THE TOWN OF BONIFAZIO.
About eight o'clock in the morning I set out from Sartene to Bonifazio,
the most southerly town and fortress in Corsica. The road lay along a
desolate coast, the hills sloping gradually towards the sea-shore. There
is not a village to be seen all the way; and I should have perished
from hunger and thirst, had not my travelling companions taken care to
furnish themselves with bread and wine before setting out. Who not his
bread with joy has eaten, by olive gray or vine-tree seated, He knows
you not, ye heavenly powers!
We passed through the vale of Ortoli—everywhere waste hill-country,
neither grain nor fruit-tree visible. The olive is no longer met with;
cork-tree clumps and arbutus alone occupy the soil. We approached the
south coast—still more desolate, if possible, than that which we had
left behind us. Not far from the mouth of the Ortoli lies a solitary
post-house, and opposite it a ridge of rock, on which stands the Tower
of Roccapina. Close beside it, on the sharp edge of the cliff, there
is a rugged and irregular rocky mass. It bears a striking resemblance
to a colossal crowned lion, and is called among the people, _Il leone
coronato_. This singular rock—so conspicuous an object along this line
of coast, the first bit of Corsican ground which fell into the hands of
Genoa when she wrested the island from the Pisans—stands there as if it
were the monument or the arms of the Republic.
From the height here I got my first view of the open sea not far from
me, and the coast and hills of Sardinia—a glorious spectacle. The sight
of a foreign land suddenly unfolded to the view, here only showing its
outline, and there revealing objects with forms characteristic of the
country, rouses feelings at once strange and pleasing—anticipation,
longing, and doubt. It resembles nothing so much as the fabulous
fancy-pictures of childhood. Wholly an island! I stood for long on
one of those bare masses of rock, in a violent wind, and in the full
glow of the mid-day sun; with a deep feeling of desire, I gazed across
the strait on the twin-sister of Corsica. It was entirely wrapt in an
ethereal veil of blue; and the sea, stirred by the maestrale, dashed in
foaming breakers round its shore.
We rested for a couple of hours, and then resumed our journey farther
along the coast. It is much broken up by arms of the sea, and wears a
gloomy aspect. Little streams creep sluggishly through morasses into the
sea; gray turrets surmount the cliffs which occur at intervals along
the coast, and hold solitary watch there. The air is unwholesome. I
perceived a couple of little villages on the slope of the hill. I was
informed that they were uninhabited; the people, it seems, do not leave
the mountains till the first of September.
The sea at this place forms two little gulfs—Figari and Ventilegne. They
resemble Fiords, and their coast-lines are often of the most irregular
form, rising like rows of ash-gray obelisks.
As we traverse the extreme point of Corsica towards the south-west, the
tongue of S. Trinita, terminating in the Capo di Feno, the chalky coast
of Bonifazio becomes visible. At the same time, the town itself comes
into view, the most southerly and most singular town in the island,
snow-white as the coast on which it stands, and perched high upon its
rock—an unexpected and surprising spectacle in the midst of the wide
and melancholy waste.
The shore all round is stony and shrubby; but for half a league
before reaching the town, the traveller passes through olive-groves
and orchards, and is astonished to see the blessings which man, when
compelled to exert all his industrial power, has been able to win
from the limy soil. The little land of Bonifazio gives a full supply
of olives which do not yield in quality to those of Balagna. Between
chalk-cliffs we drive down to the Marina of Bonifazio, lying on the
shore of the gulf. The town itself can now be reached only on foot or
on horseback, for we must clamber up the steep rock on a broad path of
steps. Cross two drawbridges, and pass through two old gates, and we are
in Bonifazio. The fortress and the tower, between which indeed there is
no distinction, lie on the flat summit of the rock.
A beautiful greeting does Bonifazio give to the wayfarer who enters
through the old gloomy gate; for on the front of one of the towers
stands boldly out the grand word _Libertas_. I used to read it often
on the towers and houses of Italian towns—a melancholy satire; on many
a banner has this word been blazoned. But here it stands proudly and
confidently out on those antique turrets, which can tell of so many
glorious deeds of arms. I entered the city with the joyful sensation
that I was going among valiant and free men. To the present hour the
Bonifazians have the character of being the most republican as well as
the most industrious and religious of the inhabitants of Corsica.
The site of Bonifazio is quite peculiar. Imagine a colossal white
pyramid of rock, formed of horizontal layers planted in the sea, with
its base pointing upwards, and supporting high in the air, fortress,
towers, and town, and you will have some idea of this Corsican
Gibraltar. The façade is deeply excavated; the whole mass seems to cling
to the mainland. On two sides the sea foams round it, a narrow inlet
shut in by precipitous, inaccessible hills washes it on a third, forming
at once, gulf, haven, and fosse. The power of the water has torn up
the coast all round, and has washed the rocks into the most grotesque
forms. From beneath, viewed from the sea, which in many places has no
beach, the coast rising sheer from the water, this gray rock stands out
boldly. I descended to look up at it; the waves dashed round its base,
the clouds above floated over it; I felt as if the rock were tottering
and it was about to fall upon me—an ocular delusion the more natural,
as a large mass is washed away from the bottom, and here and there huge
layers of chalk blackened by the weather project boldly into the air. As
soon as I saw Bonifazio, I at once comprehended how Alfonso of Arragon
failed to take it.
It numbers 3380 inhabitants, and, on account of its insular position,
contains no communes. Its buildings are of Pisan and Genoese origin.
Old, and long inhabited, they resemble ruins more than dwelling-houses.
They are built mostly of the material of the rock. They are all white;
and as the walls and short towers have the same hue, the spectator
has more than enough of the national colour of Corsica. It would be
difficult for me to convey a distinct idea of the town itself; for it
is impossible to describe this intricate confusion of narrow streets,
through which the draught or the sea-breeze is continually whirling
the dust, and through which, going down or up hill, one must skilfully
steer his course, wandering about in perpetual astonishment at the
novelty of the position, especially when the eye, finding an open space,
discovers the sea far beneath it as blue as the heavens above. Beams are
frequently thrown across from house to house, and dark passages often
lead from one narrow street to another.
The wind whistles, and the waves dash their foam round the rock. There
is something strangely uncomfortable in the sensation. The consciousness
of space—so agreeable to the mind—is here lost. The lonely sentinel
yonder paces up and down on the round tower in a whirlwind of lime-dust.
I wish to find a piazza—to be among men. But there is no such thing
here as a square. The necessary limitation admits of no open spaces;
yet, strange to say, the main street is fondly called the Piazza Doria.
The Bonifazians no doubt felt the need of a piazza or forum, without
which a town is like a house without a family room; they consequently
gave that gave that name to the main street. Want of room compelled
the Bonifazians to carry their houses to a great height. The stairs are
uncommonly steep, on account of the want of depth in the buildings. On
many houses I saw the arms of Genoa still carved—a crowned lion-rampant
holding a ring in its claw. The old emblem awakes proud memories, like
the name of Doria, which still exists in Bonifazio under the form of
D'Oria. For this is the proper name of those famous Genoese lords of
the great family of Oria. The Corsicans hated Genoa to the death, and,
when treating of the old Republic, it will be remembered that we found
the same inveterate hate on its part. Every calamity which has befallen
Corsica, its moral as well as its physical desolation, they ascribe to
Genoa. The Bonifazians, however, are much attached to the memory of the
Genoese connexion, and their history makes that quite intelligible.
There is a difference of opinion as to the ancient name of the spot
whereon Bonifazio now stands. Some consider it to have been the old
_Syracusanus portus_, others the old town of Palæ, the last of the
Corsican stations enumerated by Antoninus in the _Itinerary_. The
Bonifazio of the present day was founded by the Tuscan margrave whose
name it bears. We know that, after a naval victory obtained over the
Saracens in 833, he laid the foundations of this town, that it might
serve as a barrier against their piratical attacks, for they had been
in the habit of effecting descents on this side of the island, from
Africa, Spain, and Sardinia. Of the forts erected by that margrave,
one still stands—the large old tower, called Torrione; three more tower
above the rock. They are all represented on the arms of Bonifazio. At
a later period, the town passed into the hands of the Pisans, together
with the rest of the island; but the Genoese wrested Bonifazio from them
so early as the year 1193. They surprised and took the town during the
celebration of a festival. They treated it with great liberality, gave
it very free laws, and permitted it to exist as a Republic under their
protectorate. In the register of Bonifazio the contract is preserved,
which the Genoese procurator in Bonifazio, Brancaleone d'Oria, signed
and solemnly swore on the Bible to observe, on the 11th February
1321. According to the terms of this contract, complete freedom of
trade and exemption from imposts in Genoese harbours, was granted to
the Bonifazians; also, the right of self-government. In their popular
assembly they chose a Council composed of the more elderly citizens,
hence called _Anziani_; the Genoese podestà, who was annually sent to
the town as Syndic or Commissioner, had to conform his decisions to the
will of this body. The podestà could neither impose taxes nor introduce
any innovation without the consent of the Anziani; nor had he the power
of imprisoning any citizen of Bonifazio, whether murderer, thief, or
traitor, if he could procure bail. When a new podestà was sent from
Genoa, he was never put in possession of the town till he had solemnly
sworn an oath on the Sacrament, to preserve inviolable all treaties and
statutes of Bonifazio. This deed is signed—_Per Brancaleonem de Oria
et per Universitatem Bonifatii in publico Parlamento_—'by Brancaleo
d'Oria, and the whole community of Bonifazio, in public Parliament
assembled;'—high-sounding words for a little place, consisting at that
time of scarcely a thousand inhabitants.
Thus did this bold little people win for themselves freedom with all its
privileges, and were able to preserve it intact on their rock for many
centuries.
The Genoese paid every possible respect to the Bonifazians. When one of
their vessels entered the port of Genoa, it was customary to ask—"Are
you from the district of Bonifazio, or from Bonifazio proper?" Hence
the popular saying: "He is a Bonifazian proper." Many Genoese nobles
and citizens, induced by these privileges and rights, emigrated to this
rock from their lordly Genoa; and, in this way, Bonifazio became in
language, manners, and leaning, a Genoese colony. Even now, the Genoese
character of the town is visible not only in the armorial ensigns, but
in the people themselves.
Calvi too, has, like Bonifazio, remained true to Genoa. Both towns have
occupied on this account quite a peculiar historical position, and it
is remarkable to find in this fearful sea of Corsican hate, two little
islands, as it were, which loved the tyrannical Genoa. Let us not grudge
this to the manly Genoese; their old sin-laden but always kingly and
great Republic has long since paid its debt to humanity in history, and
is no more.
A Bonifazian of the name of Murzolaccio, wrote a characteristic little
history of his town in 1625. It may be seen in Bologna, and is an
extremely rare book. I have not been able to procure a copy, much to my
disappointment, for I have a great affection for Bonifazio. But I will
here relate, following the chronicle of Petrus Cyrnæus, the memorable
siege of the town by Alfonso of Arragon; for indeed the heroic bravery
of the Bonifazians deserves to live in the memory of men together with
that of Numantia, Carthage, and, in modern times, Saragossa. I give
Peter's description of it, not following him through all his details;
I have shortened it also, as it is too long to give entire here.