It does not take very long to explore the town. It is a rather compact place of about eighteen thousand inhabitants, curiously built, as are most Corsican towns, running up the side of a hill, with one large main street, joined to the lesser ones by flights of steps, or more often by steep stony ascents.
The houses are perfect factories for height and baldness of architecture, being, however, a shade cleaner and less repulsive-looking than in any other Corsican town, except perhaps Ajaccio. Seven stories is the usual height; some of the houses having windows closely barred and wired (the remains perhaps of the outward symbols of a vendetta in higher life than is now the fashion). It is the only town in the island, except Ajaccio, which really has any shops to speak of; but they are rather difficult for an English person to find, as comparatively few of them have "shop windows," and you have to peer in through dark, dingy doorways, to perceive the wares sold within. It took us nearly half an hour to find the photographer, and a long walk up steps, and down steps, and through gardens, among which an occasional guiding placard encouraged our wearying search. But, on the other hand, I found quite an ornamental straw hat, trimmed with blue wool, was to be bought for the modest sum of fivepence halfpenny in the high street!
Judging from their shops, the people of Bastia must be uncommonly fond of sweets. The streets are pretty equally divided between the "patisserie" and "confisserie" shops, and the coiffeurs, with here and there a jeweller's window. But the best jewellery shops (and they are not much to speak of) are in the Rue St. Jaen, behind the church; and here, as in duty bound, we invested in little yellow gourds and silver-mounted daggers. These daggers—the smaller ones made of coral, ebony, or silver, in silver sheaths, and the larger ones of metal—are inscribed with the fatal words, "Vendetta," or "La mort," and are very thrilling to a stranger. But the thrill cools somewhat when one learns, as we did later on, that whatever may have been the fashion in olden times, the dagger is now comparatively unknown to the Corsicans, and its use confined to the Italian and "Continentale." Probably, in the days when the vendetta was the fashion amongst the upper classes, the dagger was its usual instrument of vengeance; but now that murdering is banished in great part to the lower ranks, guns and pistols have almost entirely taken its place.
The Hotel de Ville at Bastia, with its high flight of steps, and containing some specimens of native marble, is considered a fine building; but to eyes fresh from Florence, the land of enchanted palaces, there was not much to admire about it.
The same may be said of the church of St. Jaen. Its two high towers were imposing at a distance, but otherwise the exterior was commonplace. Inside were some large Norman arches of white marble; and the different altars were surrounded by balustrades and pavements of local marbles—green, and red, and variegated—curious, but not nearly so beautiful as the Italian marbles. The six or seven wide steps up to the church door were covered by groups of picturesque, barefooted, dirty little children, who roamed unchecked in and out of the building, laughing and chatting, and occasionally enjoying a game of hide-and-seek behind the pillars. Some black-robed women, and a man with tin-tacks in his mouth, were busy arranging a large figure of the Madonna on a pedestal within the altar-rail, in front of the principal altar.
This position of dignity was no doubt owing to the approaching month of May, or "month of Mary;" but also partly, as a good woman informed us in a whisper, because of the present severe affliction of bad weather under which the country was suffering. The prayers of Mary, besieged as her ear would be, in this position, night and day by the petitions of believers, would, it was hoped, effect a mitigation of the evil. The image was of china, life size, highly coloured, with golden crown, pink cheeks, and blue robe, and was placed upon a pedestal about five feet high, from the sides of which sprung a large arch of white roses and gold tinsel, which completely encircled the Madonna. This pedestal was being covered by the devotees, who bowed the knee each time on passing the image, with coloured stuffs and white lace, and bedecked with many brass candlesticks and vases of artificial flowers. It struck me as a singular fact, that in a country so grandly prolific of beautiful flowers as Corsica, the artificial should be preferred to the real.
Continuing our walk through the curious, narrow, stony streets, where in one place we had to run the gauntlet of a large bonfire in a very small byeway, over which the Bastia urchins, with bare legs, leaped to an inspiring tune of their own chanting, we arrived at the bastion walls. They are high and picturesque, but not to be compared with those of Calvi or Bonifacio.
Here, also, we came upon a market with uncommonly dear oranges, and with gay stuffs ranged upon open carts or stalls for peasant purchase.
The best looking end of the town is near the landing-stage. A fine quay stretches out for some distance, and there is a good harbour, generally floating one or two fine steamers from Africa or Marseilles. There is also, of course, a statue of Napoleon on the place in front of the quay, and here the soldiers, in their gay uniforms of blue and red, drill unceasingly, and daily parade the town twice to the oft-repeated tune of their particular local march.