CHAPTER I.

THE EAST COAST.

The localities from Bonifazio upwards, along the east coast, are lonely and desolate. The road runs past the beautiful Gulf of San Manza to Porto Vecchio, a distance of three leagues. By the way-side, at the little village of Sotta, there lie the ruins of the old baronial castle Campara, which tell a singular tale. In olden times dwelt here one who was known as Orso Alemanno, or the German Bear. He had compelled his vassals to yield him the horrible _jus primæ noctis_. When any one married a wife, he had to lead his bride to the castle, and leave her with the German Bear for a night; and, besides, he had to take to the Bear the finest horse in his stable for him to ride upon. As the years came and went, the chamber of the Baron was never empty, and his stable was always full. A young man, by name Probetta, wished to marry a beautiful maiden. Probetta was a daring horseman, and could skilfully throw the lasso. He concealed the sling under his coat, and, mounting a fine horse, rode in front of the Baron's castle—for he wished, he said, to ride the beast up and down before Orso, to show him what a splendid animal it was. The German Bear came out of his gate, and laughed with joy, because he was to kiss the fairest of maidens and ride the best of horses. As he stood there laughing and looking at Probetta, the youth suddenly dashed past, threw the lasso round Orso, and rushed like a storm down the hill, dragging Orso over the stones. And they pulled down the baronial castle, and buried the German Bear in a dark spot. But after a fear had passed away, some one thought to himself, What has become of the dead Orso? and the people ran in haste to the spot where they had buried him, and dug him up. And there flew out from the grave a fly. And the fly flew into all the houses, and stung all the women; and it became always bigger and bigger, and in the end became as big as an ox, and stung everything in the whole country-side. Then no one knew how they were to get rid of the ox-fly. But some one said that in Pisa were miracle-doctors, who could cure all sorts of things. Then went they to Pisa and fetched a miracle-doctor who could cure all sorts of things.

As soon as the doctor saw the great fly, he began to spread a plaster, and spread 6000 Spanish fly-plasters, and rolled 100,000 pills. And the 6000 fly-plasters he laid on the fly, and the 100,000 pills he gave it to swallow. Thereupon the fly became always smaller and smaller, and when it had become as small as a right fly, it died. Then took they a great bier and covered it with a snow-white cloth, and on the cloth they laid the corpse of the fly. And all the women came together and tore their hair and wept bitterly, because so proper a fly was dead; and twelve men carried the fly on the bier to the churchyard, and gave it a Christian burial. Thereafter they were delivered from the evil.—This fine legend I have related in the words of the Corsican chronicler, up to the appearance of the miracle-doctor on the scene, who is brought from Pisa, and who simply kills the fly. The rest I have added.

Porto Vecchio is a little unwalled town, of about two thousand inhabitants, lying on a gulf of the same name, the last which occurs on the east coast. It is large and beautiful, and, as it lies opposite the mainland of Italy, might be made of the highest importance. The Genoese founded Porto Vecchio in order to ward off the piratical attacks of the Saracens. They granted many privileges to colonists, to induce people to settle there; but as the numerous marshes made the locality unhealthy, fever began to rage, and Porto Vecchio was three times forsaken and left desolate. Even at the present day, the whole of this large district is one of the most uncultivated and most thinly peopled in all Corsica, and is chiefly inhabited by deer and wild swine. Yet the soil is uncommonly fertile. The surrounding country is rich in olives and vines. Porto Vecchio itself is built on porphyritic rocks, which are visible on the surface. I found it almost deserted, as it was August and half of the inhabitants had fled to the hills.

Northward from this beautiful gulf, the coast runs in straight lines; the mountain-chain is still visible on the left, till it recedes into the interior in the district of Salenzara, and leaves behind it those extensive plains which give to the east coast of Corsica an aspect so different from that of the west. The whole west of the island is an uninterrupted series of parallel valleys; the mountain-chains run into the sea, terminating in promontories and enclosing splendid gulfs. The east has none of this protending valley-structure; the land loses itself in flats. The west of Corsica is romantic, picturesque, grand; the east smooth, monotonous, melancholy. The eye here sweeps over leagues of level country, seeking for villages, men, life, and discovers nothing but heaths, dotted here and there with clumps of wild bushes, and covered with morasses and ponds, extending far along the shore and the land with gloom.

The good and always level road leads us next from Porto Vecchio to the ancient Aleria—a day's journey. The grass grows on it a foot high. In summer, the people fear to travel over it. Along the whole road I met not a living soul. No village is to be met with along this dreary route, only here and there a hamlet may be descried in the distance, far among the hills. On the sea-coast, in such places as possess a little harbour, a cala or landing-place, a few isolated and deserted houses may be seen—as Porto Favone, to which the old Roman road ran, Fautea, Cala di Tarco, Cala de Canelle, Cala de Coro, which also goes by the name of Cala Moro or Moorish landing-place. Here, too, stand a few isolated Genoese watch-towers.

All those houses were forsaken, and their windows and doors shut, for the air is pestilential along the whole coast. The poor Lucchese perform the little field-work there is to do. The Corsicans do not venture down from the mountains. I am happy to say that I did not suffer from the unwholesome atmosphere, but perhaps I may ascribe my escape to my prudently following the example of my travelling companion, who snuffed camphor—said to be a good antidote.

Furnished with a very meagre travelling-wallet, we soon ran short, and hunger caused us considerable annoyance during this and half the following day. Neither open house nor hostelry was anywhere to be found. The pedestrian would here inevitably die of want, or be compelled to take refuge in the hills, and wander about there for hours till the fortunate discovery of some footpath led him to a herd's cabin. It is a _strada morta_.

We cross the Taravo. From that point the series of ponds begins with the long narrow Stagno di Palo. Then come the Stagno di Graduggine, the ponds of Urbino and Siglione, the Stagno del Sale, and the beautiful pond of Diana, which has retained its name since the time of the Romans. Tongues of land separate these fish-abounding ponds from the sea, but the most of them have an inlet. The fish found in them are famous—large fat eels and huge ragnole. The fishermen catch them with rush nets.

From Taravo stretches far to the north a magnificent plain—the Fiumorbo or the Canton Prunelli. Watered by rivers and bordered by numerous ponds and by the sea, it resembles, when beheld from a distance, a boundless, luxuriant garden lying by the sea-shore. But scarcely a rood of arable land is visible; the fern covers an immeasurable extent of flat country. It is very depressing to travel through so beautiful a plain, and see no sign of life or cultivation. One cannot understand how the French should have overlooked the colonization of these parts. Here the prosperity of colonies would be more certain than in the life and money devouring sands of Africa. There is room here for two populous towns of at least 50,000 inhabitants each. Colonies of industrious peasants and citizens would soon convert the whole plain into a garden. Good drainage would soon cause the morasses to disappear, and make the air wholesome. There is not a finer strip of land in all Corsica, and none whose soil would be more productive. The climate is milder and sunnier than that of southern Tuscany; it might grow the sugar-cane, and grain would certainly yield a hundred-fold. Only through colonization and industry, which create demand and increase competition, could those Corsican mountaineers be induced to leave their black mountain villages for the plains, and cultivate the soil. Nature here, with the most lavish hand, offers everything which can give birth to a great industrial life; the hills are literally treasure-chambers of precious stones; the forests yield pine, larch, and oak; there is no lack of medicinal springs also, which might be conveyed to any part of the country. There is abundant pasture for the most populous herds; and the unbroken succession of mountain, plain, and the Italian sea, which swarms with fish, leaves nothing to be desired.

To the coast, as it appears at the present day, the description which Homer gives of the Cyclops Isle is strikingly appropriate; its soil is represented by him as in the highest degree adapted for the cultivation which it does not receive:—

"For stretch'd beside the hoary ocean lie Green meadows moist, where vines would never fail; Light is the land, and they might yearly reap The tallest crops, so unctuous is the glebe; Safe is its haven also, where no need Of cable is, or anchor, or to lash The halser fast ashore: but, pushing in His bark, the mariner might there abide, Till rising gales should tempt him forth again."

As I gaze on these glorious plains, I cannot but admire the discernment of the old Romans who planted the only colonies they had in Corsica just on this spot.