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What was worse, we could not "knock the negro down,” without danger of instant death in a Moslem mob.
Our captains sent their pleasure-boat for us, and escorted us around the forts, barracks, and esplanade, which make Corfu at once as formidable as it is beautiful. The isles of olive surrounding the harbor break the roughness of the sea, and give to the prospect a lake-appearance encircled by lofty hills. The coasts of Albania shut in the circle with their gateways of rock. The regiment of the Captains is the immortal 47th, celebrated by Harry Lorrequer, and was formerly that of General Wolfe. They stormed the heights of Abraham, and (what was better) were prisoners in Boston during the Revolution. The same plate and other appendages of the regiment have descended to the present "Mess." The Mess is a quasi incorporation, and holds some thousands of pounds worth of interesting relics. We shall never forget the cordial civility of these officers of the 47th. May they always be victorious, except when Uncle Sam is their enemy! Their courtesy did not end in showing us the Lord High Commissioner's palace, or the splendid intrenchments and forts. We found on our return a basket of fruitage, which could not have grown in any other isle than this, which rejoiced in the ancient gardens of Alcinous. Oranges large enough for cantelopes, bright and golden, with the green leaves and twigs still about them. Plums, purple outside, and sanguine within; cherries black as they were glossy; citrons losing their green in the silvery yellow; apples whose scarlet would put to blush our best horticulture, and mellow as the plums; apricots plump in their mealy lusciousness; figs fresh, and bursting their seams to show the glistening white and red that wooed the tooth; and by no means last or least, large peaches, emulating the color while rivalling the size of our red-cheeked melekatoons (spell it better if you can!)—all these on the first of July, and after we have exhausted the grape season of Smyrna. I would not omit the almonds, pears, and melons, so common I forgot them. The natives here, the year round, live on fruits and wine; and keep
good health the mean time. Our health is by no means so bad, but that the above basket will vanish before we tread water" in the limpid streets of Venice.
Before our steamer began to pant away from Corfu, our kind friends sailed by, on their way to Albania, boar-shooting; and stopped to say "good-bye." The last word of the gallant Captain Lowry, an Irishman by the way, was: "Mrs. C
don't forget to go to Killarney!" and as his boat careered away, there was borne on the breeze the words "No more Mahometan niggers! ha! ha ! ha!"
How kindly and warmly the words of friendship and courtesy fall upon the ear of the pilgrim. Not more musically sweet murmurs the fountain which shakes its loosened silver in the sun,' than the voice of a kindred spirit, in a far-off country beyond the sea. To hear a warm-hearted Englishman quote Longfellow with pride, and repeat Chatham's eloquent appeal for America with enthusiasm, were enough to banish 'squint suspicion,' and bid us hail him as our elder brother, had we no substantial evidence of genuine hospitality. If every English captain is as near like Sir Calidore in courtesy as Captain Fordyce or Lowry of the 47th, the army of England is nobly officered.
A fine veil of gossamer begins to invest the receding isles. We leave them in their unclouded canopy. But our memory of them-sweet is the balm which preserves it, as a sacred relic in life's pilgrimage. We leave them with tearful regret, clad as of yore in their azure vesture. Thus have they ever been; what Homer saw of them, they seemed to Byron; what Anacreon beheld in them, Shelley rejoiced to see. What Creation's dawn beheld, this day we see-enriched by the spoils of time and the associations of renown. Sleep on bright isles of Greece ! Eternal summer gilds your sea; and ye sleep so tranquil under a sky
"So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
We expected by this time to have been 'within thy gates, O Jerusalem.' But we learned at Athens that no steamer left for Joppa until the 25th of July. Too late that; for the Syrian sun has already all the heat, without the pleasure of a Turkish bath. To have been within ten days of the city which 'sits solitary'—the fulfilment of all prophecy; to have sailed within three days of the excellency and glory of the cedars of Lebanon; and not to have seen them, will it not be forever a drawback upon our retrospect? But suppose we had been in Zion, and surmounted Olivet, where David and a Greater than David went up sorrowfully; how could we have left Palestine without visiting the most beautiful of all cities-Damascus. Could we have had the continency of Mahomet and turned away from it as he did, saying, 'one Paradise is all that is allotted to man. I will take mine in the other world!' We fear not. But regrets are useless. Our face is set as a flint, no longer Zionward. The Adriatic is ploughed by our keel. As we turn homeward, the heart throbs more warmly; and when we are again in our native valley, we shall dwell in much content there, grateful to God if He shall permit us yet a few more years with our friends, and a resting spot at last amid our own Muskingum hills.
The City of the Sea.
Una Italum regina, altæ pulcherrimæ Romæ,
O decus! O lux Ausoniæ!
E are in Venice. For more than a week we have been tossing on the waters of the Mediterranean, straining in every plank to reach this point of the Adriatic. The isles have passed like unrealities before the mind; the East, with its many-shaped and colored costumes and scenery, has come and gone, leaving but its memory in dreamy outline floating in the soul. The unreality has not yet ceased; for we are again in the midst of wonders, not the least among which is the watery street that plays against our door, and the grotesque and unique architecture which is overlooked by the tower of St. Mark's.
Yesterday (Sunday) we arrived at Trieste, the only Austrian port of any consequence. It is remarkably clean, and handsomely built, at the head of the Adriatic. The streets are finely paved, and the promenades, green and enticing, lie along the harbor in grateful umbrage. It reminded us of New-York, except that each street was a Broadway in the regularity of the tall stone houses and solid paves. We drove about the city. On every side are groups and crowds of people in their Sunday best, laughing and listening to the music. The cafés are all thronged with eaters of ices and drinkers of wine. Our ride extended down between the two lofty hills, within whose scoop the city lies. We found a splendid café upon the side hill, with walks under oak groves winding up to the summit, and all
crowded with people listening to music, and partaking of refreshment. We joined the throng much against our puritan principles. Waltzing whirled around in the houses of the poorer people as we passed. Sunday seemed absolutely sunk in the general joyousness. A few Russian soldiers reminded us of the union of Austria with her kindly ally, while numbers of the white-dressed soldiers of Austria spoke of the iron coercion which keeps down the spirit of the masses in the LombardoVenetian province of the Hapsburgs. And yet-why speak of their spirit, poor, contemptible, despot-fawning crowds; are they not enslaved by the very music and gayety which their masters have provided for them? And is it not the same sly expedient which now blows through brass, and beats on sheep skin in the piazza of St. Mark's, followed by eager thousands, totally absorbed in the pursuit? There are other chains than those of iron. Ignoble ease and oblivious gayety are worse than prisons of stone, and manacles of iron. They indicate a subjection of mind, and a meanness of spirit, wholly incompatible with the generous impulses and noble aims of freemen.
A heavy fort overlooks Trieste, from one of the hills—rather ominous. Similar forts were near Genoa and Rome, when the first of 1848 dawned. But they now lie in ruins the expression of aroused popular indignation. Fine villas, embowered in green trees, and surrounded with vines and fruits, line the slopes of the hills around Trieste. Our star-spangled flag floats from two noble ships in port the Independence and the Mississippi. They look a little saucy here, after Webster's letter. I wonder what business they have! They seem to say, "Just hang a spy, Sir Buzzard, an thou darest; but if you do, we will blow you to" I beg pardon-it is Sunday. One is apt to forget peace principles while abroad. The guns were firing, the music braying, and people hallooing, at a great rate. How could one think it was the Sabbath day?
There are daily steamers to Venice, small though they be. Indeed, owing to the wash of the Alpine rivers, which here