morning. The bells of the old church of St. Victor are
ringing at early mass. The ships in the port have hoisted their colours.
There is our dear, time-honoured jack, “the flag that has braved,” &c.,
as we say on all occasions; and the stars and stripes, the crescent and
star, and the towers of Castille; with crosses of all shapes and
colours, in as great variety as the costumes we saw in the _café_. The
tricolor floated on the forts of St. Jean and St. Nicholas, as well as
on French craft of all descriptions.
All was gay, but not more joyous than our own buoyant spirits. Time had
been spent pleasantly enough at Marseilles, but it was a delay; and
there is nothing an Englishman hates more than delays in travelling.
Thwarted in his humour, he becomes quite childish, and frets and chafes
more at having to wait two or three days for a steamboat than at any
other hindrance I know. Now, when _L'Industrie_, with her ensign at the
peak, had, somehow or other, with a din of unutterable cries in maritime
French, been extricated from the dense tiers of vessels along the quay,
and hauling out of the harbour, we were at last fairly on the high road
to Corsica, never did the sun appear to shine more brightly; the
Mediterranean looked more blue than any blue one had seen before, there
was a ripple from the fresh breeze, the waves sparkled, and seemed
positively to laugh and partake of our joy.
We hardly cared to speculate on our fellow-passengers, as one is apt to
do when there is nothing else to engross the thoughts; and yet there
were some among them we should wish to sketch. Besides French officers
joining their regiments in the island, there was one, a Corsican, who
had served in Algeria, returning home on sick leave. It was to be feared
that it had come too late, for the poor invalid was so feeble, worn, and
emaciated that it seemed his native country could offer him nothing but
a grave. There was a Corsican priest on board, a pleasant, well-informed
man, who met our advances to an acquaintance with great readiness, and
was delighted with our proposed visit to his island. Some Corsican
gentlemen, a lady or two, and commercial men _en route_ for Leghorn,
completed the party. We seemed to be the only English. I was mistaken.
“After all, there is a countryman of ours on board,” I said, pointing to
a pair of broad shoulders, disappearing under the companion-hatch. I
caught sight of him just now; a fine, hale man, rather advanced in
years, with a fair complexion, ruddy, and a profusion of grey hair. He
wears a suit of drab; very plain, but well turned out.
“Unmistakeably English, as you say; it may be pleasant. I wonder we did
not make him out before among these sallow-faced and rather
dirty-looking gentry in green and sky-blue trousers.”
We were soon abreast of the group of rocky islets off the harbour,
passing close under the _Château d'If_. The sea was smooth, the sky
unclouded, but a gentle breeze deliciously tempered the heat, and
vessels of every description—square-rigged ships, and coasting feluccas
and xebecs—on their different courses, gave life to the scene. Thus
pleasantly we ran along the French coast, here much indented and
swelling into rocky hills of considerable elevation.
[Illustration: FRENCH COAST OFF CIOTAT.]