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Raspberry Pi Computer
Architecture Essentials

Explore Raspberry Pi's architecture through innovative

and fun projects

Andrew K. Dennis

BIRMINGHAM - MUMBAI

www.it-ebooks.info
Raspberry Pi Computer Architecture Essentials

Copyright © 2016 Packt Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written
permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in
critical articles or reviews.

Every effort has been made in the preparation of this book to ensure the accuracy
of the information presented. However, the information contained in this book is
sold without warranty, either express or implied. Neither the author, nor Packt
Publishing, and its dealers and distributors will be held liable for any damages
caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by this book.

Packt Publishing has endeavored to provide trademark information about all of the
companies and products mentioned in this book by the appropriate use of capitals.
However, Packt Publishing cannot guarantee the accuracy of this information.

First published: March 2016

Production reference: 1170316

Published by Packt Publishing Ltd.

Livery Place
35 Livery Street
Birmingham B3 2PB, UK.

ISBN 978-1-78439-797-5
www.packtpub.com

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 Credits

Author Project Coordinator

Andrew K. Dennis Kinjal Bari

Reviewer Proofreader
Ed Snajder Safis Editing

Commissioning Editor Indexer

Amarabha Banerjee Rekha Nair

Acquisition Editor Production Coordinator

Divya Poojari Melwyn Dsa

Content Development Editor Cover Work

Trusha Shriyan Melwyn Dsa

Technical Editor
Shivani Kiran Mistry

Copy Editor
Safis Editing

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 About the Author

Andrew K. Dennis is the manager of professional services software development

at Prometheus Research. Prometheus Research is a leading provider of integrated
data management for research and is the home of HTSQL, an open source
navigational query language for RDBMS.

Andrew has a diploma in computing, a BSc in software engineering, and is currently

studying for a second BSc in creative computing in his spare time.

He has over 12 years of experience working in the software industry in the UK,
Canada, and the USA. This experience includes e-learning courseware development,
custom CMS and LMS development, SCORM consultancy, web development in
a variety of languages, open source application development, blogging about the
integration of web technologies with electronics for home automation, and punching
lots of Cat5 cables.

His interests include web development, e-learning, 3D printing, Linux, the

Raspberry Pi and Arduino, open source projects, home automation and the use of
web technology in this sphere, amateur electronics, home networking, and software
engineering.

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 About the Reviewer

Ed Snajder is a database engineer and hardware hacker working at Jive Software.

When not breaking databases and distributed data systems, Ed spends a lot of time
in the community evangelizing Raspberry Pi, Arduino, and open source 3D printing.
His belief is that if every child could have a Raspberry Pi, we will soon have the
flying cars we've always dreamed of. He lives in Portland, Oregon, with his partner,
Lindsay and his Shih-Tzus, Obi-wan and Gizmo.

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 Table of Contents
Preface vii
Chapter 1: Introduction to the Raspberry Pi's Architecture
and Setup 1
History and background of the Raspberry Pi 1
Raspberry Pi hardware specifications 2
Dimensions 3
System on Chip 3
CPU 4
GPU 4
SDRAM 4
4 USB 2.0 ports and 1 SoC on-board USB 4
MicroSD card port 4
Ethernet port 5
Audio 5
GPIO pins 5
Video – analog TV out 6
Video – HDMI port 6
Basic hardware needed 6
The microSD card – the main storage and boot device
of the Raspberry Pi 2 7
Preinstalled microSD card versus creating your own 8
The NOOBS operating system installation manager 8
Downloading the latest version of Raspbian 9
Setting up your microSD card and installing the Raspbian
operating system 9
Raspbian installation wrap-up 11
Check SSH is running 11
RSA key generation for SSH 12

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Table of Contents

Assign a static IP to your Raspberry Pi 2 17

Installing Screen and Vim 19
Vim – an optional handy text editor 20
Running tests on the OS and configuration changes 21
Diagnostic tests 21
Over and underclocking the Raspberry Pi 22
Going further – testing the GPIO pins 23
Some handy Linux commands 23
Troubleshooting 24
Summary 24
Chapter 2: Programming on Raspbian 25
Which programming languages? 25
Assembly language 26
Assembling and linking 29
The C and C++ languages 31
C – a brief introduction 31
A quick look at C++ 32
Our first C program 33
Geany – a handy text editor and development environment 33
Creating a new C program 34
C libraries – a trove of reusable code 36
The C (and C++) compiler 37
Compiling and running our application 38
The Python language 39
A simple Python program 40
Running a Python program from a file 42
Summary 44
Chapter 3: Low-Level Development with Assembly Language 45
Back to basics 45
Multiline comments 47
Directives 47
Single line comments 48
Registers 48
Branching 49
The assembler 49
The linker 50
Makefiles 50
Memory and addresses 52
The .data directive 53
The .balign directive 54

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 Table of Contents

Words 54
Labels 54
The memory 55
The addresses 55
LDR and SUB 56
Running our program 57
Adding power to our program – control structures 58
If else statements 60
Iteration 61
Testing our control structures 61
Summary 62
Chapter 4: Multithreaded Applications with C/C++ 63
What are threads? 63
Thread types 65
User level threads 65
Kernel level threads 65
Hybrid threads 66
POSIX threads 66
Steps involved in implementing threads 67
Creation and termination 67
Synchronization 68
Scheduling 69
An example in C 69
Trying out our program 73
A C++ equivalent 74
The g++ command 76
Going further – mutexes and joins 77
Compile and test 80
Summary 81
Chapter 5: Expanding on Storage Options 83
Booting up 83
Setting up the external HDD 85
Getting the disk name 85
Setting up the HDD 86
Modifying cmdline.txt 87
Network-attached storage (NAS) 88
Installing Samba 89
Testing the NAS 90
Mac 90
Linux 91
Windows 91
Summary 92

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Table of Contents

Chapter 6: Low-Level Graphics Programming 93

VideoCore IV GPU 93
Sample programs 94
Accessing the frame buffer 96
Check the display settings 97
Testing our C code 100
Filling the screen with a color 100
A C program to turn the screen red 101
Compile and run the C program 105
Drawing a line 106
Plotting pixels and drawing lines 106
Compile and run 110
Next steps – polygons 111
Summary 112
Chapter 7: Exploring the Raspberry Pi's GPIO Pins 113
Introduction to GPIO pins 113
Standard GPIO 114
I2C 115
Serial Rx and Tx 117
SPI 118
PWM and PPM 119
GPIO power voltages 120
Hardware choices 120
Prototyping shields and boards 120
Cooking Hacks Arduino bridge shield 121
Connecting directly to the GPIO pins 123
Switching an LED on and off 123
Setting up the hardware 123
C blinking LED program 124
Python blinking LED program 126
Reading data from the GPIO pins in Python 129
Summary 131
Chapter 8: Exploring Sound with the Raspberry Pi 2 133
Introduction to the Raspberry Pi's sound 134
Configuring the audio output 134
Setting the audio output 135
Interacting with audio through GPIO 135
Installing the audio drivers 136
Hardware setup 136

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 Table of Contents

Loading drivers 137

Getting some drum tracks 138
Python drum machine 138
Audio shields for the Raspberry Pi 142
C and ALSA 142
ALSA examples 145
Introducing Sonic Pi 147
Setup 147
Experimenting with Sonic Pi 149
Summary 151
Chapter 9: Building a Web Server 153
Introduction to web servers 153
HTTP requests 154
HTML 155
Popular web servers available on the Raspberry Pi 156
Apache 156
NGINX 158
Building a Python web server 159
Python web server code 160
Adding an index page and a favicon 162
Adding database support 163
SQLite 163
SQL – a quick overview 163
Python program with SQLite support 164
Flask – displaying database data via Python 166
Next steps 168
Summary 169
Chapter 10: Integrating with Third-Party Microcontrollers 171
Genuino/Arduino microcontroller 172
Setting up the Arduino software 173
Installing the IDE on your Raspberry Pi 2 173
A quick guide to the Arduino IDE 174
Integration with Arduino 175
Serial communication over USB 175
Communication between the Arduino and Raspberry Pi via GPIO 178
Communication over I2C 182
Communication over the Web 188
Summary 189

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Table of Contents

Chapter 11: Final Project 191

Choose your storage mechanism 192
Building a Flask-based website 192
Adding a database 192
A basic website 193
Web forms 198
Add 198
Edit 200
Adding in an LED 202
Building the circuit – a recap 202
Integrating with our Python app 203
Extending the project further 205
Replace the LED with a screen 205
E-mail support 205
Playing a sound 206
Summary 206
Index 207

[ vi ]

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 Preface
Are you interested in the myriad features of your Raspberry Pi 2? From the hardware
to the software, do you wish to understand how you can interact with these features?

Then this is the book for you!

The Raspberry Pi 2 is one of the latest hardware offerings in the Raspberry Pi family.
With many new and improved features than previous versions, there is so much
more an enthusiast can do.

This book will walk you through how you can get the most out of your device.

You will learn about how to program on the Raspberry Pi using the Assembly
language, Python, and C/C++. This will include building a web server in Python
and saving data to an SQLite database. Ever wondered what threads are? These are
covered here too.

In addition to this, you will explore the various types of GPIO pins and how these
can be used to interact with third party microcontrollers and electronic circuits.

The sound and graphics capabilities of the Raspberry Pi 2 are also experimented
with through a number of projects. And to expand the Raspberry Pi's storage option,
we will also set up an external HDD via USB.

Finally, the book concludes with a project that brings together many of the
technologies explained throughout the chapters.

By the time you finish reading this book, you'll have a firm knowledge of the
Raspberry Pi 2 and how you can devise your own projects that use its capabilities.

[ vii ]

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Preface

What this book covers

Chapter 1, Introduction to the Raspberry Pi's Architecture and Setup, provides an
introduction to the Raspberry Pi and its hardware architecture. We will explore
the various hardware components in detail, and this will provide a basis for the
programming projects in future chapters. A quick guide to getting Raspbian installed
and SSH enabled is also provided.

Chapter 2, Programming on Raspbian, provides an introduction to the programming

languages used in this book. An explanation will be provided of which language
is used and why. This chapter will also guide you through setting up the tools for
Assembler, C/C++, and Python. Three introduction programs will then be walked
through to give you the opportunity to test that your setup works.

Chapter 3, Low-Level Development with Assembly Language, explores programming

in the Raspbian operating system using the Assembler programming language.

Chapter 4, Multithreaded Applications with C/C++, having looked at Assembler,

we move up the programming hierarchy to C/C++. We learn how to write
multithreaded applications and understand their usefulness. Through these
applications, we learn more about the multi-core CPU of the Raspberry Pi 2.

Chapter 5, Expanding on Storage Options, offers a guide to expanding the storage

options of the Raspberry Pi beyond the SD card.

Chapter 6, Low-Level Graphics Programming, shows you how to interact with the
graphics hardware on the Raspberry Pi 2. Here you will learn how to draw to the
screen via the frame buffer.

Chapter 7, Exploring the Raspberry Pi's GPIO Pins, shows you how to interact with
electronic components using the Raspberry PI's GPIO pins. Here we look at how
Python libraries can be used to simplify the process.

Chapter 8, Exploring Sound with the Raspberry Pi 2, gives an introduction to the basics
of sound programming using the Raspberry Pi's hardware. Learn about live coding
via the Sonic-Pi IDE to generate your own algorithmic music.

Chapter 9, Building a Web Server, expands upon your knowledge of Python to build
a web server via Flask. This chapter explores the Ethernet and Wi-Fi capabilities of
the Raspberry Pi for delivering web-based applications. In this chapter, you will also
learn about using SQLite to store data and display it via a web page. Topics covered
also include Apache and NGINX.

Chapter 10, Integrating with Third-Party Microcontrollers, in this chapter we learn how
to interact with third-party microcontrollers such as the Arduino. These devices can
form the basis of robotics projects and augment the abilities of the Raspberry Pi.
[ viii ]

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Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
Thou to all wert mild and courteous,
But not one might venture nigher.

In the church each eye was straining

To espy thee as we pass'd;
All, from first to last, kept gazing,
But thine eyes were downward cast.
Service ended, thou wouldst pray me,
"Let us hurry homeward fast."

Oh how highly wert thou valued,

Honour'd both by great and small;
Taught and train'd by Heavenly teaching,
Wise with wisdom best of all!
From the world thy spirit screening,
Prayer and praise its special call.

Who can ever soothe my anguish?

Oh, my glory and my pride!
Since the Lord has bid thee leave me,
Call'd thee with Him to abide;
Wherefore does not His compassion
Bid my agony subside!

Yet in heaven thou'rt resting sweetly,

From all burdens smiling free;
If too bright for earth thy beauty,
As all own'd who look'd on thee—
How much brighter, thro' its presence,
Henceforth Paradise will be!

But for me the earth will only

Seem a place of wo and tears,
And each day of hopeless longing
Lengthen to a thousand years;
Lengthen to a thousand years;
While I ask of thee, my daughter,
From each stranger that appears.

Death, why did'st thou from my bosom

Such a loving daughter tear?
Wherefore, in a nest now empty,
Leave me lonely to despair?
When I miss her care and tendance,
How shall I life's burden bear?

Lonely 'midst my kindred standing,

Helpless with my neighbours by;
Who will wipe away the pain-drops
When I lay me down to die?
Who will give the drink I thirst for
When the fever rages high?

Oh! thou fondly cherish'd daughter,

Think upon my wretched case,
When grown old, by all forsaken;
Far from help or friendly face,
Never knowing peace or comfort,
Even for a moment's space.

If, like thee, I were permitted

From this cold world to depart,
Having seen thy early fading—
Hope and glory of my heart!
I should find thee up in heaven,
And live with thee where thou art.

Therefore pray our dear Lord Jesus,

Till He calls me ceaseless pray!
For my only hope I cannot
Live on thus from day to day—
Cannot end these vain lamentings—
Cannot weep my tears away!

VOCERO OF A GIRL FOR HER FATHER.

I came forth from Calanca
At the twelfth hour of the night,
And everywhere I sought him,
I sought him by torchlight,—
And when I found my father,
'Twas his corpse that met my sight.

(Another girl enters, seeking a relative, also slain.)

Ye who would find Matteju,
Go farther up the steep;
The dead here is my father,
And I must stay to weep.

Take apron, trowel, hammer,

My father, and come away,
For you must work at the chapel
Of San Marcello to-day;
But they had slain my father,
And my brother wounded lay.

Oh, scissors to cut my long locks,

Make haste and bring to me!
Let me staunch with my hair those gashes
Where the blood is running free—
For the red drops on my fingers
Are a fearful sight to see.

I will dye me a mandilè,

In his blood I will dye it red;
And when I have time to be merry,
I will deck with it my head.[J]

Now I bear him to Calanca—

To the Ch ch of the Hol C oss
To the Church of the Holy Cross,
Still crying, O speak, my father!
Still wailing for my loss—
For they have crucified him,
Like Christ upon the cross.

TEXT OF THE PRECEDING VOCERO.

Eo partu dalle Calanche
Circa quattr' ore di notte:
Mi ne falgu cu la teda
A circà per tutte l'orte,
Per truvallu lu mio vabu:
Ma li avianu datu morte.

Cullatevene più in su,

Chi truvarete a Matteju;
Perchè questu è lu mio vabu,
E l'aghiu da pienghie eju.
Via, pigliatemi u scuzzale
La cazzola e lu martellu.
Nun ci vulete andà, vabu,
A travaglià a San Marcellu?
Tombu m'hann lu miò vabu,
E feritu u miò fratellu.

Or circatemi e trisore,
E qui prestu ne venite:
Vogliu toudemi i capelli
Per tuppalli le ferite;
Chi di lu sangue di vabu
N'achiu carcu le miò dite.

Di lu vostru sangue, o vabu,

Bogliu tinghiemi un mandile;
Lu mi vogliu mette a collu
Quandu avrachiu oziu di ride.

Eo collu per le Calanche

Falgu per la Santa Croce,
Sempre chiamand uvi, vabu:
Risp nditemi na oce
 Rispunditemi una voce.
Mi l'hanu crucifissatu
Cume Ghesù Cristu in croce.

I have added the original text of this vocero, to give the reader
some idea of the Corsican dialect, and enable him to compare it, if
he is interested in such matters, with the Italian spoken on the
Continent. I find a great resemblance between the dialect of Corsica
and that used by the lower orders in Rome, particularly in
Trastevere.[K] All the Italian popular dialects, however, have a
tendency to drop or mutilate the infinitive endings, are and ire, and
to substitute r for l. The Corsican says soretra for sorella. Philologists
have pronounced the Corsican one of the purest of the Italian
dialects, and Tommaseo especially has much to say in its praise in
his collection of Tuscan, Corsican, and Greek popular songs—which
contains also, though in a defective form, a number of Corsican
dirges, with elucidations. In this book he calls the Corsican dialect "a
powerful language, and of all the dialects of the Italian tongue, one
of the most thoroughly Italian." It seems to me to be genuine gold
compared with the patois of the Piedmontese and Lombards, and
the dialects of Parma and Bologna. Even from the single specimen
communicated, the reader will see that the language of the
Corsicans, though no doubt one of the lower forms of Italian, is soft
and graceful.
 BOOK VII.—WANDERINGS IN CORSICA.

CHAPTER I.

TO CORTE THROUGH BALAGNA.

I gave up the thought of a journey which I had at one time
intended to make along the coast from Calvi to Sagone, where the
large gulfs of Porto and Sagone, and those of Galeria and Girolata
run into the country. The region is for the most part uncultivated,
and the roads are frightful.

I travelled through the glorious valley of Balagna by the

Diligenza which runs between Calvi and Corte. As I have already
mentioned, this large, beautiful, and well-cultivated district receives
the name of the Garden of Corsica. Lofty mountains enclose it,
snow-capped summits like Mount Tolo, and the mighty Grosso—
heights of the finest forms, and that would enchant the landscape
painter. Great numbers of villages are seen upon the slopes, San
Reparato, Muro, Belgodere, Costa, Speloncata, Feliceto, Nessa,
Occhiatana—all formerly seats of noble families and Caporali, and
full of memories of old times. The Malaspinas once ruled here, the
Tuscan margraves of Massa and the Lunigian marches, a race of
powerful seigniors, whom Dante celebrates in the Divine Comedy.
When he finds Currado Malaspina in purgatory, we have the
following verses:—

"Oh, never have I seen thy land, I said;

But where throughout all Europe may be found
The spot to which thy glory hath not spread?
The fame that o'er this house such lustre throws
Makes both its nobles and the land renowned:
E'en he who ne'er was there, their greatness knows."

The Malaspinas built the village of Speloncato. Subsequently to

the year 1019, five counts of this house had come to Corsica—
Guglielmo, Ugo, Rinaldo, Isuardo, and Alberto Rufo. The family is
spread in numerous branches over the Italian countries.

In later times the democratic constitution of the Terra del

Commune deprived the barons of their power in Balagna. The
Corsican popular assemblies (veduta) were frequently held here, in
the Field of Campiolo. At one of these vedutas, the brave Renuccio
della Rocca displayed a degree of heroic fortitude which deserves
our admiration. Filippini narrates the incident. Renuccio was in the
act of addressing the assembly, when his son, a youth of fourteen,
who chanced to be riding over the field, was hurled by his startled
horse upon the point of the lance carried by a squire who rode
behind him. The dying youth was brought to his father. But
Renuccio, with unaltered mien, continued in his speech to rouse his
countrymen to insurrection against Genoa. This Spartan self-
command, the heroism of Gaffori, the heroism of Leoni of Balagna
before the tower of Nonza, always remind me of the manly firmness
of Xenophon. The news that his son Gryllus had fallen in battle,
came to Xenophon when he was engaged in offering sacrifice. The
father, overcome at first by the sudden intelligence, took the
sacrificial wreath from his head; but when he was told that his son
had fallen bravely fighting, he immediately replaced it, and calmly
continued his act of worship. Indeed, these stout-hearted Corsicans
seem more Spartan than the Spartans themselves.

I found in Balagna a great many fields of grain already cut—a

beautiful sight in Corsican regions. Everywhere, especially in the
vicinity of the villages, are the most luxuriant and magnificent groves
of chestnut, walnut, and almond trees, gardens of oranges and
citrons, and wood on wood of olives. The excellent road keeps close
by the foot of the mountains, and from all points the traveller enjoys
the finest views towards the sea or into the hills. The largest villages
of Balagna are Muro and Belgodere; the latter of which owes its
name to its beautiful situation. Belgodere might be a sanctuary of
Pallas, it lies embosomed in such luxuriant groves of her favourite
tree.

It is said that there is no district throughout the whole of Italy

where the olive attains such a size as it does in the Balagna. The
thickness of its stem, its abundance of branches, and the quantity of
fruit it produces, are equally astonishing. It is mighty as a beech,
and in the heat of noon you rest cool under its shelter. The olive is a
tree that one cannot but love. It has not the imposing magnificence
of the oak or the plane; its bole, its grayish green, long, narrow
leaves, remind us of our own homely willow; but it is laden with
riches—with the very fat of the earth, and it is associated with all the
poetry of human culture. Sitting under a gray olive by the sea-
strand, we are transported to the sacred, sunny East, where our
fancy has been at home ever since we turned over the leaves of the
picture-Bible, and heard a mother's stories of the Mount of Olives at
Jerusalem. How often have we imagined to ourselves those olive-
groves! Then, again, in the whispering of its branches, we hear the
wisdom of Minerva, and the poetry of the Hellenes, and are borne
away to the land of Homer, of Pindar, of Æschylus, to the Muses and
gods of Olympus. The olive is thus doubly dear to us as at once a
Christian and a Hellenic tree; its branch is more precious than that of
the laurel, it is the beautiful symbol of prosperity and peace, and a
man's first prayer to the immortal gods should be: Send into my life
the green olive-branch. They send us all kinds of them, the laurel-
branch, the myrtle-branch; and they send also the cypress-bough;
with humility be the award received.

There are various species of olives in the Balagna—the Sabine

(Sabinacci), the Saracen (Saraceni), and the Genoese (Genovesi);—
named according to their descent, like noble families of Signori. The
third family is the most common. It is ascribed to the Genoese, who,
during the government of Agostino Doria, compelled the Corsicans
to plant olives in great numbers. This is therefore at least one
beautiful and peaceful memorial of Genoese rule in Corsica. When
the olive was first introduced into Corsica, I am unable to say. One
of the complaints in the epigram of Seneca is, that the gift of Pallas
does not exist on the island. Yet it appears to me hardly credible that
the olive was not cultivated on the island before Seneca's time. The
Corsican olives have at present the reputation of resisting better
than all others the changes of the weather; the great Humboldt
awards them this praise. They require little attention. The oldest
branches are cut off to strengthen the tree, the soil about its roots is
loosened, and manure is laid round the trunk. The olives are
collected when they fall off. Twenty pounds of olives produce five
pounds of clear oil. This is put into large jars, in which it stands till
the month of May. The olive-tree yields abundantly every three
years.

The birds come and carry away the olive kernels to the four
winds of heaven, scattering them over the face of the country. The
island thus becomes covered with wild olive-bushes, which flourish
lustily on mountain and in valley, waiting to be improved. In the year
1820, an attempt was made to count them, and their number was
said to be twelve millions. The richest olive-districts at the present
time in Corsica are Balagna, Nebbio, and the country round
Bonifazio.

We left the province of Balagna at the village of Novella. At this

point the road bends into the mountainous interior, and for hours the
Diligenza rolls on through narrow valleys, and between barren rocky
hills, not a hamlet in sight, till we reach Ponte alla Leccia in the
valley of the Golo, where the principal highways of Corsica, from
Calvi, from Ajaccio, and from Bastia, meet. You now drive along the
Golo, through a pleasant valley. To the right lies the pastoral district
of Niolo, the present canton of Calacuccia—a remarkable region,
encircled by lofty mountains, in which lie the two lakes of Neno and
Ereno. The district forms a natural stronghold, for it opens only at
four points, towards Vico, Venaco, Calvi, and Corte. A steep road,
called the Scala di Santa Regina, leads to Corte. In Niolo live the
strongest men in Corsica, patriarchal shepherds, who have faithfully
preserved the customs of their forefathers.

There are many remarkable places on the road to Corte, as for

example, Soveria, the home of the brave family of the Cervoni. It
was Thomas Cervoni who rescued Pasquale Paoli at the cloister of
Alando, when he was besieged there by the furious Matra. The
reader will remember that Cervoni, who was at feud with Paoli, had
his weapons put into his hands by his own mother, who, threatening
to curse him if he refused to obey her, drove him from the house to
rescue his foe. Cervoni hastened to the besieged convent, and Matra
was slain. It is no ordinary pleasure to wander through a country like
this island of Corsica, where there is not a city or village, a mountain
or valley, which is not associated with some deed of heroism.

Cervoni's son was the talented general, who, as officer at

Toulon, won his first laurels along with Napoleon. He distinguished
himself at Lodi; in the year 1799, he was commandant of Rome. It
was he who announced to Pope Pius VI. that his power was at an
end, and that he must leave Rome. Cervoni made his name terrible
in that city, as is evinced by an incident related by Valery. He once in
the Tuileries stepped up to Pope Pius VII. at the head of the
Generals, and complimented him. His fine voice and beautiful Italian
pronunciation astonished the Pope, and he said a great many
flattering things to Cervoni. The latter hereupon remarked: "Santo
padre, sono quasi Italiano." "Oh!" "Sono Corso." "Oh! oh!" "Sono
Cervoni!" "Oh! oh! oh!" and at the mention of the dreadful name the
Pope receded horror-stricken to the fireplace. In the year 1809, a
cannon-ball carried away the head of Marshal Cervoni at
Regensburg.

Near Soveria stands Alando, famous as connected with the name

of Sambucuccio, the ancient legislator and Lycurgus of the
Corsicans, and founder of their democratic constitution. The scarcely
distinguishable ruins of his castle are shown upon a rock. In 1466,
four hundred years later than Sambucuccio, one of his descendants
was vicegerent of the Corsican nation. Some of the Caporali resided
in this quarter, in the neighbouring Omessa. Originating as tribunes
of the people, and intended in the democratic system of
Sambucuccio to defend the rights of the communes, they
succumbed in the course of time to a malady that never fails to
undermine and destroy the wisest human arrangements—ambition
and the love of self-aggrandizement, and became like the seigniors,
the most oppressive petty tyrants. In Filippini's time, we find that
historian still complaining that the Caporali were the most dreadful
scourges of Corsica.

Chestnuts thrive around Alando, but the region is poor. Black

sheep and goats find their nourishment on the mountain heaths.
Their wool is here made into the Corsican pelone.

After crossing the Alluraja, a lofty range of hills between the

rivers Golo and Tavignano, we descend, on an admirable road,
towards Corte.
 CHAPTER II.

THE CITY OF CORTE.

The arrondissement of Corte, the central district of the island,
embraces fifteen cantons and 113 communes, and contains a
population of 55,000. The town itself has about 5000 inhabitants.

Corte is an inland city with a situation not less imposing than

those of the Corsican seaports. The panorama of brown hills in the
midst of which it lies, the citadel on an inaccessible and rugged crag,
give the town an air of iron defiance. Mountains rise on every side in
the most varied forms. To the north the heights are low, and mostly
dome-shaped, covered with copsewood, or fields of grain. The
summer has clad these hills in a dark brown, and the region thus
wears an aspect of the utmost sternness. They are the last spurs of
the ranges that form the watershed between the Golo and
Tavignano, and separate two valleys, the pastoral dale of Niolo, and
the valley of the Tavignano. At the opening of the latter, where the
Tavignano is joined by the Restonica, lies Corte. Three high and
craggy hills command the entrance to this valley. Both rivers have
forced a channel for themselves through deep ravines, and rush into
one another over fragments of shattered cliffs. There is a stone
bridge over each.

The little city has only one main street, which is newly built, and
is called the Corso; an alley of elms gives it a singularly rural
appearance. And here too I was astonished at the lonely seclusion,
the idyllic stillness, that so peculiarly characterize the Corsican
towns. You really believe yourself in the farthest nook of the world,
and cut off from all connection with its ongoings.

The city is venerable from its associations with events in

Corsican history. In the time of Paoli it was the centre of his
democratic government, and in ancient times the residence of
Moorish kings; it was important in every period as the central point
of the island, and as possessing a fortress which frequently decided
the course and issue of a campaign.

The citadel has a singular appearance. It is the Acropolis of

Corsica. It stands on a black, steep, and rugged crag, which rises
over the river Tavignano. Walls, towers, the old town—which the
citadel encloses—all look black, ruinous, and desolate. They have
been battered in a thousand sieges. This castle of Corte has been
assaulted and defended oftener than Belgrade. The brave
Vincentello d'Istria laid the foundations of the present structure, in
the beginning of the fifteenth century. The loop-hole is still shown
from which the Genoese suspended Gaffori's son, to deter his father
from continuing his cannonade of the fortress. Enacting itself on and
around this grim, giddy height, how wild must have been that heroic
scene! The action of Gaffori is one of the noblest traits to be found
in the range of Corsican history, which, as I have already said, for
every instance of magnanimity in Greeks and Romans, can produce
another no way inferior. The spirit that has animated this Corsican
people, has proved itself no less heroic than that which we admire in
Brutus and Timoleon; but the acts of national and individual heroism
which this spirit produced, have lain buried in the obscurity of the
period and the locality.

The name of Gaffori is Corte's fairest ornament, and his little

house, still standing pierced with balls, the most splendid monument
the city can show. This house preserves another heroic association,
connected with Gaffori's brave and high-souled wife. The Genoese,
whose constant policy it was to use the families of dreaded
Corsicans as hostages, and to oppose natural affection to love of
country, on one occasion took advantage of Gaffori's absence from
home to attack his house, in order to secure the person of his wife.
But she instantly barricaded the door and window, and, with a few
friends who had hurried to her assistance, defended herself, musket
in hand, for days against the Genoese, who showered a storm of
bullets upon the house. The little garrison was reduced to the
utmost extremity, and her friends counselled her to capitulate;
Gaffori's wife, however, conveyed a cask of powder into a cellar, and
seizing a match, swore that she would blow up the house the
moment they ceased to fire upon the besiegers. Her friends, who
knew her desperate courage, continued their resistance, and at
length Gaffori himself appeared with a band of Corsicans, and
rescued his wife. After the murder of Gaffori, this woman took his
son, the boy who had once been bound to the walls of the castle,
and made him swear to hate the Genoese and avenge his father.
Hamilcar did the same with his son Hannibal in ancient times.

In this house of Gaffori's, Carlo Bonaparte lived with his wife

Letitia in 1778; it was a house worthy to give origin to a Napoleon.

Many memories of Paoli are connected with a house which bears

the name of the Palazzo de Corte, and was the seat of Paoli's
government, and his residence. Here is the room in which he
worked, a mean-looking little place enough, as beseemed the
legislator of the Corsicans. They tell that the great man, who was
not safe from the balls of the assassin, kept the windows of this
room always barricaded; and in fact, the window-shutters are still to
be seen lined with cork, as they were in his time. The National
Assembly had decreed him a guard of twenty-four men, acting in
this like the ancient democracies of Greece; he had another body-
guard always in the room beside him, consisting of six Corsican
dogs. I cannot help being reminded here of his contemporary and
admirer Frederick the Great, and how he too, in his cabinet, was
always surrounded by dogs; but these were kept for amusement or
ornament merely—the pretty Biche, and the graceful Alcmene, and
other greyhounds. The scene is characteristically different. If Paoli
were painted in the company of his dogs, as Frederick the Great has
so often been represented surrounded by his, it would make rather a
wild picture: the Corsican hero in his mean-looking cabinet, writing
by the fireplace, wrapped in a coarse woollen gown, behind a
barricaded window, grim, shaggy wolf-hounds crouched upon the
floor—there we have a Corsican historical genre painting.

In another room, formerly the hall where the Council of Nine sat,
are preserved some very interesting relics; the rods, to wit, which
were to have supported the canopy of Paoli's throne. Paoli and a
throne? Impossible! Had the great democrat a hankering after kingly
emblems? So it is affirmed; the story is as follows:—One day
workmen were seen erecting a throne in the National Palace. It was
of crimson damask, hung with gold fringes, and supported, above
the Corsican arms, a golden crown, so placed that when Paoli seated
himself, it stood over his head. To suit the throne, there were nine
smaller crimson chairs, for the members of the Council of Nine.
When the councillors had assembled in the hall, the door of Paoli's
room opened, and Paoli, as it is said, in a magnificent robe of state,
his head covered, and his sword by his side, entered, and moved
towards the throne. A murmur of astonishment and displeasure
instantly arose among the councillors, followed by a deep silence.
Paoli stopped, was disconcerted, and he never took his seat upon
the throne.

I have found so many confirmations of this story, that it seems

to me almost presumption to doubt it. If it is true, it is a remarkable
trait in the character of the great man, and at least a proof that
human weakness everywhere asserts its sway, and that no mortal is
safe from the moment when he may be overcome by vanity and
outside show. Paoli and a throne—there can hardly be a greater
contradiction. Liberty and the Corsican people were the noble man's
loftiest throne, and no potentate ever occupied one more glorious
than that plain arm-chair on which Paoli sat, the legislator and
deliverer of a people.

His enemies have accused him of aiming at regal authority, but

they wrong him in this, and Paoli's history gives the lie to the
charge. Did he wish, perhaps, by means of regal emblems, to secure
from foreign countries and from his own people a greater degree of
respect for the state over which he presided, and which still bore the
time-honoured appellation of the Kingdom of Corsica? We have no
other instances of his indulging in kingly pomp. He, and all the other
members of the government, went about in the common dress of
the country; their clothes were of the Corsican wool, they lived like
the simplest commoners. The heads of the state were
distinguishable from the people only by their superior intelligence,
and it was merely to give the French, in matters of exterior as well
as in those of more importance, the impression of a regular and
formal government, that he ordered the members of the Supreme
Council to wear a distinct dress, a green coat, gold-laced—green and
gold being the Corsican colours. He and they put on this official
dress for the first time, when French officers came first to Corte. The
country's rulers were to appear in a manner becoming their dignity.
This was, however, a concession to French etiquette which we
cannot but lament, because in making it Paoli ceased to maintain
himself superior to appearances, and abolished the beautiful
democratic equality which had previously expressed itself even in
dress, by some pieces of gold lace. The Corsicans were entitled to
wear their woollen blouse with greater pride than the French their
glittering uniforms. Trifling and subordinate as these matters may in
themselves appear, they nevertheless furnish material for thought.
For time makes unessential differences essential, and of extrinsic
makes intrinsic. There is in time an invisible influence for evil, which
gradually stains all that is pure, dwarfs all that is great, debases all
that is noble. In this world of ours, it is so and not otherwise;
exalted virtue is a phenomenon confined to the period of struggle
towards a great aim. In Corsica it has often made me sad to think,
that all those heroic exertions of its people, all those battles for
freedom, have proved fruitless; and that now, in the land of
Sampiero, of Gaffori, and of Paoli, "the vain nation" bears rule. Yet it
would have been an experience still more sad, had the state of Paoli
sickened of itself, and yielded to human selfishness. For my part, I
do not believe that it would have escaped this universal fate. For
true freedom exists only in Utopia. Mankind appears to be capable of
it only in the highest, most sacred moments.

On one occasion Paoli received in this Palazzo Nazionale a very

splendid embassy. A ship of Tunis had stranded on the coast of
Balagna, and Paoli had not only restored to the shipwrecked
strangers all the property of which the peasantry of the region had
deprived them, but hospitably entertained them, and sent them
home to the Bey of Tunis under the conduct of two officers, and well
supplied with every necessary for their journey. The Bey thereupon
sent an embassy to Paoli to thank him, and convey to him the
assurance that he would remain eternally his and his country's
friend, and that no Corsican would ever sustain injury within the
bounds of his territories. The ambassador from Tunis kneeled down
before Paoli, and, putting his hand to his forehead, said in Italian, Il
Bey ti saluta, e ti vuol bene—the Bey greets thee, and wishes thee
well. He brought him as presents, a beautiful, splendidly caparisoned
horse, two ostriches, a tiger, a sabre set with diamonds; and after
residing some days in Corte, returned again to Africa.

Close to Corte lies the old convent of the Franciscans—a ruin of

considerable size. In Paoli's time, the Corsican parliament assembled
in the church of this convent; and from its pulpit not a few noble
patriots have lifted their earnest voices. Many and not vain sacrifices
were made to liberty in this church, and her name was not heard as
an empty phrase. Those who called upon it, also died for it. In the
year 1793, a general assembly of the Corsicans had met on the open
ground before the convent; the time was stormy, for the grayhaired
Paoli stood impeached of high treason by the National Convention of
France. Pozzo di Borgo, that unrelenting enemy of Napoleon—like
him, a citizen of Ajaccio—climbed upon a tree, and delivered a
powerful and fiery speech in defence of Paoli, whose accusers, the
furious clubbists, Arena and the Bonapartes, were here declared
infamous.

At the present day, wandering about in the streets of the little

city, which are silent as the grave, and beneath whose shady elms
here and there, poor-looking Corsicans idle in dreamy listlessness,
one can hardly believe that scarcely a hundred years ago such an
obscure, secluded nook was the seat of the most enlightened
political wisdom of the age.

Paoli founded a university in Corte; and he here called the first

Corsican printing-press and the first Corsican newspaper into
existence. From this university knowledge and enlightenment were
to spread like a flood of light over the mountains, and into all the
valleys of Corsica, dispelling the mediæval barbarism of her
inhabitants. I have already, in the History of the Corsicans,
mentioned this university, and spoken of its high merits as a patriotic
institution. Many of Corsica's ablest men have been its pupils—
talented advocates, who form in this island the majority of the
literary class. Carlo Bonaparte, Napoleon's father, studied at this
university. The young institution fell, however, when the country lost
its freedom. Paoli on his deathbed set apart a legacy for its
restoration, and with the help of this capital a sort of college was re-
established in the year 1836. There are at present a director and
seven professors for the sciences connected with it, but its condition
is not very flourishing. An institution of this academic kind is also
perhaps less suited to the wants of Corsica than good commercial
schools.

I found among the Corsicans many learned and highly cultivated

men, and here in Corte I became acquainted with a gentleman, the
extent of whose reading in the literature of the Romanic languages
astounded me. He is the son of one of the brave captains who, after
the battle of Ponte Nuovo, remained in arms till the last moment,
and whom I have mentioned by name. His memory is so retentive,
that he knows by heart the best passages of all the great Italian,
French, and Latin authors, and that it is a slight matter for him to
repeat whole pages of Tasso or Ariosto, and long extracts from
Voltaire or Macchiavelli, or from Livy, Horace, Boileau, or Rousseau.
Talking with him of literature on one occasion, I asked him if he had
ever read any works of Goethe. "No," said our well-read friend,
"Pope is the only English author with whom I am acquainted."

Some gentlemen, whose agreeable acquaintance I made at the

table d'hôte of my inn, among them an artist, the only Corsican
painter with whom I became acquainted on the island, took me to
the marble quarries in the vicinity of Corte. A quarry of this kind was
discovered not long ago in the rocks above the Restonica. The stone
is of a bluish colour, with reddish-white veins, and is available for
architecture and ornaments. We found the workmen occupied in
getting a large block, of which a pillar was to be made, down the
hill. It was laid on rollers, and shoved by means of the Archimedean
screw to the edge of the incline, at the foot of which the blocks are
dressed. The large and beautiful stone slid rapidly down, enveloping
itself in a cloud of dust, and as it forced its way onwards, rung clear
as a bell. At the foot of the hill on which this rich quarry lies, the
Restonica turns a mill that cuts the marble into plates. Seven days
are required to cut a block into thirty of these. In Corte, therefore,
Seneca's assertion is now disproved—non pretiosus lapis hic cæditur
—here no costly stone is hewn. Speaking generally, however, the
philosopher's words are still applicable, for Corsica's treasures of
beautiful stone have remained dead capital.
 CHAPTER III.

AMONG THE GOAT-HERDS OF MONTE

ROTONDO.
————"tomo un puño de bellotas en la mano, y mirandolas atentamente
sotto la voz a semejantes razones: Dichosa edad y siglos dichosos aquellos a quien
los antiguos pusieron nombre de dorados."—Don Quixote.

I had formed the resolution of ascending the highest mountain

in Corsica, Monte Rotondo, which lies about half a day's journey to
the south-west of Corte, and may almost be considered as the
middle point of the island. Although the excursion was described to
me as most fatiguing, still I hoped to find a clear day and sufficient
remuneration for my trouble. But what I most of all wished was,
some insight into the still entirely primitive life of the herdsmen.

I hired a guide and a mule, and, provided with a little bread and
some calabashes of wine, early on the morning of the 28th of July I
rode into the hills. The road, a shepherd's track, never leaves the
valley of the wild Restonica, from its confluence with the Tavignano,
close by the town, up to the very summit of Monte Rotondo, where
it has its source. The bed of this beautiful mountain-stream, is,
during most of its course, a ravine of gloomy and impressive
character. In the vicinity of Corte, it expands into a valley of
considerable breadth, in which chestnut and walnut trees thrive. As
you ascend, it grows narrower and narrower; the walls of rock on
each side rise in black, gigantic masses, shadowed with dark-green,
natural wood, of old pines and larches.
 My sure-footed mule clambered safely up the narrowest paths
along the very edge of abysses; and a glance downwards into these,
where the Restonica foamed milk-white far below, had something in
it both of terror and of beauty. A magnificent forest of pines and
larches received me as the sun got higher. Very picturesque are
these giant trees—the pine with its broad, green roof, and the larch,
like the cedar of Lebanon, gnarled, soaring, and rich in branches.
Tall erica, box, and wild myrtles, covered with a snow of blossoms,
clustered in profusion round their mighty stems. And the fragrance
of all those medicinal herbs, in which the mountains of Corsica are
so rich, made the air of the woods balsamic and refreshing.

My guide kept on before me at a rapid pace. I sometimes almost

shuddered, when I saw myself alone with him in this wilderness of
woods and rocks, and he threw a backward glance on me. He was
an ill-favoured fellow, and had a villanous eye. I learned afterwards
that there was blood on his hands—that he was a murderer. A year
previously he had stabbed a Lucchese dead, with a single thrust, on
the market-place of Corte.

Riding for hours through these romantic mountain-solitudes you

hear nothing but the rushing of the streams, the screaming of
falcons, and now and then the clear whistle of a goat-herd calling to
his goats.

The herdsmen live in caverns or in huts, on the declivities of

Monte Rotondo, to the topmost ridge of which their flocks clamber.
The highest community of shepherds is to be found at an altitude of
5000 feet above the level of the sea.

After three hours' ride I reached the first of these singular

stations—the Rota del Dragone. Descending from the edge of the
ravine towards the water, I saw a black, sooty cave before me,
running, like a vault, into the cliff, below enormous blocks of granite
—a few paces from its entrance the furious Restonica, chafing itself
to madness among huge fragments of rock; all around, crag above
crag, and dense forest. A wall of uncemented stones formed an
enclosure round the entrance of the grotto. A fire was burning in the
cave, round which cowered the shepherd family. A miserable-looking
woman seemed to be engaged in mending some article of dress;
beside her a fever-sick boy lay wrapped in a brown blanket of goat's
wool, from which his pale face and glittering eyes looked out
inquiringly.

The herdsman had come out of his cave, and hospitably invited
me to alight, and refresh myself with new milk and cheese. I
willingly accepted his invitation, and proceeded to inspect the
interior of this singular cavernous abode. The grotto, I found, ran a
considerable way into the mountain, affording room for a flock of
two hundred goats and sheep, which the herdsman every evening
brings in to milk. It was so exactly the cave of Polyphemus, that it
almost seemed Homer must have taken his description from it. Every
item of the description was here, even the rows of dishes full of
milk, and more than a hundred flat round cheeses arranged on fresh
leaves. Only Polyphemus himself was wanting; for mine host,
however robber-like and wild he might look in his shaggy
habiliments, was hospitality itself.

"Do the bandits ever pay you a visit?" I asked the Troglodyte.
"Sometimes they do," said the man; "when they're hungry. You see
the stone here on which I sit?—two years ago a couple of bandit-
hunters concealed themselves in my cave; they were after Serafin.
But Serafin stole in upon them through the night, and with two stabs
he made them both cold upon this stone; then he went his way
again into the hills."

My guide hinted that it was time to go. I thanked the herdsman

for his refreshment, and rode off, not without a shudder.
 The path, which now took us through the Restonica to the other
bank, became constantly steeper and more difficult. At last, after a
ride of two hours, I reached, thoroughly damp with mist, and during
a magnificent thunderstorm, the last of the pasturing-stations on the
lower heights of Rotondo. Its name is Co di Mozzo.

I had heard a great deal about the shielings of Monte Rotondo;

and the pictures of them my imagination drew were original enough,
slightly idyllic perhaps—little huts in the green pine-forest, or on
flowery Alpine slopes, with all proper pastoral adjuncts. But now, as
I rode up in the midst of thunder and lightning, and through a
drizzling rain, I saw nothing but a wild waste of titanic fragments of
stone—a confusion of vast granite blocks clothing the sides of a
huge, gray, desolate cone. A light smoke was rising from among the
stones. The gray of the watery clouds, the pale lightnings, the roll of
the thunder, the rushing of the Restonica, and the deep melancholy
of the gray hills, were irresistibly saddening.

Some storm-battered larches stood on the steepest edge of a

naked ravine, through which the Restonica foamed and tumbled
from block to block. All around, nothing but the dreariest cliffs; and
one grand glimpse into the mist-filled valley out of which I had
ascended. My eye sought long for the huts towards which the guide
was pointing. At length I detected them among the rocks, and
advancing, I soon had before me this most singular of pastoral
communities. It consisted of four dwellings, erected in the most
primitive manner conceivable, probably with less architectural skill
than the termites or the beavers expend on their houses.

Each of these huts consists of four stone walls, built without

mortar. They are about three feet in height, and support a sloping
roof of sooty stems of trees and boards, on which heavy stones are
laid to keep them in their places. An aperture in the front wall serves
as door and principal chimney; but the smoke issues through the
roof and the walls wherever it finds a chink. An enclosure of stones
surrounds a narrow space before the hut, and within this space,
dishes of various kinds stand; also, in one corner of it rises the palo
—a rude stake with projecting pegs, on which hang pots and kettles,
clothes, and strips of goat's flesh.

Some shaggy dogs sprang out as I rode up, and forthwith the
men, women, and children crept from their huts, and curiously eyed
the stranger. They looked picturesque enough in the midst of the
stony waste; the pelone, their shaggy, brown mantle flung about
them, the red baretto on their heads, and their bronzed features
looking out from their dark bushy beards.

I called to them: "Friends, bestow your hospitality on a stranger

who has come over the sea to visit the herdsmen of Co di Mozzo!"

In friendly tones they returned: "Evviva!" and "Benvenuto!"

"Come into my hut," said one, "and dry yourself at the fire; it is
warm in there." I immediately twisted myself through the door,
curious to see the interior of such a habitation. I found myself in a
dark chamber, about fourteen feet in length and ten in breadth—
wholly without furniture, not a stool, not a table, nothing but the
black naked ground, the black, naked stone walls, and such a smoke
of pine-wood as, I thought, it must be impossible to live in. Close by
the wall a huge log was burning, and a kettle hung above it.

Angelo, my host, spread a blanket which I had brought with me

on the floor, and gave me the place of honour, as near the fire as
possible. Soon the whole family had cowered about it—Angelo's
wife, three little girls, my host, myself, and my guide. The hut was
full. Meanwhile, Angelo threw some pieces of goat's flesh into the
kettle, and Santa his wife brought cheese and milk. Our table
equipage was as original and pastoral as you choose; it consisted
simply of a board laid upon the ground, on which Santa placed a
wooden bowl of milk, a cheese, and some bread. "Eat," said she,
"and think that you are with poor herd-people; you shall have trouts
for supper, for my son has gone a-fishing."

"Fetch the broccio," said the shepherd; "it is the best we have,
and you will like it." I was curious to see what the broccio was; I had
heard it praised in Corte as the greatest dainty of the island, and the
flower of all the hill-products. Santa brought a sort of round covered
basket, set it before me, and opened it. Within lay the broccio, white
as snow. It is a kind of sweet, curdled, goats' milk; and eaten with
rum and sugar, it certainly is a dainty. The poor herdsmen sell a
broccio-cake in the city for one or two francs.

With our wooden spoons we wrought away valiantly at the

broccio—only the wife and children did not share. Crouching thus on
the ground at the fire, in the narrow, smoke-filled hut, wild and
curious faces all about me, the wooden spoon in my hand, I began
humorously to celebrate the life of the shepherds among the hills,
who are contented with what their flocks yield them, and know not
the wretchedness of mine and thine, nor the golden cares of
palaces.

But the honest pastore shook his head, and said: "Vita povera,
vita miserabile!"—a poor life, a miserable life!
And so it really is: these men lead a wretched life. For four
months of the year—May, June, July, and August—they burrow in
these cabins, destitute of everything that makes life human. In their
world occur no changes but those of the elements—the storm, the
clouds, the thunder-shower, the hail, the heat; in the evening, a
robber-story by the fire, a melancholy song, a lamento to the pipe, a
hunting-adventure with the muffro or the fox; high above them and
around them the giant pyramids of the hoary Rotondo, and the