e rest of us
refer to Nausicaa; for Corfu is the Scheria of the Odyssey, the home of
King Alcinous. Not far beyond the tomb of Menekrates, at the point
called Canone, we have a view of a deep bay. On the opposite shore of
this bay enters the stream upon whose bank Ulysses first met the
delightful little maiden--"the beautiful stream of the river, where were
the pools unfailing, and clear and abundant water." And also (but this
is a work of supererogation, like feminine testimony in a court of
justice) we have a view of the Phaeacian ship which was turned into stone
by Neptune: "Neptune s'en approcha, et, le frappant du plat de la main,
le changea en un rocher qu'il enracina dans le sol," as my copy of the
Odyssey, which happens rather absurdly to be a French one, translates
the passage. The ship, therefore, is now an island; its deck is a
chapel; its masts are trees. Of late the belief that Corfu is the
Scheria of the Odyssey has been attacked. Appended to the musical
translation of the episode of Nausicaa, which was published in 1890,
there is the following note: "It will be seen that the writer declines
to accept the identification of Corcyra, the modern Corfu, with Scheria.
In this skepticism he is emboldened by the protecting shield of the Ajax
among English-speaking Hellenists. See Jebb's Homer." It is not possible
to contest a point with Ajax. But any one who has seen the gardens and
groves of this lovely isle, who has watched the crystalline water dash
against the rocks at Palaeokastrizza, who has strolled down the hill-side
at Pelleka, or floated in a skiff off the coast at Ipso--any such person
will say that Corfu is at least an ideal home for the charming girl who
played ball and washed the clothes on the shore, king's daughter though
she was. To quote the translation:

"Father dear, would you make ready for me a wagon, a high one,
Strong in the wheels, that I may carry our beautiful garments
... to be washed in the river?"

One wishes that this primitive princess could have had another name.
Nausicaa; no matter how one pronounces the syllables, they are not
melodious. Why could she not have been Aglaia, Daphne, or Artemidora?
Standing at Canone and looking across at her shore, one is vexed anew
that she should have given her heart, or even her fancy, to Ulysses--a
man who was always eating. Instead of Ulysses, we should say Odysseus,
no doubt. That may pass. But the sentime