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WIBH HMMII (EHffifß. TERMS, 82,00 PER ANNUM. IN ADVANCE. (firiginnl |'nrtri|. 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