LETTER XVIII.
The Ionian Isles—Lord and Lady Nugent—Corfu—Greek and English Soldiers—Cockneyism—The Gardens of Alcinous—English Officers—Albanians—Dionisio Salomos, the Greek Poet—Greek Ladies—Dinner with the Artillery Mess.
This is proper dream-land. The “Isle of Calypso,”[[7]] folded in a drapery of blue air, lies behind, fading in the distance, “the Acroceraunian mountains of old name,” which caught Byron’s eye as he entered Greece, are piled up before us on the Albanian shore, and the Ionian sea is rippling under our bow, breathing, from every wave, of Homer, and Sappho, and “sad Penelope.” Once more upon Childe Harold’s footsteps. I closed the book at Rome, after following him for a summer through Italy, confessing, by many pleasant recollections, that
“Not in vain
He wore his sandal shoon, and scallop shell.”
I resume it here with the feeling of Thalaba when he caught sight of the green bird that led him through the desert. It lies open on my knee at the second canto, describing our position even to the hour:
“‘Twas on a Grecian autumn’s gentle eve
Childe Harold hailed Leucadia’s cape afar;
A spot he longed to see, nor cared to leave.”
We shall lie off-and-on to-night, and go in to Corfu in the morning. Two Turkish vessels-of-war, with the crescent flag flying, lie in a small cove a mile off, on the Albanian shore, and by the discharge of musketry, our pilot presumes that they have accompanied the Sultan’s tax-gatherer, who gets nothing from these wild people without fighting for it.