CHAPTER II.

FROM ORNANO TO SARTENE.

The Taravo forms the boundary between the province of Ajaccio and that of Sartene, the most southern of the arrondissements of Corsica. The traveller, on entering it, comes at first to the beautiful canton of Petreto and Bicchisano, which extends along the Taravo to the Gulf of Valinco. The view of this district, and of the bay far below, is regarded by the Corsicans themselves as one of the most magnificent in their romantic island. In general, the country on the other side of these mountains is of a grander and more sublime character, and bears upon it the colossal stamp of primeval nature. In many parts of this canton the traveller meets with ruins of the castles of the lordly house of Istria, but in a sad state of decay, and seldom distinguishable at the first view from the black granite of the surrounding rocks.

On a mountain above Sollacaro stand the ruins of a castle belonging to Vincentello d'Istria—of whom mention is made in the history—deep buried among trees, and thickly shrouded with creeping plants. With this castle is connected one of those wild traditions, which peculiarly distinguish Corsica, as they likewise characterize the terrible times of the Middle Ages. On this spot stood, in earlier times, another castle, in which dwelt a lady, very beautiful, but of a fierce and savage disposition. This lady, Savilia by name, enticed a powerful lord of the family of Istria—Giudice d'Istria—into her castle, after having promised him her hand. Istria entered the castle, and was immediately cast into a dungeon by the lady Savilia. Every morning, she went down to the prison where he was lying, and while she undressed herself before the eyes of Istria, at the grated window of the dungeon, she mocked and scoffed at him with cruel gibes. "Look upon me!" she said; "is this fair body made, thinkest thou, to be enjoyed by a hideous wretch like thee?" And thus she continued, morning after morning, for a long time, till at length Istria succeeded in making his escape. Vowing revenge, he marched with his vassals to Lady Savilia's castle, broke into it, and laid it level with the ground; the fair Savilia he shut up in a hut, which stood at the crossing of several roads, and compelled her to expose herself to every passer-by. The miserable lady expired on the third day of her captivity. Vincentello d'Istria afterwards built, on the site of the former, the castle whose ruins are at present to be seen there. The family of Colonna still survives in Corsica; in fact, it is perhaps older and more numerous than any other noble family in the world, and its branches have spread over the whole of Europe.

The next pieve—Olmeto—was entirely a fief of the powerful family of the Istrias. The chief town, also called Olmeto, lies at the foot of high mountains, while beyond stretches a magnificent valley, wooded with olive-trees, and washed by the waters of the gulf of Valinco. On Buttareto, one of the most rugged of these mountains, are still shown the ruins of a castle, formerly the residence of Arrigo della Rocca. The view from Olmeto, away over the valley, as far as the gulf, is remarkably fine. There is a peculiar charm in the soft lines of the landscape, and the silence of the dark-brown coast. The view extends to the north as far as Cape Porto Pollo, and on the south to Cape Campo Moro. The name of _Moorish camp_, which is given to the cape and a small piece of land adjoining, on which now stands a watch-tower, carries the mind back to the time of the Saracens, who so often landed here in centuries long gone by. The Corsican arms—a Moor's head, with a band across the brow—dates from the expedition of the Saracen king, Lanza Ancisa, so celebrated in legendary romance. The whole coast is here of a Moorish-brown colour, and over it broods an inconceivable stillness—the deep peace of a summer's day. As I approached the little port of Propriano on the gulf, the spirit of dead times—a spirit so welcome in a desert island-country, again breathed upon me. There stood before me, on the shore, a crowd of Corsicans, all of them strong, healthy, dark-haired fellows; the double-barrelled gun slung upon their shoulders, standing as if in readiness to resist the attack of the Saracen. The sight of these dark and warlike forms, and the melancholy wildness of the shore, transported me completely into the times of the Middle Ages. I could not help remembering a Spanish ballad, which celebrates the prowess of Dragut the Corsair—well known in the history of the Corsican nation. It may well be sung on the shores of this wild gulf, among this stern band of islanders:—

DRAGUT AT TARIFA.

In the offing of Tarifa, Nearly half a league from shore, Dragut, chief of all corsairs, Pirate both by sea and land, Of the Christian dogs descried— Come from Malta—vessels five. Cursing all the hated race, Thus he shouted loud and long— Al arma! al arma! al arma! Cierra! cierra! cierra! Que el enemigo viene a darnos guerra.

Dragut, chief of all corsairs, Fired with haste a signal-gun— A signal to the pirate crew, Who were for wood and water gone. Then the Christians gave reply From the galleys and the shore, And in the haven every bell Quick took up the 'larum-cry— Al arma! al arma! al arma! Cierra! cierra! cierra! Que el enemigo viene a darnos guerra.

And the Christian captive, who Despairing wailed his hapless lot, Felt a gleam of hope light up The darkness of his prison-gloom. For a moment Dragut took Counsel with his captains all: "Shall we wait, or shall we hoist Our sails, and put to sea?" Al arma! al arma! al arma! Cierra! cierra! cierra! Que el enemigo viene a darnos guerra.

Then said they all with one accord— "Wait! wait! let them come on! What is the ocean but the field Of pirates' victory?" Then Dragut shouted loud and long— "Up, knaves! up to the fight! Every gunner to his gun! Load and fire, and load again—hurra!" Al arma! al arma! al arma! Cierra! cierra! cierra! Que el enemigo viene a darnos guerra.

The refrain of this spirited song—"To arms! to arms! to arms! Danger! danger! danger! for the enemy is coming to attack us"—I have preserved in the original Spanish; it would seem somewhat tame in a translated form.

On the 12th of June 1564, Sampiero landed on the shores of this gulf—another note of more peculiar meaning among these warlike echoes of past times.

The country rises gradually from the shore into a rugged mountainous region, covered with huge boulders. Rocks, low brush-wood, the sand upon the shore, and a dead marsh, combine to render this part of the island peculiarly wild and bleak. The evergreen oak, however, and the cork-tree, grow here in great numbers; and the rugged soil brings forth corn and wine. At last Sartene met my view, stretching before me—a wide-extended paese—in melancholy isolation, among melancholy rocks and mountains.