Once tasted, no desire felt he to come
With tidings back, or seek his country more.
But rather wish'd to feed on lotus still
With the Lotophagi, and to renounce
All thoughts of home."—Odyssey.
A large rural esplanade lies at the entrance of the little town, enclosed however within its walls, which look like the walls of gardens. In the centre of the esplanade rises a square fountain of granite, surmounted by a marble bust of Paoli. It had been placed there two months previously. Paoli is the founder of Isola Rossa. He founded it in the year 1758, when the war with the Genoese was at its hottest, and the Republic was in possession of the neighbouring fortified town of Algajola. He said at the time: "I have erected the gallows on which I shall hang Algajola." The Genoese came with their gun-boats to hinder the operations, but the new town rose under their hail of balls; and Isola Rossa has now 1860 inhabitants, and is important as the emporium and principal seaport of the oil-abounding Balagna.
I found some children playing round the fountain; among them, a beautiful boy of six, with the darkest curling hair, and large, dark, impressive eyes. The child was lovely as an angel. "Do you know, children," I asked, "who that man is there on the fountain?" "Yes, we know," said they, "it is Pasquale Paoli." The children asked me what country I came from; and when I told them to guess, they guessed all the countries, and at last Egypt, but they knew nothing of Germany. Since then, they follow me wherever I go; I cannot get rid of them. They sing me songs, and bring me coral-dust, and painted shells from the shore. I find them everywhere; and they bring their companions to see me, so that, like the Piper of Hameln,[A] I draw crowds of children after me, and they accompany me even into the sea. Earth-shaking Neptune is friendly, and the blue-footed Nereids approve, and the dolphins play close by, among the crystal waves.
This is a place where one may well be a child among children. The sense of remoteness and seclusion one has here, on the shore and in the woods, soothes and strengthens. The little town lies still as a dream. The little flat-roofed houses with their green jalousies, the two snow-white towers of the little church—everything has a miniature look, and an air of privacy and retirement. In the sea stand the three red cliffs; an ancient tower keeps watch over them, and tells in the silent evening old stories of the Saracens; swifts and blue wild pigeons circle round it. I ascended these rocks in the evening; they are connected with the land by a dike. A grotto difficult of access, and open to the sea, penetrates on one side the rugged cliff. Not far off a new mole is being built; French workmen were occupied in elevating huge cubical masses of cemented stone by machinery, and then launching them into the waves.
The evening landscape is very beautiful, from the Red Islands. To the right, the sea and the whole peninsula of Cape Corso veiled in haze; to the left, running out into the gulf, a red tongue of land; in the foreground the little city, fishing-skiffs, and one or two sailing-vessels in the harbour. In the background three glorious hills—Monte di Santa Angiola, Santa Susanna, and the rugged Monte Feliceto; on their slopes olive-groves and numerous black villages. Here and there glow the fires of the goat-herds.
Nowhere can people lead a more patriarchal and peaceable life than do the inhabitants of Isola Rossa. The land yields its produce, and the sea too. They have enough. In the evening they sit and gossip on the mole, or they angle in the still water, or wander in the olive-groves and orange-gardens. Through the day the fisherman prepares his nets, and the handicraftsman sits plying his work under the mulberry-tree before his door. Here should be no lack of song and guitar. I had made myself at home in a little coffeehouse. The young hostess could sing beautifully; at my wish a little company assembled in the evening, and I had twanging of guitars and charming Corsican songs to my heart's content.