other is disliked by every person in the
ship. The King is very kind and affable, giving no unnecessary trouble,
and mixing freely with the midshipmen and sailors: many a luncheon has
he partaken of in the _den_ of the former. His brother, on the contrary,
is all fuss and superciliousness; and the very first morning after he
embarked, the captain was compelled to read him a practical lecture on
the necessity of complying with the established regulations. He had been
told that, as punctuality was a most indispensable maxim on board a
man-of-war, where every thing depended on the example afforded to the
sailors by their officers and superiors, he would be expected at
breakfast by eight o'clock every morning.

[Sidenote: PARTING OF THE ROYAL BROTHERS.] On the following day, at the
hour prescribed, the King was seated at the cabin table, and, after
waiting a quarter of an hour, as the Prince came not, breakfast was
finished. About half past nine his Royal Highness made his _debut_, and
expressed some surprise at seeing the table cleared; however, the
Captain told him he was sorry he had lost his breakfast, particularly as
it was a long time to dinner; and the regulations of the ship precluded
his having any meal served before that was ready. The Prince frowned and
looked marvellously discomfited; but, pocketing his lecture, he made an
apology, and went sulkily on deck.

The moment of parting between the royal brothers had now arrived, and
they came on board the steamer together at a late hour. The anchor was
already up:--"Give way!" cried the captain: the heir of Bavaria and the
hope of Greece fell into each other's arms; and, after a short embrace
and a kissing of each cheek, the latter hurried down the ladder; the
Prince hastened to his cabin; and in a few minutes more we were merrily
ploughing our way through the rippling waves of the calm and beautiful
harbour of Milo.

_Wednesday, 10th._--Cerigo was in sight this morning; and, after
coasting along its almost uninhabited shore, and rounding Cape Matapan,
we entered the Gulf of Coron,--the scene of one of the most beautiful
spirit-stirring poems that ever proceeded from the heaven-inspired pen
of Byron. We sailed slowly along its wild and wooded coast, anxious to
reach the town[21] of the same name in the evening; for, by going on
shore there, we might probably avoid some days' quarantine at Zante.

When off the island, a boat was sent ashore, and on its return we
st