“In the high chamber of his highest tower,
Sate Conrad fettered in the Pacha’s power,” &c.
The Pirate’s Isle is said to have been Poros, and the original of the Corsair himself, a certain Hugh Crevelier, who filled the Ægæan with terror, not many years ago.
Made the Cape St. Angelo, the southern point of the Peloponnesus, and soon after the island of Cythera, near which Venus rose from the foam of the sea. We are now running northerly, along the coast of ancient Sparta. It is a mountainous country, bare and rocky, and looks as rude and hardy as the character of its ancient sons. I have been passing the glass in vain along the coast to find a tree. A small hermitage stands on the desolate extremity of the Cape, and a Greek monk, the pilot tells me, has lived there many years, who comes from his cell, and stands on the rock with his arms outspread to bless the passing ship. I looked for him in vain.
A French man-of-war bore down upon us a few minutes ago, and saluted the commodore. He ran so close, that we could see the features of his officers on the poop. It is a noble sight at sea, a fine ship passing, with all her canvass spread, with the added rapidity of your own course and hers. The peal of the guns in the midst of the solitary ocean, had a singular effect. The echo came back from the naked shores of Sparta, with a warlike sound, that might have stirred old Leonidas in his grave. The smoke rolled away on the wind, and the noble ship hoisted her royals once more, and went on her way. We are making for Napoli di Romania, with a summer breeze, and hope to drop anchor beneath its fortress, at sunset.
LETTER XX.
The Harbour of Napoli—Tricoupi and Mavrocordato, Otho’s Cabinet Councillors—Colonel Gordon—King Otho—The Misses Armanspergs—Prince of Saxe—Miaulis, the Greek Admiral—Excursion to Argos, the Ancient Terynthus.