centuries (from the thirteenth to the eighteenth) in an almost
uninterrupted course of gross misrule. Instead of endeavouring to
amalgamate the islanders with her own citizens, she treated them as a
degraded cast, worthy only of slavery. A governor, frequently chosen by
the republic from amongst men of desperate circumstances, had the
absolute sovereignty of the island: by his mere sentence, on secret
information, without trial, a person might be condemned to death or to
the galleys. The venality of the Genoese tribunals was so notorious,
that the murderer felt sure to escape if he could pay the judge for his
liberation.[5]
The Corsicans were not a race which would tamely submit to this tyranny,
and their annals during this long period exhibit a series of bloody
struggles against the Genoese republic, and devoted efforts to maintain
their rights and recover their independence. In these contests the
_signori_ either allied themselves with the Genoese, or took part with
their countrymen, as their interest inclined; while a succession of
patriot leaders, such as few countries of greater pretensions can
boast—Sambucchio, Sampiero, the Gaffori, the Paoli—all sprung from the
ranks of the people; the bravest in the field and the wisest in council,
carried aloft the banner of Corsican _libertà_.
The hostilities were not confined to the parties immediately interested
in the quarrel. Foreign aid was invoked on the one side and on the
other, and for a long period the little island of Corsica became the
battle-field of the great European powers; Spaniards, Austrians, French,
and English, at one time or the other, and especially in the decay of
the Genoese republic, throwing their forces into the scale, and
occupying portions of the island, but with no definitive result, until
its final absorption in the dominion of its present masters.
Little interest would now attach to the details of a struggle confined
to so insignificant a territory, and having so little influence on
European politics; and it would be alike foreign to the province of a
traveller, and wearisome to the reader, that the subject should be
pursued, except incidentally, where events or persons connected with the
localities he visits call forth some passing remarks. An exception may
perhaps be allowed in the course of this narrative for some account of
the English intervention in Corsican affairs. It is little known that
our George III. was once the constitutional king of Corsica. Nelson,
too, performed there one of his most dashing exploits.
Just now we have been talking of Aleria, a place identified with a
curious and somewhat romantic episode in Corsican history. Corsica
cradled and sent forth a soldier of fortune, to become in his
aspirations, and almost in effect, the Cæsar of the western empire.
Corsica received into her bosom a German adventurer, who, for a brief
space, played on this narrow stage the part of her crowned king. That
there is but a short interval between the sublime and the ridiculous,
was exemplified in the career of these upstart monarchs. Both sought an
asylum in England. The one pined in an island-prison, the other in a
London gaol.
THEODORE DE NEUHOFF, KING OF CORSICA.[6]
On the 25th March, 1736, a small merchant-ship, carrying the English
ensign, anchored off Aleria. There landed from it a personage of noble
appearance, with a suite of sixteen persons, who was received with the
deference due to a monarch. He superintended the disembarkation of
cannon and military stores, and gratuitously distributed powder,
muskets, and other accoutrements, to the Corsicans who crowded to the
shore.
The imagination exercises a powerful sway over the people of the South.
The mystery which surrounded this personage, his dignified and polished
manners, the important succour he brought, and even the fantastical and
semi-Oriental cast of his dress, all contributed to produce a great
influence on ardent minds naturally inclined to the marvellous. This was
Theodore de Neuhoff.
Theodore Antoine, Baron de Neuhoff, a native of Westphalia, had been in
his youth page to the Duchess of Orleans, and afterwards served in
Spain. Returning to France, he attached himself to the speculations of
Law, and partook the vicissitudes of splendour and misery which were the
fortunes of his patron. When that bubble burst, our adventurer wandered
through Europe, seeking his fortune with a perseverance, combined with
incontestable talent, which, sooner or later, must seize some
opportunity of accomplishing his schemes.
At Genoa he fell in with Giaffori and some other Corsican patriots, then
exiled; and representing himself to be possessed of immense resources,
and even to have it in his power to secure the support of powerful
courts, offered to drive the Genoese out of the island, on condition of
his being recognised as King of Corsica. The patriot chiefs, seduced by
these magnificent promises, and, perhaps, too apt to seek for foreign
aid wherever it could be found, accepted Theodore's offers.
Not to follow him through all the course of his romantic adventures, it
appears that he found means of credit—perhaps from the Jews, with whom
he was already deeply involved—for a considerable sum of ready money,
and the arms, ammunition, and stores necessary for his expedition.
Landing in Corsica, in the manner already described, the Corsican
chiefs, although they had concerted his descent on the island, had the
address to cherish the popular idea that Theodore's arrival was a mark
of the interest taken by Heaven in the liberty of the Corsicans.
In a popular assembly held at the Convent of Alesani, a Constitution was
resolved on, by which the kingdom of Corsica was settled hereditarily in
the family of the Baron de Neuhoff; taxation was reserved to the Diet,
and it was provided that all offices should be filled by natives of the
island. The baron, having sworn on the Gospels to adhere to the
Constitution, was crowned with a chaplet of laurel and oak in the
presence of immense crowds, who flocked to the ceremony from all
quarters, amid shouts of “_Evviva Teodoro, re di Corsica!_”
Theodore took possession of the deserted episcopal residence at
Cervione, where he assumed every mark of royal dignity. He had his
court, his guards, and his officers of state; levied troops, coined
money, instituted an order of knighthood, and created nobility, among
whom such names as _Marchese_ Giaffori and _Marchese_ Paoli (Pasquale's
father) singularly figure. His manifesto, in answer to Genoese
proclamations denouncing his pretensions and painting him as a
charlatan, affected as great a sensitiveness of insult as could exist in
the mind of a Capet. For some time all things went well; Theodore became
master of nearly the whole island except the Genoese fortresses, which
he blockaded. These were, in fact, the keys of the island. But the
succours which he had boasted of receiving did not arrive, and, after
employing various artifices to keep alive the expectations of foreign
aid and fresh supplies of the muniments of war, finding, when he had
held the reins of power about eight months, that his new subjects began
to cool in their attachment to his person, and did not act with the same
ardour as before, he determined to go over to the Continent, with the
hope of obtaining the means of carrying on the war, and thus reinstating
himself in the confidence of the Corsicans.
Appointing a regency to conduct the affairs of his kingdom during his
absence, he went to Holland, and, though even his royal credit was
probably at a discount, after long delay, he succeeded in negotiating a
considerable loan, at what rate of interest or on what security we are
not told. However, a ship was freighted with cannon and other warlike
stores, on board of which he returned to Corsica two years after he had
quitted the island. But it was too late; the French were then in
possession of the principal places, the patriot leaders were negotiating
with them, and the people had lost all confidence in their mock-king.
Theodore found, to use a colloquial expression, that “the game was up,”
and wisely retracing his steps, found his way to England, the last
refuge of abdicated monarchs.
Fortune still frowned on him. Pursued by his relentless creditors, the
ex-king was thrown into the King's Bench prison. His distresses
attracted the commiseration of Horace Walpole, who, as Boswell informs
us, “wrote a paper in the ‘World,’ with great elegance and humour,
soliciting a contribution for the monarch in distress, to be paid to Mr.
Robert Dodsley, bookseller, as lord high treasurer. This brought in a
very handsome sum, and he was allowed to get out of prison.” “Walpole,”
he adds, “has the original deed by which Theodore made over the kingdom
of Corsica in security to his creditors.” Mr. Benson's statement, which
is more exact, and agrees with the epitaph, is, that the subscription
was not sufficient to extricate King Theodore from his difficulties, and
that he was released from gaol as an insolvent debtor. However that may
be, he died soon afterwards. Former writers have stated that he was
buried in an obscure corner, among the paupers, in the churchyard of St.
Anne's, Westminster, but they are mistaken. We find a neat mural tablet
fixed against the exterior wall of the church of St. Anne's, Soho, at
the west end, on which, surmounted by a coronet, is inscribed the
following epitaph, written by Horace Walpole:—
[Illustration: coronet]
“Near this place is interred
THEODORE, KING OF CORSICA,
Who died in this parish
Dec. 11, 1756,
Immediately after leaving
The King's Bench Prison
By the benefit of the Act of Insolvency;
In consequence of which
He registered his kingdom of Corsica
For the use of his Creditors.
The grave, great teacher, to a level brings
Heroes and beggars, galley-slaves and Kings:
But Theodore this moral learned, ere dead:
Fate poured his lesson on his living head,
Bestow'd a kingdom, and denied him bread.”
CHAP. IX.
_Environs of Olmeta.—Bandit-Life and the Vendetta—Its
Atrocities.—The Population disarmed.—The Bandits exterminated._
[Illustration: OLMETA.]
Olmeta stands, like most Corsican villages, on the point of a hill,
forming one side of an oval basin, the slopes of which are laid out in
terraced gardens and vineyards. Here and there, in sheltered nooks, we
find plantations of orange-trees, now showing green fruit under their
glossy leaves. Some fine chestnut and walnut trees about the place, and
the magnificent elms (_olme_) from which it derives its name, soften the
aspect of its bleak, exposed site, and gaunt houses.
Charming as the natural landscapes are in Corsica, one finds most of the
villages, however picturesque at a distance, on a nearer approach, a
conglomeration of tall, shapeless houses, black and frowning, with
windows guarded by rusty iron _grilles_, and generally unglazed.
Altogether, they look more like the holds of banditti than the abodes of
peaceful vinedressers; while the filth of the purlieus is unutterable.
Throwing open the double casements of the widow's sanctum, I may not
call it boudoir, when I leapt out of bed to enjoy the fresh morning
air,—underneath was a noisome dunghill, grim gables frowned on either
hand, but beyond was the _riant_ landscape just described. Here truly
God made the country, man the town.
While my friend was sketching, I strolled up to the pretty church we had
seen by moonlight. Close by is a large, roomy mansion, which belonged to
Marshal Sebastiani. He was a native of Olmeta, and, from an obscure
origin, arriving at high rank as well as great wealth, partly, I
understood, through a brilliant marriage, bought a large property in the
neighbourhood, which has been recently sold for 150,000 francs to a
French _Directeur_. I went over the château: to the original mansion the
marshal had added a handsome _salle_, and a lofty tower commanding
varied and extensive views towards Fiorenzo and the Mediterranean. My
conductor was a gentleman of Olmeta, who accidentally meeting me,
proffered his services, pressing me afterwards to take breakfast with
him. We had done very well at the widow's long before, with delicious
bread, eggs, apples, and figs, and coffee in the smallest of cups. We
brewed our own tea in a bran-new coffee-pot, purchased for that purpose
at Bastia. Butter and milk were wanting, but whipped eggs make a very
tolerable substitute for the latter.
My new acquaintance informed me that the decree, passed the year before
for disarming the whole population, combined with measures for
increasing the force of the _gendarmerie_, and making it highly penal to
harbour the bandits or afford them any succour, had been actively and
rigorously carried out, and were completely successful. The life of a
citizen is as safe in Corsica as in any other department of France. “You
may walk through the island,” added my informant, “with a purse of gold
in your bosom.”
This was true, I imagine, with regard to strangers, in the worst of
times; their security from molestation being nearly allied to the
national virtue of hospitality, which is not quite extinct. Nor were the
Corsican banditti associated, like those of Italy, for the mere purpose
of plunder, though they have heavily taxed the peaceable inhabitants,
both by drawing from the poor the means for their subsistence in the
woods and mountains, and by levying, under terror, direct contributions
in money from the more wealthy inhabitants in the towns and villages.
These are, however, but trifling ingredients in the mass of crime for
which Corsica has been so painfully distinguished. Would, indeed, that
robbery and pillage were the sins of the darkest dye which have to be
laid to the account of the Corsican bandit! Most commonly, his hands
have been stained with innocent blood, shed recklessly, relentlessly,
in private quarrels, often of the most frivolous description, and not in
open fight, as in the feuds of the middle ages, not in the heat of
sudden passion, but by cool, premeditated murder.
Philippini, the best Corsican historian, who lived in the sixteenth
century, states that in his time 28,000 Corsicans were murdered in the
course of thirty years. A later Corsican historian calculates that
between the years 1683 and 1715, a period of thirty-two years, 28,715
murders were perpetrated in Corsica; and he reckons that an equal number
were wounded. The average, then, in their days, was about 900 souls
yearly sent to their account by the dagger and the _fusil_ in murderous
assaults; besides vast multitudes who fell in the wars.
It was still worse in earlier ages; but those of which we speak were
times of high civilisation, and Corsica lay in the centre of it. What do
we find in recent times, up to the very year before we visited the
island?
I have before me the _Procès verbal_ of the deliberations of the Council
General of the department of Corsica for each of the years 1850, '51,
and '52. From these I gather that 4,300 _assassinats_ had been
perpetrated in Corsica since 1821; and, in the three years before
mentioned, the “_Assassinats, ou tentatives d'assassiner_,” averaged
ninety-eight annually from the 1st of January to the 1st of August, to
which day the annual reports are made up; so that, reckoning for the
remaining five months in the same proportion, the list of these heinous
crimes is brought up to the fearful amount, for these days, of 160 in
each year.
Well might M. le Préfet observe, in his address at the opening of the
session of 1851: “_La situation du département à cet égard est sans
doute profondément triste. Le nombre des crimes n'a pas diminué
sensiblement_.” So low, however, is the moral sense in Corsica with
regard to the sanctity of human life, that these atrocities excite no
horror, and the sympathies of vast numbers of the population are with
the bandits. They are the heroes of the popular tales and _canzoni_; one
hears of them from one end of the island to the other, round the
watchfires of the shepherds on the mountains, in the remote _paése_, by
the roadside. They are the tales of the nursery,—the Corsican child
learns, with his Ave Maria, that it is rightful and glorious to take the
life of any one who injures or offends him.
To a passionate and imaginative people, these tales of daring courage
and wild adventure have an inconceivable charm; though stained with
blood, they are full of poetry and romance. Such stories have been
eagerly seized upon by writers on Corsica,—they make excellent literary
capital. Unfortunately, _banditisme_ forms so striking a feature in
Corsican history, that it must necessarily occupy a conspicuous place in
a faithful review of the genius and manners of the people. There are
doubtless traits of a heroism worthy a better cause, and sometimes of a
redeeming humanity, in the lives of the banditti; but one regrets to
find, though happily not in the works of the English travellers who have
given accounts of Corsica, a tendency to palliate so atrocious a system
as blood-revenge. _Vendetta_, the name given it, has a romantic sound;
and it is treated as a sort of national institution, originating in high
and laudable feelings, the injured sense of right, and the love of
family; so that, with the glory shed around it by a false heroism, it is
almost raised to the rank of a virtue.
To take blood for blood, not by the hand of public justice, but by the
kinsmen of the slain, was, we are reminded, a primitive custom,
sanctioned by the usages of many nations, and even by the laws of Moses.
We know, however, that among our Anglo-Saxon ancestors the laws humanely
commuted this right of revenge for fines commensurate with the rank of
the murdered person. But while the Mosaic law forbad the acceptance of
any pecuniary compensation for the crime of manslaughter, and expressly
recognised the right of the “avenger of blood” to exact summary
vengeance, it provided for even the murderer's security until he were
brought to a fair trial. But Corsica, alas! has had no “Cities of
Refuge,” and examples drawn from remote and barbarous times can afford
no apology for the inveterate cruelties of a people enjoying the light
of modern civilisation and professing the religion of the New Testament.
The _vendetta_ is also represented as a kind of rude justice, to which
the people were driven in the long ages of misrule during which law was
in abeyance or corruptly administered. There is, no doubt, much truth in
this as applied to those times; but the prodigious amount of human
slaughter shown in the statistics just quoted, as well as the
continuance of this atrocious system to the present day, long after the
slightest shadow of any pretence of legal injustice has vanished, seem
to argue that the ferocity which has shed such rivers of blood, if not
instinctive in the national character, at least found a soil in which it
took deep root.
For more than half a century, there can be no question but, under a
settled government, strict justice has been done by the ordinary
proceedings of the courts of law, in all cases of injury to person or
property, submitted to them. But the turbulent Corsicans were ever
impatient of regular government—one great cause of their ultimate
degradation, not a little connected also with the growth of
_banditisme_; and the failure of justice has not lain with the
authorities, but with the population which harbours and screens the
criminals, and with the juries who refuse to convict them.[7]
The only other instance in the present day of crimes similar to those
which have been the scourge of Corsica, is found in the case of unhappy
Ireland. There, however, the blood-revenge has been mostly confined to
cases of supposed agrarian grievances, and the number of victims
sacrificed to it is comparatively limited; more innocent blood having
been shed in Corsica in a single year, than in Ireland during, perhaps,
a quarter of a century.
The _vendetta_, is also palliated as vindicating wrongs for which no
courts of law, however upright, can afford redress. Among the most
polished nations, “the point of honour” has been held to justify an
injured man for challenging his adversary to mortal combat. But the
duel, from its first origin among our Scandinavian ancestors, savage as
they were, and through all its forms, whether legalised or treated as
felonious, to its last shape in civilised society, has nothing
practically in common with the Corsican _vendetta_. In the one, the
appeal to arms has always been tempered by a punctilious chivalry, which
recoiled from the slightest unfairness in the attendant circumstances;
in the other, the enemy is, if possible, taken unawares, shot down by a
cowardly miscreant lurking behind a tree or a rock, or suddenly stabbed
without an opportunity of putting himself on his defence. The practice
of the _vendetta_ is mere assassination.
Stript of the colouring shed round it by sentiment and romance,
_banditisme_, in its latter days at least, has been a very common-place
affair. Great numbers of the Corsicans, too indolent to work, were happy
to lead a vagabond life, harbouring in the woods and mountains with a
gun on their shoulders, and as ready to shoot a man as a wild beast.
“_C'est qu'en général_,” said the Préfet, in the address already quoted,
“_ces crimes proviennent moins du banditisme que de la déplorable
habitude de marcher toujours armés, par suite de laquelle les moindres
rixes dégénèrent si souvent en attentats contre la vie._” One hears
continually for what trifles assassinations have been perpetrated; and a
recent traveller informs us that his life was threatened for having
merely resisted the extortionate demand of his guide to the mountains.
The hardships to which the bandit is exposed in his wild life in the
_maquis_ cannot be much greater than those of the shepherd who, from
fear or favour, shares with him his chestnuts, his goat's milk, and
cheese. The _gendarmes_, indeed, are sometimes on his track, but there
is stirring adventure in eluding their pursuit, triumph in the ambuscade
to which they become victims, glory even in death heroically met. With
all its perils and hardships, such a life of lawless independence has
its charms; and the bandit knows that his memory will be honoured, and
his death, if possible, revenged. But who laments the unfortunate
_gendarme_ who falls in these encounters? Who pities the widow and
orphans of men as bold, resolute, and enterprising as those against whom
they are matched? In the tales of banditti life, the ministers of
justice are _sbirri_, conventionally a term of disgrace; all the
sympathy is with the culprit against whom the _gendarmerie_ peril their
lives in an arduous service.
The brigands must live by plunder in one shape or another. It is not
likely that bands of armed men, the terror of a whole neighbourhood,
would be always content with the mere subsistence wrung from the scanty
resources of the poor shepherds. Not that they robbed on the highways;
it answered better to levy contributions, under pain of death, from such
of the defenceless inhabitants as were able to pay them. Mr. Benson
tells a story of one of the most celebrated of the bandit chiefs, who
levied black mail in the wild districts bordering on the forest of
Vizzavona.
“Leaving Vivario, we heard from the lips of the poor _curé_, that
Galluchio and his followers were in the _maquis_ of a range of mountains
to our right. The _curé_ was busy in his vineyard when we passed, but as
soon as he recognised our French companion, he left his work for a few
moments to join us. ‘Sir,’ said he, addressing himself to M. Cottard, ‘I
feel myself in imminent danger; Galluchio and his band are in yonder
mountains, and only a few evenings ago I received a peremptory message
from him, requiring 300 francs, and threatening my speedy assassination
should I delay many days to comply with his demand. I have not the
money, and I have sent for some military to protect me.’”[8]