CHAPTER V.

MARIANA, AND RETURN TO BASTIA.

Era già l'ora che volge 'l disio, A' naviganti, e 'ntenerisce il cuore Lo dì ch' han detto a' dolci amici a Dio.—DANTE.

The paese of Cervione lies northward from Aleria, on the slope of the hill. I wish that I had visited it, and this desire is now my punishment for neglecting the opportunity of doing so when it was in my power; for although it contains nothing worth seeing, it was the royal residence of Theodore. It happens at times that one is afflicted with the travelling-sickness to such an extent, that with a sleepy eye he passes heedlessly over many interesting objects. I just got a glimpse of Cervione on the height, and gave it up for the ruins of Mariana.

Northward from Cervione, the Colo River disembogues—the largest stream in the island, watering numerous valleys in its course. The heat of summer had almost dried it up. All around, the stream has at various times overflowed on the extensive flats of Mariana, or Marana as the Corsicans now call it. Here, on the left bank of the river, stood the second Roman colony: Marius founded it. It is remarkable that in this bloody land of the Corsicans the two great avengers and deadly foes, Marius and Sulla, must needs have planted colonies. Their terrible names, which perpetuate the memory of the most horrible cruelties of civil war and intestine revolution, cast a deeper shade of gloom over the already gloomy and oppressive air of Corsica.

I sought for the ruins of Mariana. They lie towards the sea-shore, a league from the highway. As at Aleria, I found here a wide extent of level ground everywhere covered with the debris of walls. It is melancholy to wander over such ground—one cannot but reflect that these stones once constituted a city, in which the life of many centuries dwelt. Fain would one take Amphion's lyre and try, by the magic power of melody, to reconstruct the fragments, and have one peep at the town and the citizens as they were. What kind of people? to what epoch did they belong? The ruins of Mariana tell even less than those of Aleria: they do not afford materials even for fixing the date of the town's existence. It flatters the Corsican if the stranger finds in those stones the remains of Roman buildings; and in pleasing self-delusion, the traveller may sit down on one of these ruinous heaps and think of Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage, and mourning the fall of that mighty city. The remains of two churches are the only objects which attract attention. They are the most remarkable mediæval remains in Corsica. The first and smaller must have been a handsome chapel—its long nave is still in good preservation. It has a pulpit ornamented on the outside by six semicircular pillars of the Corinthian order. There are sculptures of very simple workmanship on the entablature of the side entrance. A mile farther on, lie the beautiful remains of a larger church, the nave of which is also still standing. It is called the Canonica, a cathedral church, consisting of three naves, with rows of ornamental pillars of the Doric order, and on each side a pulpit of the Gothic chapel-architecture. The central nave is 110 feet long and fifty broad. The façade is very much injured, and of the Pisan style. There are sculptures on the arch of the portal—griffins, dogs hunting a stag, and a lamb—of such wretched execution that it might belong to the eighteenth century. It is said that this Canonica was a Roman temple, which the Mahometans converted into a mosque, and the Christians in their turn into a church, after Hugo Colonna had won Mariana from the Moors. It is easy to see that the building has been at some past time restored, but it does not follow that it was originally Roman. On the contrary, it bears throughout the appearance of a cathedral church erected by the Pisans. Its forms are exquisitely pure, noble and simple, and of the finest symmetry; and this, along with the perfect purity of the Corsican marble with which the church is covered, certainly gives it all the appearance of a piece of ancient architecture.

When I entered the interior of the church, the community of worshippers whom I found there on their knees took me by surprise. They were thriving wild-trees, which stood in rows behind one another across the nave, and quietly flourished in this retired spot. A he-goat with a venerable beard stood right before the altar, and seemed to have forgotten his food and to be lost in religious contemplation. The herds were in the habit of pasturing their goats in the vicinity of the Canonica. I inquired about coins, but without success, although here, as well as in other parts of Corsica, a great many imperial ones have been found—with which, indeed, half the world is blessed. From this old Marian colony, which was planted at an earlier period than Aleria—and which must have been a colony of citizens, and not of soldiers like Sulla's—the only Roman road in Corsica ran by Aleria to Præsidium, and thence to Portus Favoni, terminating in Palæ situated on the strait now called Bonifazio. The island in those times was even more pathless than in the present day, and the Romans never penetrated into the interior of the hill-country.

Bastia is again visible in the distance, and the circle of my wanderings is completed. To the left lie the blood-drenched hills of Borgo, where many a battle has been fought, and where the Corsicans won their last victory over their French oppressors. In the distance shimmers the still, picturesque Stagno di Biguglia, and above stands Biguglia itself, once the head-quarters of the Genoese governors. The old castle now lies level with the ground. The last village before reaching Bastia is Furiani. Its gray keep is in ruins; the ivy and the white wood-vine cover its black walls with the most luxuriant green. Once more the eye turns from this spot to gaze on the lovely Goloebne, and far away towards the misty blue hills, which from out the interior of the island send a farewell greeting from their cloud-capt summits. A beautiful and healthy pilgrimage is now completed. And here the traveller stands still in pleasing retrospect, and thanks the good Powers who have been with him by the way. Yet it is difficult for the heart to tear itself away from this wonderful island. It has now become like a friend to me. The calm valleys, with their olive-groves; the enchanting gulfs; the fresh, breezy hills, with their fountains and their pine-covered summits; towns and villages, and their hospitable inhabitants,—much have they contributed to the mind and heart of the stranger, much that will not soon be forgotten.

Still once more, that Corsican reclining under the old olive-tree yonder, calls up before me the land and its people.

THE STRANGER.

Wild mountaineer of Corsica, why laid In idle dreams beneath the olive shade? With gun in hand, supinely outstretch'd there, Gazing half-conscious on the glitt'ring air? Thy hungry child, in gloomy dwelling pent, Weeps with his mother o'er her spinning bent; They weep, their toil unceasing and untold, Their chamber empty and their hearth-stone cold. Yet thou can'st falcon-like perch idly there, And scorn to cultivate that valley fair, To sow the golden seed in fertile ground, And train the clust'ring vine thy walls around. Look, look below thee, where the sunny plain, Stretches away to yon blue mountain-chain, And slopes down smiling to the very main: A Paradise where living streams abound;— Yet there the rude Albatro chokes the ground, The myrtle revels in its empire wide, Tall ferns and heather flourish side by side, And black-hair'd goats the summer-crop divide. The Golo creeps along its swampy bed, Whose tainted vapour thro' the air is spread, Sapping the fisher's life from day to day, While amply furnishing his finny prey. The lonely wand'rer at each onward tread, Sees heath-birds rise and wheel about his head; Finds ruin'd fragments of a nobler past— Traces of Rome, to dust decaying fast. Up, then, thou Corsican, from dull repose, Arise and seize thine axe, and deal thy blows; Take spade and mattock, till the ground, and see A golden-fruited garden smile on thee!

THE CORSICAN.

Stranger, whose fathers I have taught to yield,— Witness the graves on Calenzana's field— Why break my rest? Two thousand years of fight Have seen me struggle for my free-born right: Have watch'd my desperate, unyielding stand, 'Gainst each invader of my native land. Those Roman bands, whose traces still you see, At Col di Tenda were compell'd to flee; Hasdrubal's force I roll'd back to the strand, Etruria's army scatter'd as the sand. The Moor in quest of booty sought my bay, He seized my children, bore my wife away, Pillaged my fields, and wrapt my house in flame— We met, we wrestled, and I overcame! Again the battle-summons strikes my ear, Hordes of fresh foes upon our isle appear Lombards and Turks and Arragon's proud sons,— Again my hand is raised—my life-blood runs! Again I see my roof-tree overthrown; I weep not—Liberty is still my own! Then Genoa came—be curse on curse up-piled! 'Twas Italy herself that chain'd her child! Mourn'st thou my country's aspect—waste tho' fair— Harbours deserted, meadow-lands left bare, Ivy-clothed buildings falling to decay? Be sure that Genoa has there held sway! Hear'st thou the mandoline by yonder sea, Blend with the solemn Dirge's melody? Seem the chords struck by sorrow and by pain? Be sure that Genoa awoke the strain! Echo the mountains to the rifle's crack, Lies bathed in blood the victim in thy track; Dost shudd'ring view the deed by vengeance wrought? Be sure that Genoa the lesson taught! Part of our wrongs thou'st heard—now hear with glee, The grave of Genoa has been dug by me! Ay, should'st thou e'er behold her, thou may'st boast, "I've seen thy grave on Corsica's steep coast." Fierce was the conflict—war unto the knife! They sold to France our country and our life, Like some mean chattel gold had power to buy, And the world look'd on with an unmoved eye! Hear me, thou Stranger! Ponte Nuovo's height Frown'd on me wounded in inglorious fight With French officials trampling on my right. Weeping, I shrunk off like a wounded deer, Far from the slaughter-field to hide me here; Weary at length—by _such_ strife weary made— Grudge not my rest beneath the olive-shade.

THE STRANGER.

No bitter word from me hast thou to bear: I mourn thy doom—thy sense of wrong I share. Thou ancient warrior, blood-stain'd, weary, wild, Death and the furies claim thee for their child. Take now thy rest, since thou alone hast kept Watch through the slow night-hours when Europe slept; For freedom striving, when the very word 'Midst other nations had been long unheard. My heart has thrill'd at thy forefathers' fame— Leap'd at the mention of Paoli's name— Felt that such hero-memories could give A life through which e'en words of mine might live. What though the shadow of the tomb still broods, While wand'ring here, o'er all my spirit's moods, What though grief sadden, or though crime appal? A hero-spirit breathes throughout it all! Deep in my heart of hearts I bear away A sad, sweet echo of thy mourning lay; And as I sat beneath thy mountain's frown, And saw thy torrents from the clouds leap down, New senses woke within, new powers were rife, Nature baptized me into fuller life! Thy land of death has own'd me for her guest, I bear her olive-branch upon my breast; I turn me homeward with the symbol dear, Gift of good spirits while I linger'd here. Thou Corsican, farewell! in yonder bay Swell my white sails, and summon me away. May God reward thee for thy roof-tree's shade, Thy fruits, thy wine, before the stranger laid. Still may thine olives with their tribute shine, No subtle blight invade thy clust'ring vine; O'er golden fields the graceful maize wave high, Only thy fierce Vendetta droop and die! Ay, let at last thy sunbeam's burning flood Dry on thy hero-soil thy hero-blood! Brave be thy sons, as still thy fathers were— Pure as thy mountain-streams, thy daughters fair, High rise thy granite-rocks—a strong defence, 'Twixt foreign manners and their innocence! Farewell, thou Isle! long live thy ancient fame; Thy latest sons prove worthy of their name; That ne'er a future guest have cause to say— "Sampiero's life and death are but an idle tale to-day."

NOTE.

I shall mention here, at the close of my book, the more important of the works which have been of service to me in its composition. The common experience, that every subject, however isolated its nature, drags a whole continent of literature after it, is in this case confirmed. I have already named all the historians—as Filippini, Peter of Corsica, Cambiaggi, Jacobi, Limperani, Renucci, Gregori, &c. I shall add to them, Robiquet's _Recherches Historiques et Statistiques sur la Corse_: Paris, 1835—a book rich in material, and to which I am indebted for valuable information. I have also used Niccolo Tommasco's _Lettere di Pasquale de Paoli_: Firenze, 1846; and the same author's _Canti Popolari Corsi_, in the collection of Corsican, Tuscan, and Greek popular songs. The dirges I have given are extracted from the _Saggio di Versi Italiani e di Canti Popolari Corsi_: Bastia, 1843. I owe the material of the Corsican stories—which are in no case fictitious—to a collection of such narratives by Renucci: Bastia, 1838; the treatment of the material is my own. The English Boswell's book—"Journal of a Tour in Corsica, with Memorabilia of Pasquale Paoli"—is worth reading, because the author was personally acquainted with the great Corsican, and noted down his conversations with him. I am, further, considerably indebted to Valery's _Voyages en Corse, à l'Ile d'Elbe et en Sardaigne_: Bruxelles, 1838. It is unnecessary to mention other works not specially relating to Corsica.

FOOTNOTE:

[O] The author probably here refers to two personal friends.—_Tr._

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