diminished since Mr. Benson's journey. We were told of a case in which a
wealthy man, having received notice to pay 10,000 francs, under penalty
of being shot, was so terrified, that after shutting himself up in his
house for a year in constant alarm, his health and spirits became so
shattered by the state of continual terror and watchfulness in which he
lived, that he sank under it, and was carried out dead. In another case,
a young man of more resolute character was called upon for 1000 francs,
and having no ready money, was allowed three months to raise it, on
giving his bill for security. He armed himself, and went to the
appointed rendezvous. The brigand was waiting for him; he made him lay
down his arms, and searched him. The young man had filled his pockets
with chestnuts, and had contrived to secrete a small pistol about his
person, which escaped discovery. The brigand, producing paper and ink,
ordered his victim to draw the bill. The young man excused himself on
the ground that he was so frightened, and his hand trembled so that he
could not write;—he would sign the bill if the other drew it out. The
brigand knelt down by the side of a flat stone to do so. Meanwhile the
young man walked up and down eating his chestnuts, and throwing the
shells carelessly away. Some of them struck the brigand. “What are you
doing?” said he, startled. “Eating my chestnuts;” and he took out
another handful. Occasionally he stopped and looked down on the bandit
while engaged in writing; still, with apparent _sang froid_, munching
his chestnuts. Presently the bill was finished; he pretended to look it
over, found some error, which he pointed out, and while the brigand
stooped to correct it, drew his concealed pistol and shot him through
the head.—The so-called _vendetta_ has shrunk more and more to the level
of vulgar crime. It is even notorious that bandits have become hired
assassins, employed by others to take off persons against whom they had
a grudge,—“_mais plus pour amitié que pour argent_,” said my informant,
giving the fact the most favourable turn.
It seems surprising that such enormities should have been permitted in a
European country, at an advanced period of the nineteenth century. Could
a strong national government have been established in Corsica—which,
however, seems to have been impracticable with so lawless and factious a
people—its first duty would have been, as was the case under Pascal
Paoli's administration, to give security to life, _coûte que coûte_. The
successive Governments of France appear to have been too much occupied
by their own affairs to pay any regard to the social state of their
Corsican department, flagrant as was the disgrace it reflected on them.
Perhaps they were impressed with the idea that the passion of revenge,
the thirst for blood, were so inherent in the native character, that law
and force were alike powerless, and the _vendetta_ could only be
extirpated by a moral change more to be hoped for than expected. Thus
speaks the Préfet, in his inaugural address of 1851:—“_Ici, messieurs,
vous en conviendrez, l'administration est sans force. C'est à la
religion seule qu'appartient la touchante prérogative de prêcher l'oubli
des injures:_” and a traveller who spent some time in the island during
the year following, gives the result of his observations in the
following words:—“There is probably no other means of certainly putting
down the blood-revenge, murder, and bandit-life, than culture; and
culture advances in Corsica but slowly.”[9]
The same author says of the general disarming, proposed in 1852:
“Whether, and how, this will be capable of execution, I know not. It
will cost mischief enough in the execution; for they will not be able to
disarm the banditti at the same time, and their enemies will then be
exposed, unarmed, to their bullets.” These doubts and forebodings are
proved to have been imaginary. It might have been long, indeed, before
preaching and moral culture had eradicated evils so deeply rooted in the
genius of the people. In such an extreme case, the exercise of a
despotic power was required to put an end to the reign of terror and
blood which has desolated this fair island for so many centuries. One
bold stroke has broken the spell; the measures adopted for the
suppression of _banditisme_ have completely succeeded. “The prisons are
full,” said my informant; “in the last year, 400 of the brigands have
been sentenced or shot down, and as many more driven out of the country:
the land is at peace.”
The only wonder is that the experiment was not tried before.
CHAP. X.
_The Basin of Oletta.—The Olive.—Corsican Tales.—The Heroine of
Oletta.—Zones of Climate and Vegetation._
We found that no mules could be hired at Olmeta, and intending to wander
for a few days in the neighbouring valleys, and on the skirts of the
mountainous district of Nebbio, though we preferred walking, were at
some loss how to get forward our baggage. The Bastia muleteer was
dismissed, and as we were travelling somewhat at our ease, the luggage
was more than could be conveniently carried. In this dilemma, Antoine
proffered the services of himself and the mule which had done its work
so well the evening before. His offer was readily accepted, and we had
much reason to be pleased with the change we had made in our conductor.
Antoine relieved us from all care as to our baggage and entertainment,
knew the roads, and where we could best put up, had by heart many a
story of times past, and something to tell of all the places we visited,
and, having been a rover himself, entered into the spirit of our
rambles: altogether, as I have observed before, Antoine was an excellent
specimen of a Capo Corso peasant. To be sure, he had killed his man, but
that was in a _duello_, according to Corsican ideas; as singular, if one
may jest on such a subject, as Captain Marryat's famous triangular duel.
The valleys of Olmeta, Oletta, and some others, form a sort of basin
between the mountains bounding the _littorale_, already spoken of, and
the Serra di Tenda, a noble range in the western line of the principal
chain. Broken by numberless hills, the whole basin is a scene of fertile
beauty, similar to the picture drawn of Olmeta—vineyards, olive-grounds
and gardens, orange, citron, fig, almond, apple, and pear-trees,
clustering at every turn with groups of magnificent chestnut-trees, and
alternating with spots devoted to tillage. The country people were now
sowing wheat or preparing the ground with most primitive ploughs, of the
Roman fashion, drawn sometimes by a single ox or mule. Patches, on which
the green blade was already springing, showed that it is the practice to
sow wheat as soon as possible after the autumnal rains.
[Illustration: ISLE OF MONTE-CRISTO, THROUGH A GORGE.]
Retracing our steps of the preceding night nearly to the summit of the
pass, under the persuasion that it commanded a fine prospect, we turned
to the right, and strolled along a terrace above the broad valley
through which the Bevinco flows into the Stagno di Biguglia, somewhat
below the point at which we left it. Looking backward, we had a charming
peep at the Mediterranean through a gorge in the mountains, with the
lonely island of Monte-Cristo, seen from this point of view detached
from the rest of the group of islands to which it belongs. Across the
valley was a range of mountains, a branch of the central chain dividing
it from that of the Golo. Mists hung about them, pierced by the Cima dei
Taffoni, the most elevated point of the range, which rose magnificently,
being about 3000 feet high, twenty miles to the south-east. The ridge
along which we strolled was covered partly by patches of the
never-failing evergreen shrubbery, rendered more beautiful by the
quantities of cyclamen, one of the prettiest plants we have in our
greenhouses at home, now in full flower under the shelter of the arbutus
and other shrubs. Small flocks of sheep, all black, and no larger than
our Welsh mountain breed, were browsing among the barren patches of
heath, and sometimes crossed our path, with their tinkling bells. There
was a slight shower; but it soon cleared off, and the sun shone out, and
the air and surface of the ground, cooled and freshened by the gentle
rain, were in the best state for the continuation of our rambles.
The cultivation, as may be supposed, is indolent and imperfect, the
surface being merely scratched, and little care taken to free it of
weeds. We need not, therefore, be surprised at finding that the average
produce of the wheat-crop throughout Corsica is only an increase of nine
on the seed sown. Of maize, or Indian corn, it is thirty-eight or forty.
The canton of Oletta is called by the Corsicans “the pearl of the
Nebbio.” It contains two or three hamlets, the principal village seeming
to hang on the rocky slope of a hill, embowered in fruit trees. The
olive flourishes particularly well here; and Oletta takes its name from
its olive-trees, as Olmeta does from its elms. Many of them are of
great age and size, and, with their silvery leaves, have a soft and
pleasing effect, especially when contrasted with the richer foliage of
the spreading chestnut-trees. The olive-yards are neatly dug and kept
clear of weeds; and we observed that the soil was drawn round the stems
of the trees, probably in well-manured heaps, such a produce as the
olive truly requiring to feed on the fat of the land. The berries were
now full formed, but had not begun to fall. I believe they hang till
Christmas, when they are collected, and carried to the vats. When
pressed, twenty pounds of olives yield five of pure oil. It is stored in
large pottery jars, and forms the principal export from Corsica; this
district, with the Balagna and the neighbourhood of Bonifaccio,
producing the largest quantity. An inferior sort of oil is used in the
lamps throughout the island; the lamps being of glass, with tall stems
containing the oil, and crowned by a socket, through which the cotton
burner is passed, and having nothing of the antique or classical about
them. The birds scattering the berries in all directions, and carrying
them to great distances, the number of wild olive-trees is immense. An
attempt was made to count them, by order of the Government, in 1820,
with a view to foster so valuable a source of national wealth by the
encouragement of grafting; and it is said that as many as twelve
millions of wild olive-trees were then counted.
There is a story of love and heroism connected with Oletta. One hears
such tales everywhere in Corsica—by the wayside, at the shepherd's
watch-fire, lying in the shade, or basking in the sun. Antoine was an
excellent _raconteur_; so are all such vagabonds. I possess a
collection of these tales by Renucci, published at Bastia[10], and
proposed to interweave some of them into my narrative. They may be
worked up, with invention and embellishment, into pretty romances; but
that is not our business. In Renucci, we have stories of _Ospitalità_,
_Magnanimità_, _Fedeltà_, _Probità_, _Generosità_, _Incorruttibilità_,
all the virtues under the sun with names ending in _tà_, and many
others. One wearies of the eternal laudation lavished on these
islanders, not only by their own writers, but by all travellers, from
Boswell downwards.
The story of the heroine of Oletta is told by Renucci[11], and, more
simply, by Marmocchi.[12] During the occupation of Capo Corso by the
French, in 1751, some of the villagers were sentenced to be broken on
the wheel for a conspiracy to seize the place, which was garrisoned by
the French; their bodies were exposed on the scaffold, and their friends
prohibited, under severe penalties, from giving them Christian burial.
But a young woman, _giovinetta scelta e robusta_, as she must have been
to perform the exploit assigned to her in the tale, eluded the sentries,
and, taking the body of her lover, one of the conspirators executed, on
her shoulders, carried it off. The general in command, struck by her
exalted virtue, pardons the offence, and she is borne home in triumph
amidst the shouts of the villagers.
All honour to the French marquis for his gallantry to a woman, though
his tactics were somewhat savage for the reign of Louis XVI.; and all
glory to Maria Gentili of Oletta, stout of heart and strong of limb, fit
to be the wife and mother of bandits; still better, to have fought at
Borgo, where Corsican women, in male attire, with sword and gun, rushed
forward in the ranks of the island militia which triumphantly defeated a
French army, composed of some of the finest troops in Europe.[13]
But let us proceed with our rambles; and, before we change the scene
from the region of the vine and the orange to that of the chestnut and
ilex, a short digression on the climatic zones of Corsica may not be out
of place.
[Illustration: BETWEEN OLMETA AND BIGORNO.]
The island may be divided, as to climate and vegetation, into three
zones, corresponding with the degrees of elevation of its surface. The
_first_, ranging to about 1,700 feet above the level of the
Mediterranean, and embracing the deeper valleys of the island, as well
as the sea-coast, has the characteristics conformable to its latitude;
that is to say, similar to those of the parallel shores of Italy and
Spain. Properly speaking, there is no winter; they have but two seasons,
spring and summer. The thermometer seldom falls more than a degree or
two below the freezing point, and then only for a few hours. The nights
are, however, cold at all seasons.
When we were at Ajaccio, towards the end of October, the heat was
oppressive; my thermometer at noon stood at 80° in the shade, in an airy
room closed by Venetian blinds. In January, we were told, the sun
becomes again powerful, and then for eight months succeeds a torrid
heat. The sky is generally cloudless, the thermometer rises from 70 to
80 and even 90 degrees in the shade, and scarcely any rain falls after
the month of April; nor indeed always then, so that there are often long
and excessive droughts.
The indigenous vegetation is generally of a class suited to resist the
droughts, having hard, coriaceous leaves. Such is the shrubbery
described in a former chapter, which, exempt from severe frosts on the
one hand, and thriving in an arid soil and parching heat on the other,
clothes half the surface of the island with perpetual verdure. There
have been seasons when even these shrubs were so burnt up that the
slightest accident might have caused a wide-spread conflagration. When
we travelled, the leaves of the rock-roses, which here grow to the
height of four or five feet, were hanging on the bushes scorched and
withered by the summer heat, somewhat marring the beauty of the
evergreen thickets.
Most of the fruit-trees suited to flourish in such a climate have been
already noticed in passing. We saw also almonds, pomegranates, and
standard peaches and apricots. To the list of shrubs which most struck
us, I may also add the brilliant flowering oleander, and the tamarisk.
Corsica is said to be famous for its orchids, verbenas, and cotyledinous
and caryophyllaceous plants; but I only speak of what I saw, and these
were out of season.
The _second_ zone ranges from about 2000 feet to between 5000 and 6000
feet above the level of the Mediterranean, the climate corresponding
with that of the central districts of France. The temperature is,
however, very variable, and its changes are sudden. Frost and snow make
their appearance in November, and often last for fifteen or twenty days
together. It is remarked, that frost does not injure the olive-trees up
to the level of about 3800 feet; and snow even renders them more
fruitful.
The chestnut appears to be the characteristic feature in the vegetation
of this zone. Thriving also among hills and valleys of a lower
elevation, here it spreads into extensive woods, till at the height of
about 6000 feet it is exchanged for the pine, and Marmocchi says[14], I
think incorrectly, _cède la place_ to the oak and the _beech_. We
certainly found the oak, both evergreen (ilex) and deciduous, growing
very freely and in extensive woods in close contiguity with the chestnut
at an elevation far below the limit of the _second_ zone, as well as
mixed with the pine in the forest of Vizzavona, also below that limit.
But, from my own observation, I should class the oak of both kinds
among the trees belonging to the second zone, though the chestnut is its
most characteristic feature; and should much doubt its flourishing at
the height of between 6000 and 7000 feet above the sea-level,—still more
the beech. The highest point at which we found the beech was the Col di
Vizzavona, on the road from Vivario to Bocagnono, 3435 feet above the
level of the Mediterranean, and I was surprised to see it flourishing
there.
While the principal cities and towns in Corsica stand within the limits
of the first zone, it is in the second that by far the greatest part of
the population live,—dispersed, as we have often had occasion to remark,
in valleys and hamlets placed on the summits or ridges of hills. The
choice of such positions is a necessary condition of health, as in this
region, no less than in the former, the valleys are notorious for the
insalubrity of the air.
The _third_ zone, ranging from an elevation of about 6000 feet to the
summits of the highest mountains, is a region of storms and tempests
during eight months of the year; but during the short summer the air is
said to be generally serene, and the sky unclouded. This elevated region
has, of course, no settled inhabitants, but during the fine season the
shepherds occupy cabins on its verge, their sheep and goats browsing
among the dwarf bushes on the mountain sides. The vegetation is scanty.
Even the pine cannot thrive at such an elevation, and the birch, which
one generally finds, though dwarf, still higher up the mountains, I did
not happen to see in Corsica, though it is mentioned in _Marmocchi's_
list of indigenous trees.
The summits of the Monte Rotondo and Monte d'Oro are capped with snow at
all seasons, and beautiful are snowy peaks, piercing the blue heavens
in the sunny region of the Mediterranean, and well does the glistening
tiara, marking from afar their pre-eminence among the countless domes
and peaks which cluster round them, or break the outline of a long
chain, assist the eye in computing their relative heights. We had no
opportunity of ascertaining how low perpetual snow hangs on the sides of
the highest Corsican mountains. According to M. Arago, Monte Rotondo is
2762 _mètres_ (about 8976 feet) above the level of the sea; and he says
that there are seven others exceeding 2000 _mètres_ (about 6500 feet).
Among these must be included Monte d'Oro, which figures in Marmocchi's
list at 2653 _mètres_, or about 8622 feet. The season was too late for
our making an ascent with any prospect of advantage; but at that time of
the year (the end of October) none of the peaks we saw, except the two
named, though some of them are only from 500 to 800 feet lower than
Monte d'Oro, had snow upon them.
While rounding the base of Monte d'Oro, we observed long streaks on the
side of the cone, descending, perhaps, 1000 feet below the compact mass
on the summit; but they had the appearance of fresh-fallen snow, and
from our observing that all the other summits were free from snow, I am
inclined to assign the height of about 7500 or 8000 feet above the level
of the Mediterranean as the line of perpetual snow in Corsica.
In Norway, between 59°-62° N. latitude, we calculated it at about 4500
feet on the average, the line varying considerably in different seasons.
In the summer of 1849 there was snow on the shores of the Miös-Vand,
which are under 3000 feet, while the summer before the lakes on the
table-land of the Hardanger Fjeld, 4000 feet high, were free from ice,
and throughout the passage of the Fjeld the surface covered with snow
was less than that which was bare. In 1849, crossing the Hardanger from
Vinje to Odde, the whole of the plateau was a continued field of
snow.[15] Taking the entire mountain system of central Norway, from the
Gousta-Fjeld to Sneehættan and the Hörungurne, with elevations of from
5000 to near 8000 feet, the average of the snow-level may be taken, as
before observed, at about 4500 feet; that of the Corsican mountains,
with elevations of from 6000 to nearly 9000 feet, being, as we have
seen, from 7000 to 8000 feet.
In Switzerland, where the elevations are so much greater, the snow-line
varies from 8000 to 8800 feet above the level of the sea.[16] On Mont
Blanc it is stated to be 8500 feet. The height differs on the northern
and southern faces of the chain within those portions of the Alps that
run east and west, but 8500 feet may be taken as the average.
We may be surprised to find that congelation rests at the same, or
nearly the same, level in the Alps of Switzerland, and on the Corsican
mountains eight degrees further south. But difference of latitude is no
determinate rule for calculating the level to which the line of
perpetual snow descends. There are other influences to be taken into the
account, such as the duration and intensity of summer heats, the
comparative dryness of climate, the extent of the snow-clad surface in
the system generally, and more especially the height and exposure of
particular mountains.[17] Thus the snow-line on the southern slope of
the Alps is in some cases as high as 9500 feet. It may be conceived that
as the great extent of snow-clad surface on the high Fjelds of Norway so
much depresses the level of the snow-line in that country, so the great
superincumbent mass resting on the summits of the higher Alps has a
similar effect, reducing the average snow-line in Switzerland to nearly
that of the Corsican mountains. The wonder is that Monte Rotondo and
Monte d'Oro,—rising from a chain surrounded by the Mediterranean, in
insulated peaks of no very considerable height, without glaciers or
snowy basins to reduce the temperature,—should, in a climate where the
sun's heat is excessive for eight months of the year, have snow on their
summits in the months of July and August. I have observed the _Pico di
Teyde_ in Teneriffe with no snow upon it in the first days of November,
though it is 3000 feet higher than Monte Rotondo, and only five degrees
further south. Mount Ætna, also, nearly 11,000 feet high, in about the
same latitude as the Peak of Teneriffe (37° N.), is free from perpetual
snow; but that may arise from local causes.
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._
Murato, a large, scattered village, which formerly gave its name to a
_piève_, and is now the _chef-lieu_ of a canton, stands on the verge of
a woody and mountainous district. Just before entering the village, we
were struck by the superior character of the _façade_ of a little
solitary church by the roadside. We afterwards learnt that it was
dedicated to St. Michael, and reckoned one of the most remarkable
churches in the island, having been erected by the Pisans, before the
Genoese established themselves in Corsica. The _façade_ is constructed
of alternate courses of black and white marble, and put me in mind of
the magnificent cathedrals of Pisa and Sienna, of which it is a model in
miniature. Indeed, most of the churches in Corsica are built on these
and similar Italian models, though few of them with such chaste
simplicity of design as this little roadside chapel.
The smiling aspect of the vine-clad hills, umbrageous fruit-orchards,
and silvery olive-groves of the canton of Oletta now changed for a
bolder landscape and wilder accompaniments. Soon after leaving Murato,
the ilex began to appear, scattered among rough brakes, and a sharp
descent led down to the Bevinco, here a mountain-torrent, hurrying along
through deep banks, tufted with underwood, the box, which grows largely
in Corsica, being profusely intermixed. The road—like all the other
byroads, merely a horse-track—crosses the stream by a bold arch.
[Illustration: PONTE MURATO.]
Immediately in front of the bridge stands a pyramidal rock, remarkable
for all its segments having the same character, and for the way in which
evergreen shrubs hang from the fissures in graceful festoons,
contrasting with some gigantic gourds, in a small cultivated patch at
the foot of the rock, and sloping down to the edge of the stream.