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For the Southern Literary Gazette.
MEMORIES By THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.
BY CI.ARA MORETON.
” She was loved
Only as idols are—she was the pride
Os her familiar sphere.”
\oaix I stand beside thy grave, my friend,
Striving in vain to check the?e burning tears:
V(rain above this emerald mound I bend,
Recalling all the love of childhood’s years.
my eyes are fixed upon thy tomb,
\dotvn the vista of the past, I gaze—
. shrouded there, amidst the deepest gloom,
Are hoarded memories of thy winning w ays.
Tby soft eyes, radiant with the spirit’s light,
Again beam on me, as in days of yore;
fly banded hair—thy brow, so marble white—
The joyous smiles thy red lips ever wore.
A2a in 1 stand thy graceful form beside—
Hand clasped in hand, we rove from glen to
dale,
\uil in the shade, where flows the crystal tide,
We wreathe the ivy, and the lilies pale.
Ti- but a dream! the cypress tree doth wave
Its gloomy branches o’er thy cherished form:
And moaning night winds whisper round thy
grave,
When through these dark pines, sweeps the
weeping storm.
Still grow the lilies in you meadow green—
Still flows the streamlet o’er the silver sand —
There’s naught to miss from this fair woodland
BCBD6}
But the soft pressure of thy clasping hand.
Ami thou, our fairest lily ot the vale,
Ih't wilted—faded—ceased, alas, to bloom!
Summer’s soft breath can never aught avail
To raise our flow’ret from the turf-spanned
tomb.
But oh, my God, I thank thee for the faith
Which to my heart, in mercy hath been given,
For while I mourn, a voice within me saith,
‘Thy lily blooms more beautiful in Heaven.’
Westfield, Mass.
(Original Colts.
For the Southern I.iterary Gazette.
EGBERT AND IDAt
08, THE LOVE TESTS.
BY T. ADDISON KICHAKDS.
• | hud the good fortune to win the
regard of the Earl of Wharton; and
some signal services, which 1 was en
abled to render him, increased his es
veui to love. As my mother hud told
ie in my last sad interview with her,
Imre no slight personal likeness to the
Earl. Indeed, 1 must have been very
ike what he was at my years. Per
haps this circumstance aided in drawing
he heart of the noble soldier towards
his unknown son. Another magnet,
doubtless, was my relationship to the
family of his old and dear friend, the
Earl of Egerton; added to my know
ledge of the neighbourhood, in which
-itch eventful incidents of his own life
had occurred. On one occasion, where
the conversation ran upon my Lord
Evrerton, and kindred themes, he asked
me if 1 had ever heard of a certain
personage, who once resided near the
Earl's estate —alluding to my mother—
his deserted bride! He gazed at me
keenly as he did so: and my pulse
heat rapidly. when, with all the indif
ference which 1 could assume, I an
'Wi ivd that such a person had come
under my notice, but that she was
dead. He then, after a long silence,
during which he seemed oppressed by
dark memories, inquired if she had
left any children. 1 replied that she
had an only son. At this response he
looked again at me eagerly, and de
manded what had become of the youth.
I added that 1 had heard of his having
left hi s country to seek employment in
aims abroad. At the expiration of
another continued and thoughtful si
a tiee, he said in a voice deeply moved,
diat circumstances of the past caused
‘inn to take no little interest in the fate
°f the youth, and that if 1 could aid
hhu in discovering his retreat, 1 should
contcr a signal favour upon him. At
this interesting moment, 1 had great
difficulty to refrain from casting myself
‘ft his feet, and avowing our relation
ship. Hut 1 thought, and, as events
proved, wisely, that a more happy hour
tor my design would arrive. 1 there
fore simply pledged him every assist
ance which it should be in my power
to give.
ibis conversation was but a short
ltn c prior to the dreadful conflict which
has just decisively established the su
premacy of the royal arms, at the ter
r‘Ue expense of the loss of the many
*oble fellows whom we have forever
,ett on the empurpled field; among
them, my father, and the young lord,
,a y rival and brother! But 1 anticipate
’he due current of my tedious tale.
1 hiring the light, the Earl of Wharton,
“ho had but just been reinstated in the
l)st favour of his Sovereign, manifested
Ull| tsual zeal. His banner waved ever
111 the thickest of the carnage. Like
au overwhelming avalanche, he swept
‘"ft whole ranks of the enemy. But,
• hi the midst of this mighty dis
bi:ty of his prowess, his charger fell
l,n 'h‘i‘ him, and he, himself, received a
‘aortal wound. His foes were upon
’ : ’ n > and but for my own fortunate pre
'’ ace, and the good blows which 1 was
gabled to cast about me, he would not
Ve had a moment to live. 1 suc-
& fM&M mm u. mmm m mmmm> w mb mmm t m m an immimmL
ceeded in bearing him safe from further
harm, to my own tent. Scarcely had
we dressed his wounds, and in some
degree relieved his pain, when some of
my men entered bearing the already
lifeless corpse of his son, the young
Lord Wharton! Such an Gleet had
this dreadful ight upon the dying
warrior, that I. for some moments,
feared his immediate death. Hut the
paroxysm of his grief passing away,
the stern veteran of a thousand bloody
fields, wept as he exclaimed, in heart
broken and most piteous accents,‘Child
less ! childless ! and dying! My poor
boy! \\ ith thee dies the last prop of
my house—the last echo of my name!
Oh,God! this heavy retribution, though
most just, is hard to bear! Thou seiz
ing my hand, as his countenance lighted
up with new hope, he exclaimed, Eg
bert! Egbert! that youth, the son of
Marguerite Ethelston, must he found!
He must be found, if the wide earth
be searched! Ileis my son! my eldest
and now my only son! Witness all
here present, that 1 hereby solemnly
declare that—
‘"My heart was too full. 1 cast my
seif b) his dying couch, and throw
ing my arms about his neck, sobbed,
‘Father! dear father! lam here!’ An
eager return of my ardent embrace,
was the voiceless and impressive assur
ance that the mighty tongue of nature
had been heard and comprehended!
Before he opened his lips, 1 took my
mother's dying bequest from my bosom
and placed it in his trembling hands,
saying, ‘from my mother!’ lie raised
it to his lips, and wept anew, at the
perusal ot each of its pages, ever and
anon casting a look of deep love upon
m) face, and again and again drawing
me to his heart. ‘Oh, fool! fool! truly
*<
fool, that I was!’ he cried, ‘to slight
such love—to spurn such tenderness!
Oh, Marguerite! Mat- thy sainted
spirit pardon me ! And thou, my sou!
eanst thou forgive thy faithless, cruel,
sinning father!’
“ ‘Ask it not, my father !’ I replied, ‘1
have nought to forgive. If thou hast
erred towards me, nobly and fully doth
this moment atone tin- all! She would
ask—would have no more !’
“‘Oh, my son!’ he continued, ‘never
did 1 think to shrink from a soldier’s
grave; but would to heaven that my
life might yet be lengthened, that 1
might be a father to my wronged Mar
guerite’s child!’
“ But why should 1 dwell upon this
scene of mingled happiness and woe?
The stern herald of the grave could
not be sent empty away! My poor
father, as thou knowest, after some
days of painful suffering, died, as a
soldier should, upon the field of his
courage arid his triumph. lie did not
depart until, with restless anxiety, he
had assured himself of my future po
sition, and had taken every precaution
to confess my rights, as his son. This
he did, even in the presence of the
King, receiving the royal promise of
protection and favour in my behalf.
These events, as thou art aware, mv
young friend, are so recent, as to have
been, yet, followed only by the break
ing up of our camp, and the progress,
thus far, upon our pilgrimage towards
yonder castle.”
“And what,” inquired the younger
traveller, at this pause in the recital,
“what of the Lady Ida, and thy heavy
sorrows? Thus far, it seemeth that
thou should be joyous rather than sad,
my Lord.”
“Nay, Sir Page! This proud for
tune but deepeneth the shadows of
which thou speakest, as a gilded chain
maketh but more cruel the captivity of
the prisoner. The query bringeth me
to the last and most painful portion of
my story. Indulge me yet a little
while with thy kind hearing, and all
will have been said. This unlocked
for change of fortunes, which would
once have satistied my wildest hopes,
came too late!”
“Too late, my Lord! and why?”
“Because she for whom alone 1 de
sird it—with whom alone 1 could be
happy in sharing it —is lost to me for
ever !”
“The lady Ida dead, my lord?”
“Dead! all! ah! Mo, Sir Page!
Fickle, false! betrothed to another!”
“So, pardon me my Lord, but after
such a parting, and a silence ot so many
months, what couldst thou have ex
pected ?”
“Lung absence, Sir Page? Dost
thou think that 1 have learned the news
to-day ? Why, ’twas but three short
weeks following our last embrace; twas
whilst my parting kiss was yet warm
upon her lips, that the dreams and vows
of years were remembered no more
forever!”
“ And from whom, my Lord, hadst
thou the intelligence of her treachery ?”
“From herself! in her own hand!
She wrote to me an acceptance of her
liberty, and prayed me to remember
her no more, since she could no longer
love me, having freely pledged her
heart and hand to the heir of Wharton.”
“ Ah! now I understand, Sir Knight,
that to a spirit, haughty as thine, her
preferance must have been a sore mor
tification.”
•"Not in the least so, fair Sir; thou
dost not comprehend my meaning.—
1 pon a soul less proud, it might have
produced such chagrin—not on mine.
I sought her love from no motive of
interest. 1 desired not her gold, to fill
my purse; not the influence of her
friends, as a ladder to my ambition;
not the conquest of rival suitors, to
feed my vanity. 1 loved her for her
own sweet self, and for the love she
professed to bear to me. I loved her,
because I believed her to possess a
mind and heart, to whose joy I could
contribute, and thus in giving, receive.
My love was true and pure. The dis
play of such feelings, young Sir—tlie
noblest and holiest of the human
heart—can never be cause for humili
ation, even though they be unrestrained
or undeservedly bestowed. Though it
is a misfortune, it is no fault, Sir, to
love in vain. Had 1 sought her affection
for my own selfish ends—had 1 but
played a deep and wily game—my
pride would then have been humbled
and my defeat fair cause for the unfeel
ing and sarcastic jest.”
“ And doth my noble Knight,” ex
claimed the Page, ‘-still hold kind me
mories of this perfidious maiden? Is
his love deep enough to forgive such
rank disloyalty!”
“True love will forgive and forget
much, Sir Page. Indulgence is its na
ture. ihe quick, harsh sentence of the
head is ever abrogated by the heart. 1
beai the lady no resentment; I remem
ber her in sorrow, not in anger. In
memory of past happiness, 1 must ever
think of her most kindly; and could I,
even now, win back her love—”
“Shou wouldst still take her to thy
bosom ? Now’ by our Lady! my noble
Lord, the girl hath cast away a pearl,
the like of which she will not soon re
find! Could she but hear you now,
enough would be her punishment.”
“ Let us say no more, young Sir.
These are but the idlest of idle dreams.
The stained snow can never be restored
to whiteness.”
“One word, Sir Knight and most
gracious Lord. I his disappointment,
sore though it be, must lose its sharp
ness and yield to happier hours. Such
is the law’ ot Nature, and Time is a
most wonderful physician! Another
love may till the void, if thou didst
not wilfully resist such cure.”
“Not so, my friend. The soul of
man is made for love and sympathy;
but one chilly disenchantment throweth
forever a most formidable barrier across
the path and the heart. A second pas
sion can be no argument against the
truth or depth of the former; but
otherwise, since it proves the uncon
querable impulse to love; but never
can it bo the same pure nature. In its
passage from one object to another, it
must lose freshness and force, as the
clinging vine, which, when wrested from
its support, entwineth itself about
another, is retarded and ever stunted in
its growth. But we have lost already
too much valuable time, Sir Page. The
night advanceth, and me must needs to
horse again.”
DENOIiMENT.
The reader will pardon us for so
long unceremoniously leaving him,
without introduction, to play eaves
dropper in the converse of our eques
trians. But the animated tone of the
colloquv has granted no opportunity
for the ceremony, and we trust that he
has linger’d unperceived. The charac
ter and temper of our hero have by
this time unfolded themselves, without
the aid of our interlocution, and the
person, matters little, to our purpose,
saving, always, that Egbert Wharton
as we may now name him—was, of
course, in form and feature, everything
which a gallant Knight, a proud peer,
and a devoted lover, should be. To
Horse! kind reader and follow with us
in the suite of the noble traveller, to the
haughty castle of the Egertons !
We pass over the joyful reception
of our friends, in their destined halls;
the myriad hearty greetings and wel
comes so profusely shower’d upon them.
We leave Lord Egbert for the night,
to rest as he best can, amidst the
musings and memories, and varied as
sociations, conjur’d up by his presence
aeain, amidst the scenes and friends of
his youth. But, especially, we leave
him to wonder at the absence of Ida
and the general silence regarding her,
during the congratulations, and revels
of the past evening. We leave our
Page to digest, at his leisure, the event
ful story of his friend. We leave the
worthy Ploughton to the care of his gal
lant steeds ; and the others of our he
ro’s suite we will not disturb in their
uprorious wassail in the scrvant’s-hall
their marvellous tales of improbable
valour, and impossible achievements.
Peaceful and happy sleep to one and
all! while we will add example to pre
cept, and dream away the hours until
another dawning.
“ The sun smiles again upon the fair
CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, JUNE 22, 1850.
earth, reader; and yonder at the end
of the venerable old gallery, hung with
the relics and rusts of centuries —comes
our Knight, leaning familiarly upon the
arm of his worthy host, the noble
Earl. Let us give them good-day !”
“ Now by mv sword!” exclaimed
Lord Egerton ! thus approaching with
his guest, “1 should think, Egbert, that
thou hadst returned from Palestine,
rather than from the sober camp of our
gracious King ; thou bearest with thee,
such strange histories! I know thou
art not given to the crackings of idle
jests, or faith! the wag of thy won
drous tongue, would make me wag my
old and prosey read !”
‘•Then would it shake at the unvar
nished truth my lord.”
“I knew it boy! Such is thy only
lip-salve ! But by the Holy Cross, ’tis
odd ! The good and gentle dame Mar
guerite—thy mother—w as the Countess
of \Y barton—the wife of iny old friend!
That noble-hearted but erring compan
ion of my mad days is dead ! his boy
too, sleeps in a soldier’s shroud ! arid
thou, Egbert, my poor Page and pro
tege. art the heir to Wharton—art
Wharton’s self! thou, the eldest, only
son of that great house! By the Holy
Sepulchre ! 1 say, boy, ’tis marvellous!”
“ Hath my Lord seen my page this
morning,'’ returned Egbert, whose
thoughts were less impressed than his
friend’s, with the events of his recent
history. “He hath escaped my eye
from the moment of our arrival yester
even.”
“ What! the whimsical youth of the
visor ?”
“ The same my Lord.”
“ Nay, Egbert! 1 have not encoun
tered the lad.” But, dost thou know,
I wonder no longer at the steady re
fusal, on the part of the Earl of Whar
ton, of all my pressing invitations to
my poor castle ! I see now ! The asso
ciations such a visit would have recall
ed, would have been any thing than
welcome ! I did not take his apparent
coldness altogether in good part, but 1
freely forgive it now. And so Egbert
he charged t hee with messages of love
and old communion to his friend ?
“ It is to bear those messages, and to
fulfil one of his dying behests, my
Lord —his prayer to you for pardon of
his seeming forgetfulness—that 1 am
here to-day.”
“Ah ! that Egbert, is duty sacredly
discharged, but, methinks, that other
duties and loves should have brought
thee back to our arms.”
“Doubt it not, my more than friend,”
returned the Knight in some slight em
barrassment, “I merely said that my
father’s command made me put foot in
stirrup thus hastily. But, with thy
permission, my lord, I will seek my
truant page. Some little mystery hangs
about the youth, which my curiosity
leads me to solve, and the past night,
he promised me, should be the period
of his tenacious incognito.”
“ Gently Egbert! Let the poor fel
low take his time to continue, or end
his idle fancies. I have yet whereof to
speak with thee my boy.”
“Beit as thou wilt my lord. My
curiosity is not imperative.”
“ Thanks Egbert: but pardon me if
1 find in thee, in thy temper—an un
lovely change. Thou art no longer the
frank, generous, ardent boy whom I
sent to fight for me in my country’s bat
tles. It cannot be, that prosperity ma
keth thee proud and, cold towards old
friends and benefactors!”
“Oh ! my dear and gracious lord —
perish the thought!” returned Egbert
Wharton, eagerly, and affectionately
grasping the hand of the Earl. “Dream
not of such base dishonour, and such
foul ingratitude. If there is one mem
ory which can awaken pleasure in my
heart, it is the thought, my Lord, of thy
many great and unmerited kindnesses
to my humble youth !”
“ 1 know it Egbert;” returned the
Earl kindly, “ I spoke not in earnest,
and thou wilt forget my words. But
tell me —why this cold contempt or, at
least, strong indifferance towards life,
and all its concerns ? It paineth me to
see thee thus desponding.”
“ Nay, my Lord! let me beseech
thee, not to probe the wound, thou
canst not cure!”
“Ah ! I see how it is, Egbert! some
shoots yet springing from thine old,
but now up-rooted tree of morbidity.
We must have them up! Where is
Ida! No better gardener of the heart
than she ! What weeds or briers can
escape her happy pruning?
“Sometimes, my Lord, the most
faithful gardener will uproot the fair
est flowers, and leave the most cruel
thorns!”
“ Faithful! the most faithless of
hinds say I! Such an one is not, our
gentle Ida! Methinks, Egbert, thou
growest ungallant. At least thy re
missness, in not having yet asked,
even, after the health of thy old play
mate, and thy last ungracious speech,
would hint a leaning thitherward! This
should not be, for is she not a portion
of the fair inheritance left thee by thy
noble father? And let me tell thee my
dear boy, with a father’s pride—not a
portion to be lightly held, even by my
most haughty Earl of Wharton! Ah!
ah! Egbert! what will she think of
thy blushing honours; thy ancestral
fame, and thy laurels of the field ! Su|>-
pose she should like thee, less in lordly
purple, than in the peasant’s frock ! I
cannot answer for her ! She is a way
ward minx, and little likes to withdraw
her heart from that on which it has
once been set. But here we are, in the
ladies’ room; and there comes our
good Countess to greet thee !”
This interruption was very opportune
for the Knight; as the words which
would, doubtless, have followed the
bitter smile with which lie received his
host’s last speech, might have seemed
discourteous.
“ 1 fear Egbert,” said the hostess ad
vancing withakindly smile, “thatthou j
art inconsiderate, in leaving thy couch
so early, in thy enfeebleed state and at- j
ter such undue fatigues.”
“ Be under no inxiety, dear lady, on ;
my account,’ returned the guest, gal
lantly kissing her proffered hand ; “my
wound was but slight, and my constitu
tion is too strong to bend easily to the
loss of a little blood, and the labor of a
few days travel. Trust me, I shall soon
he well again.”
“ That thou wilt Egbert; especially
when l confide thee, as I must, to the
cares of such a successful physician as
Ida. But, poor girl! lam afraid she is
somewhat wearied, like thyself. She
hath been absent from the castle near
lv the whole period of thy sojourn in
the camp, and as thyself returned but
last evening; and at the self same
hour too.”
“Indeed!” inquired the Knight, cu
riously. “ And may 1 ask my lady,
where her smiles have been cast ?”
“Certainly, sir Knight. No one
could forbid so gallant a question. She
left us to visit some friends residing in
the vicinage of the royal camp ; proba
bly from some interest there, over which
she longed to watch.’
The soldier’s brow darkened as he
thought of Ida's professed love for the
late heir-apparent to his fortunes, but
the entrrnce, at the moment, of a page
leaving a letter, saved him the necessi
ty of a reply.
“ ‘To the Light Hon, Lord Whar
ton,’ ” read ihe Earl of Egerton, as he
took the missive from the salver, and
presented it to the Knight.
The eye of the young Lord sparkled
as it fell upon the hand-writing, but
changed rather, to an expression of cu
riosity when he broke the seal, and ran
hastily through its brief contents.
“ From my eccentric page,” he re
marked. turning towards his friends.”
“He thanks me for my friendship, but
bidding me a final adieu, assures me
that we can never meet again.” This
is very odd truly, “he continued, his
eyes still upon the paper.” I never
could have thought to see characters
so like the writing of the lady Ida !
“ See!” he exclaimed, exhibiting the
manuscript to his hosts. “Where ever
two hands so like ?”
“Singular, really!” responded the old
Earl. “ The varlet, by some magic,
must have induced her to be his aman
uensis. She is kind hearted and perhaps
he could not write !”
“As well as I, dear father!” cried
the sweet voice of a lovely girl, who
now sprung into the apartment. “But
why should not Ida be amanuensis to
the handsome page! rarely, no one
loveth her better than doth he !”
“ Now Heaven be praised !” ejacu
lated the astonished Knight, in a voice
tremulous with surprise and emotion.
“ Heaven be praised ! and my Ida con
victed of untruth ? For egotist as she
may be, the wicked page loveth her not
a thousandth part so much as I!’’
The devoted maiden was clasped in
the arms of the enraptured lover, and
their tears of overflowing joy, long for
bade any other response to the hearty
blessing of the glad old Earl and the
happy countess!
******
“ Then dearest Egbert my mad folly
is forgiven ?”
“ Even before explained my Ida.”
“ Then, for that generosity, thou shalt
have the apology Egbert. Thou hast
not forgotten the insistancc of Plough
ton to follow thee to the camp ? It was
as much in answer to my desire, as his
own devotion. I sent him to watch
over and protect thee, and to give me
news of thy welfare. When thou hadst
departed I felt so bitterly the extent of
my loss, my poor heart was so sad
without thee Egbert, that the day and
night, the sunshine and shade were
all the same in my blinded eyes. —
I had been often pressed to visit my
cousins at the loyal castle of Rothwell,
not far from the scene of thy last con
flicts. The happy idea occurred to my
mind, that by then making that visit,
I could be nearer to thee and sooner
learn the current of thy adventures. —
Yet I did not doubt thy truth dearest!
I learned that sad lore from thy own
cruel lessons. Nay ! do not interrupt
me! I will quickly show thee how. —
Owing to the dangers of the journey at
that time, 1 travelled under a strong
escort, and the safe conduct from the
King, which had been brought to the
castle by an express despatched for the
purpose. I obtained the consent of my
parents to the journey, only by tears
and prayers, and the confession of my
unalterable love for thee. A love, Esr
bert which they had never suspected
before thy departure, and which, as
thou thus seest, thou wert wrong in
fearing they would not permit. The
last night of our travel was passed in
the camp of the King’s forces, owing
to the danger of further advance, in
consequence of a desperate action which
had that day, only, taken place. It
was in that fight, thou rememberest,
that thou received’st thy first wound.
On mv arrival, I heard of thy suffering,
with a bleeding heart, and 1 could not
withstand the overpowering desire to
see thee. No other way presented,
than to visit thy tent in the disguise of
a page. My confidant, the good old
Ploughton, procured me the garb, and
the introduction to thv quarters. I
found thee in a high delirious fever, and
from thy ravings, learned thy purpose
to test my love, and also the secret of
thy birth, and thy proud destiny. My
wild plan of following thee, and in my
turn putting thee also to a fiery trial,
then seized by mad brain. The next
day carrying with me my page’s dress
and instructing Ploughton, to procure
me a light armour, of suitable size. I
arrived at Rothwell. It was from there,
that in pursuance of my plan of trying
thy devotion, I wrote the letter declar
ing my love, and the destination of my
hand to the heir of Wharton ! Dost
thou see, my Egbert, that, knowing as I
did who was the rightful heir, I prac
tised no deception upon thee, but rather
sent thee a kind message of love, wliich
it mistrust had not blinded thine eyes,
thou would st have better read and more
fervently kissed—thou traitor ! The
same arguments, used with my parents,
aided by more sympathy in my pas
sion. and romance, secured the consent;
and effectual aid of my friends at Roth
well in my scheme. Such then, is the
history of this unpardonable freak of
love; of the second phase of which,
my parents never dreamt, until my ar
rival with thee at their castle. The pe
riods of my absence from the camp,
upon which thou often questioned’st
me, were the intervals, passed with my
friends, at Rothwell, my only cause of
fear, was the thought, that my voice
should betray me; but always reach
ing thee through my visor and careful
ly disguised, to the best of my power,
happily it did not. Thou will remem
ber the high eulogiums w ith which I was
presented to thy service by the Lord
of Rothwell himself. Excepting the
Earl and his family, my only confidant,
was the ever watchful and devoted
Ploughton.”
“ And now Egbert, that thou know
est all, forgive my unwomanly frolic
and renew the pardon of my trial of thy
love.”
41 Instead of granting thy wish, mv
darling Ida, 1 will again pray absolu
tion for my own more unjust doubts and
more cruel test!”
“ It shall be given thee dearest Eg
bert, upon thy solemn pledge, never
again to dream that thy Ida could so
basely betray thv noble trust!”
/nrrtnstrs us Mem Jinoks.
THE IONIAN ISLES.
[From “Picturesqe Sketches of Greece sdTi r.
KEY,” by Aubrey De Vere, Esq., to be published ini.
mediately by A. Hart, Philadelphia, from early sheets
transmitted by the London publisher.]
CHAPTER I.
Sail down the Adriatic—Arrival at Corfu —
Scenery of Corfu—Character and aspect of
ths lonian Greeks—Town of Corfu—The
Palace of the Lord High Commissioner—A
Reception at the Government-house—Proro
gation of Parliament—University—Sunset at
Corfu—Ancient Remains—Temple of Nep
tune—NereidoCastro—Departure from Corfu
—Paxos—Leucadia—Sappho’s Rock.
I cannot fulfill my promise and give
you an account of my Greek tour with
out vividly recalling the pleasure which
I experienced on my first approach to
the shores which l had mused on in so
many a youthful dream. The delight
of advancing rapidly into a delicious
climate, dipping into warmer, purer,
and more fragrant air, can seldom be
forgotton by one who has ever known
it. The weather in Italy, which we
northerns regard as a paradise “ where
never wind blows loudly,” had been
severe before I left it. At Bologna the
cold had been so intense, that, even
cloaked to the chin. I could hardly make
my way from the hotel to the theatre;
and at Ancona it was far from agree
able. You may imagine therefore the
delight with which, feeling the change
almost momently, 1 left the north and
all its asperities behind me, as we steer
ed down the Adriatic. Before the first
evening 1 had forgotten whether my
cloak was on or oil*; and the second
night I lay on the deck till twelve o’clock
without remembering that it was J anu
ary and not J une. The breeze,instead of
passing over the snows of the Apennines,
came to us warm from the Egean, and
mingled the softness of a southern clime
with the wild and exhiliaratng odours
of the sea. The moon was full, and
pierced the firmament with a light so
keen and penetrating, that, like the
sculptors of old who distinguished their
statues of the Virgin Huntress by the
far glance of the direct, well-opened
THIRD VOLUME-NO. 8. WHOLE NO. 108.
eye, we remembered that Dian was no
mere patroness of midnight dreamers
or moping lovers, but that she was sis
ter ot Apollo, and that her beams, like
her brother's, were arrows from an im
mortal bow. Beneath her orb the plane
of waters seemed to swell into a w ide
and plenary light to the remote horizon:
every rock, however distant, shone with
silver radiance; and all around us—
dark blue sea, and bright blue heaven
—was as luminous as it was warm and
joyous, except where the islands, of
w hich we passed three or four succes
sively, trailed dim shadows over the
shoals, or thing a darker streak of pur
ple beyond their rocky promontories.
We arrived at Corfu within fifty
hours after leaving Ancona. It was
too late to allow’ of our disembarking:
but on such an occasion a traveller en
joys his prolonged anticipation of a
feast thus extended before him in the
dubious light of the imagination. We
thought on the morrow', and found it
no hardship to remain on deck half the
night, looking round and round upon a
scene w hich by night or day is more
beautiful than any western bav, gulf,
or lake. W hen that morrow had ar
rived, a single excursion was sufficient
to prove that my expectations had not
been pitched too high. The island of
Corfu encircles tiie bay in which the
town is situated, completely enclosing
it on the north and south ; while, to the
east, the mountains of Epirus and Al
bania frame the picture, making the sea
look like a great lake. From the mar
gin of that sea the mountains rise to a
height of from 3000 to 1000 feet: im
mediately behind them stand the snowy
ranges sung of by the Greek poets of
old. The latter are about 7000 feet in
height: they have not however, ‘‘taken
the veil,” like the Sw'iss mountains,
which live to themselves above the
clouds; but smile from their blue re
gion upon a beaming sea, looking down
over the shoulder of the terrestrial
mountains ranged before them, with a
glance at once familiar and divine, like
that which the Homeric gods cast over
the heads of demigods and heroes upon
the affairs of mortals. In some pla
ces a third chain of mountains rises
behind the others, and rfic effect is in
describably grand at sunset, when the
nearer ridge has put on its violet vest,
while that above it is mantled in crim
son ; and along the highest, which then
seems transparent, ffoats that rose-col
oured flame, the quintessential spirit of
light. W ithin • lie island, the hills are
from two to three thousand fee* high,
and are in most places covered with
groves of olives, whose “knarled and
unwedgeable” trunks, dned up and
wrinkled by the fervid handling of many
a summer, seem as if they might have
gained their w orldly experience before
Ulysses himself had cut his wise, teeth
or told his first lie. The ground is nev
er flat except in a single instance ; nor,
on the other hand, does it swell into
those soft and smooth undulations
which delight the traveller whose foot
tarries upon the green slopes of Clarens
and Vevay, and displaces the fruit-tree
blossoms with which they are reddened
in spring. It is abrupt and broken, di
versified with rocky shelves, terraces of
vine, healthy knolls, and hollows filled
with mint, thyme, and other aromatic
herbs. Here and there the eye is
caught by a thicket of myrtle, blos
soming in the distance, or by some in
land promontory that dips into the dell,
but shakes, before it reaches the shadow,
a green and golden radianee from the
orange grove that tufts its steeps. I
give you the materials, and you may
make up the picture with your best
skill, and without fear of surpassing
the reality; you may sprinkle the
meadows with geraniums in full flow er,
and with thickets of rose; and if neither
are the sort which our florists would
most prize for their rareness, each grows
with an abundance that paints the
islands wilderness with colours such
as few gardens can boast. The beauty
of Corfu is especially characterized by
its union of yvildness with richness.
In the whole of the island, undivided
as the sea that mirrors its bosky shores,
1 did not see a wall, or hedge which a
child could not have squeezed itself
through as easily as a lion of Eden
could have pierced one of Eve's s\\ eet
briar fences. The shores are indented
by numberless long and strangely
shaped hays ; sometimes widening in
wards into little lakes, sometimes shal
lowing into lagunes, and sometimes
leaving bare a rock, over which the. sea
shatters itself in showers of white foam
and driving mist—a pleasant vapour
bath for the shrubs that bloom around.
Here and there the water eddies round
some little green island, with a few trees
to define its low margin, and perhaps
an old chapel in the centre, the whole
space above the waves probably not
exceeding half an acre. The air of
this enchanting region is of a clearness
which enables you to do full justice to
the abundant beauty with which you
are surrounded. You look through it
as through a diamond, and fancy you
possess the eyes of an Olympian, not
of a mortal. You stand on the top of
an eminence, and feel yourself “ in a
laage room,” observing, even in the far
distance, the gradations of colours, the
shapes of individual objects, and the
beauty of minute details, as if the whole
lay close around you. The amplitude
of the landscape imparts to it a charac
teristic nobleness; and the natural the
atre in which you stand, is. when com
pared to that of our northern scenery,
much as the temple of Bacchus, in
which 30,000 spectators witnessed at
once a tragedy of Sophocles, when
compared with Drury Lane or Covent
Garden.
Nothing can be. more different in
character than the landscapes of the
north and of the south. The character
of the former is grave, subdued, and
tender, abounding in passsages of pa
thos and mystery, though glorified, not
seldom, by a golden haze. That of the
south, on the other hand, is at once
majestic and joyous, ample in its di
mensions, hut not abounding in a com
plex variety of detail; clearly defined,
severe in structure, w r ell brought out
into the light; but at the same time
unspiritual in its scope, appealing less
to the heart than to the fancy, express
ing everything to the understanding,
and, consequently, reserving little lor
a slow ly apprehensive imagination.
An analogous distinction may perhaps
be traced in the character of the northern
and southern races. In every country,
indeed, there exists a certain analogy
between the outward shapes of nature,
and the mind it has nursed and helped
to form.
The woodlands of Corfu consist chiel
ly of the olive. Many travellers com
plain of the monotonous colouring ot
the southern olive-woods; l think, how
ever. that in this luminous region the
effect would be too dazzling if the pre
dominant colour were not a sober one,
which, by its uniformity, as colour, per
mits tne eye to appreciate the exquisite
gradations of light and shade. The
brilliancy of the clouds also requires
the contrast of something more grave
to relieve the eye as it tails from them
or glances aside front that most radiant
of visual objects, an orange-grove. —
Phe orange-trees grow to about the size
apple-trees reach w ith us ; and so dense
is the mass of their dark and glittering
leay es.that you would fancy thenightin
gale—nay, the nightingale’s song —
could hardly force its way through their
ambush. They flash of themselves in
tiie sun, though unmoved by a yvind
not often strong enough to disturb their
phalanx. The upper leaves, being
younger than the rest, are of a transpa
rent golden green, and shine yy ith a per
petual sunshine of their own; and in
the midst hang those great yellow and
erimson globes, which Andrew Marvel
sings of as “ orange lamps in a green
night.”
t wish I could give as good an ac
count of the Greeks as of their island
abode. In outward bearing, at least,
they are not unworthy of being its in
habitants. In few parts of the world
is there to be found so comely a race.
They possess almost always, fine fea
tures, invariably line heads, and Hash
ing eyes; and their forms and gestures
have a noble grace about them, which
in less favoured climes is seldom to be
met with, even among the higher ranks.
A Greek never stands in an ungraceful
position; indeed his bearing often de
serves to be called majestic: but his
inward gifts seldom correspond, if the
estimate commonly formed of him be
not very incorrect, w r ith his outward
aspect. The root of the evil is now
what it was in old times; for the lonian
Greeks are a false people. Seldom,
even by accident, do they say the thing
that is; and never are they ashamed of
being detected in a lie. Such a char
acter hardly contains the elements of
moral amelioration. Experience is
lost upon it. Those who are false to
others are false to themselves also;
what they see, will always be what
they desire to see; from whatever is
repulsive they will turn their eyes
away; and neither time nor suffering
can bring them a lesson which ingenui
ty and self-love are not abb to evade.
The lonian Greeks are also greatly de
ficient in industry. They do not care
to improve their condition ; their wants
are few, and they will do little work
beyond that of picking up the olives
which fall from the tree. These the
women carry home in baskets, almost
all the labour falling on them, while
the men idle away their everlasting,
unhallowed holiday, telling stories,
walking in procession, or showing as
much diplomacy in some bargain about
a capote as a Russian Ambassador could
display while settling the affairs of Eu
rope with Lord Palmerston. Their
dress is eminently picturesque. On
their heads they wear, sometimes a
sort of turban, sometimes a red cap;
round the waist they fasten a wide
white zone ; and their trowsers, which
do not descend below the knee, are so
large, that, fastened together at the
mid-leg, they have all the effect of flow
ing drapery, their colour in general be
ing crimson.
The town of Corfu is a strange med
ley, in which a character, now Greek and
now Italian, is oddly diversified by
French and English associations. The
house of our Lord High Commissioner
is called “ The Palace,** and deserves
the name. It is of very considerable
size, is built of Maltese stone, and
abounds in stately apartments. Sol
diers stand in waiting along the corri
dors ; and the landing-places and ante
rooms catch a picturesque effect from
the Albanian servants, who move about
with a prompt decisive grace, in their
jewelled vests, and tightly-fitting Inis
kins. In front of the palace is the es
planade, thronged all day by the red
coats and w ell-harnessed horses of En
glish soldiers. In the evening it is com
paratively quiet, and you may meet no
one hut a few Greek priests, sometimes
alone, sometimes in pairs, pacing the
long nccaeia avenues, with their black
sacerdotal caps, black robe, dark eye,—
piercing at once and still—venerable
heard, and hair that flows in waves
down their hacks. In the evening
every one goes to the opera; ror are
even the smaller islands without their
theatre.
As the spring advanced my stay at
Corfu became more and more agreea
ble. A kindlier warmth crept every
day into the air, which lost nothing,
however, of its sharp and clear fresh
ness, while it gained in sweetness.—
Every evening I enjoyed more and
more my walk along the esplanade, be
tween rows of Persian lilacs about the
size of our birch-trees, and in redundant
bloom. Under them, at each side,
were beds of geraneums and all sorts
of hot-house plants, w-hich extended
their ranks as if in a conservatory a
quarter of a mile long; and around
them, as soon as evening fell, the fire
flies played with their trails of green
light, pure as a diamond, till one would
have fancied that the air had caught
life at every pore, and darted about in
sparks of electric fire. The night ot
the Queen’s birth-day a grand hall was
given at the Lord High Commissioner’s