Part 16

“My neger, my neger,” repeated Mammy Luna, “me no want punish you; my pot smell good, and you belly-woman. Come back, my neger, come back; me see now water above your knee!” But the woman was obstinate; she continued to sing and to advance, till she reached the middle of the river’s bed, when down came a tremendous flood, swept her away, and she never was heard of more; while Mammy Luna warned the other negroes never to take the property of another; always to tell the truth; and, at least, if they should be betrayed into telling a lie, not to persist in it, otherwise they must expect to perish like their companion. Observe, that a moral is always an indispensable part of a Nancy story. Another is as follows:--“Two sisters had always lived together on the best terms; but, on the death of one of them, the other treated very harshly a little niece, who had been left to her care, and made her a common drudge to herself and her daughter. One day the child having broken a water-jug, was turned out of the house, and ordered not to return till she could bring back as good a one. As she was going along, weeping, she came to a large cotton-tree, under which was sitting an old woman without a head. I suppose this unexpected sight made her gaze rather too earnestly, for the old woman immediately enquired--‘Well, my piccaniny, what you see?’ ‘Oh, mammy,’ answered the girl, ‘me no see nothing.’ ‘Good child!’ said again the old woman; ‘and good will come to you.’ Not far distant was a cocoa-tree; and here was another old woman, without any more head than the former one. The same question was asked her, and she failed not to give the same answer which had already met with so good a reception. Still she travelled forwards, and began to feel faint through want of food, when, under a mahogany tree, she not only saw a third old woman, but one who, to her great satisfaction, had got a head between her shoulders. She stopped, and made her best courtesy--‘How day, grannie!’ ‘How day, my piccaniny; what matter, you no look well?’ ‘Grannie, me lilly hungry.’ ‘My piccaniny, you see that hut, there’s rice in the pot, take it, and yam-yam me; but if you see one black puss, mind you give him him share.’ The child hastened to profit by the permission; the ‘one black puss’ failed not to make its appearance, and was served first to its portion of rice, after which it departed; and the child had but just finished her meal, when the mistress of the hut entered, and told her that she might help herself to three eggs out of the fowl-house, but that she must not take any of the _talking_ ones: perhaps, too, she might find the black puss there, also; but if she did, she was to take no notice of her. Unluckily all the eggs seemed to be as fond of talking as if they had been so many old maids; and the moment that the child entered the fowl-house, there was a cry of ‘Take _me!_ Take _me!_’ from all quarters. However she was punctual in her obedience; and although the conversable eggs were remarkably fine and large, she searched about till at length she had collected three little dirty-looking eggs, that had not a word to say for themselves. The old woman now dismissed her guest, bidding her to return home without fear; but not to forget to break one of the eggs under each of the three trees near which she had seen an old woman that morning. The first egg produced a water-jug exactly similar to that which she had broken; out of the second came a whole large sugar estate; and out of the third a splendid equipage, in which she returned to her aunt, delivered up the jug, related that an old woman in a red docker (i. e. petticoat) had made her a great lady, and then departed in triumph to her sugar estate. Stung by envy, the aunt lost no time in sending her own daughter to search for the same good fortune which had befallen her cousin. She found the cotton-tree and the headless old woman, and had the same question addressed to her; but instead of returning the same answer--‘What me see,’ said she; ‘me see one old woman without him head!’ Now this reply was doubly offensive; it was rude, because it reminded the old lady of what might certainly be considered as a personal defect; and it was dangerous, as, if such a circumstance were to come to the ears of the buckras, it might bring her into trouble, women being seldom known to walk and talk without their heads, indeed, if ever, except by the assistance of Obeah. ‘Bad child!’ cried the old woman; ‘bad child! and bad will come to you!’ Matters were no better managed near the cocoa-tree; and even when she reached the mahogany, although she saw that the old woman had not only got her head on, but had a red docker besides, she could not prevail on herself to say more than a short ‘How day?’ without calling her ‘grannie.’ [Among negroes it is almost tantamount to an affront to address by the name, without affixing some term of relationship, such as ‘grannie,’ or ‘uncle,’ or ‘cousin.’] My Cornwall boy, George, told me one day, that ‘Uncle Sully wanted to speak to massa.’ ‘Why, is Sully your uncle, George?’ ‘No, massa; me only call him so for honour.’ However, she received the permission to eat rice at the cottage, coupled with the injunction of giving a share to the black puss; an injunction, however, which she totally disregarded, although she scrupled not to assure her hostess that she had suffered puss to eat till she could eat no more. The old lady in the red petticoat seemed to swallow the lie very glibly, and despatched the girl to the fowl-house for three eggs, as she had before done her cousin; but having been cautioned against taking the talking eggs, she conceived that these must needs be the most valuable; and, therefore, made a point of selecting those three which seemed to be the greatest gossips of the whole poultry yard. Then, lest their chattering should betray her disobedience, she thought it best not to return into the hut, and, accordingly, set forward on her return home; but she had not yet reached the mahogany tree, when curiosity induced her to break one of the eggs. To her infinite disappointment it proved to be empty; and she soon found cause to wish that the second had been empty too; for, on her dashing it against the ground, out came an enormous yellow snake, which flew at her with dreadful hissings. Away ran the girl; a fallen bamboo lay in her path; she stumbled over it, and fell. In her fall the third egg was broken; and the old woman without the head immediately popping out of it, told her, that if she had treated her as civilly, and had adhered as closely to the truth as her cousin had done, she would have obtained the same good fortune; but that as she had shown her nothing but rudeness, and told her nothing but lies, she must be contented to carry nothing home but the empty egg-shells. The old woman then jumped upon the yellow snake, galloped away with incredible speed, and never showed her red docker in that part of the island any more.”

APRIL 8.

At breakfast the captain was explaining to me the dangerous consequences of breaking the wheel-rope: two hours afterwards the wheel-rope broke, and round swung the vessel. However, as the accident fortunately took place in the day time, and when the sea was perfectly calm, it was speedily remedied: but this was “talking of the devil and his imps” with a vengeance.

APRIL 10.

During the early part of my outward-bound voyage I was extremely afflicted with sea-sickness; and between eight o’clock on a Monday morning, and twelve on the following Thursday, I actually brought up almost a thousand lines, with rhymes at the end of them. Having nothing better to do at present, I may as well copy them into this book. Composed with such speed, and under such circumstances, I take it for granted that the verses cannot be very good; but let them be ever so bad, I defy any one to be more sick while reading them than the author himself was while writing them. This strange story was found by me in an old Italian book, called “II Palagio degli Incanti,” in which it was related as a fact, and stated to be taken from the “Annals of Portugal,” an historical work. I will not vouch for the truth of it myself; and, at all events, I earnestly request that no person who may read these verses will ask me “who the hero really was?” If he does, I shall only return the same answer which the lady gave her husband when, being on the point of shipwreck, he requested her to tell him whether she had really ever wronged his bed? “My dear,” said she, “sink or swim, that secret shall go to the grave with me.”

THE ISLE OF DEVILS.

A METRICAL TALE.

“Should I report this now, would they believe me?

If I should say, I saw such islanders,

Who, though they were of monstrous shape, yet, note,

Their manners were more gentle-kind, than of

Our human generation you shall find

Many; nay, almost any!”--

_Tempest_, Act 3.

I.

Speed, Halcyon, speed, and here construct thy nest:

Brood on these waves, and charm the winds to rest!

No wave should dare to rage, no wind to roar,

Till lands yon blooming maid on Lisbon’s shore.

That maid, as Venus fair and chaste is she,

When first to dazzled sky and glorying sea

The bursting conch Love’s new-born queen exposed,

The fairest pearl that ever shell inclosed.

While love’s fantastic hand had joyed to braid

Her locks with weeds and shells like some sea-maid,

High seated at the stern was Irza seen,

And seemed to rule the tide, as ocean’s queen.

Smooth sailed the bark; the sun shone clear and bright

The glittering billows danced along in light;

While Irza, free from fear, from sorrow free,

Bright as the sun, and buoyant as the sea,

Bade o’er the lute her flying fingers move,

And sang a Spanish lay of Moorish love.

ZAYDE AND ZAYDA.

(From Las Guerras Civiles de Granada.’)

Lo! beneath yon haughty towers,

Where the young and gallant Zayde

Fondly chides the lingering hours,

Till they bring his lovely maid.

Evening shades are gathering round him;

Doubting fear his heart alarms;

But nor doubt nor fear can wound him,

If he views his lady’s charms.

Hark! the window softly telling,

Zayda comes to bless his sight;

Bright as sun-beams clouds dispelling,

Mild as Cynthia’s trembling light.

“Dearest, say, to what I’m fated!”

Cried the Moor, as near he drew:

“Is the tale my page related,

Loveliest lady, is it true?

“To an ancient lord thy beauty

Does thy tyrant father doom?

Must my love, the slave of duty,

Waste in age’s arms her bloom?

“If my lot be still to languish,

Thine, another’s bride to be,

Let thy lips pronounce my anguish;

‘Twill be bliss to die by thee!”

Rising sighs her grief discover;

Fast her tears, while speaking, pour--

“Zayde, my Zayde, our loves are over!

Zayde, my Zayde, we meet no more!

“Allah knows, I cherished dearly,

Fondest hopes of being thine!

Allah knows, I grieve sincerely,

When I those fond hopes resign!

“May some lady, happier, fairer,

Blest with every charm and grace,

Whose kind friends would grieve to tear her

From all comfort, fill my place:

“May all pleasures greet your bridal;

May she give you heart for heart!

Never be she from her idol

Forced, as I am now, to part!”

“Rumour did not then deceive me!”

Wild the Moor in anguish cries:

“Then ’tis true! for wealth you leave me!

Wealth has charms for Zayda’s eyes!

“Blind to beauty, cold to pleasure,

Ozmyn shall my hopes destroy!

Yes; though worthless such a treasure,

He shall Zayda’s charms enjoy!

“Fare thee well! so soon to sever

Little thought I, when you said,

“Thine it is, and thine for ever

‘Shall be Zayda’s heart, my Zayde!’”

II.

Scarce moved the zephyr’s wings, while breathed the song,

And waves in silence bore the bark along.

’Twas Irza sang! Rosalvo at her side

Gazed on his cherub-love, his destined bride,

Felt at each look his soul in softness melt,

Nor wished to feel more bliss than then he felt.

Gainst the high mast, intent on book and beads,

A reverend abbot leans, and prays, and reads:

Yet oft with secret glance the pair surveys,

Marks how she looks, and listens what he says.

An idle task! The terms which speak their love

Had served for prayer, and passed unblamed above.

He finds each tender phrase so free from harm,

So pure each thought, each look so chaste though warm,

Still to his book and beads he turns again,

Pleased to have found his guardian care so vain;

While oft a blush of shame his pale cheek wears,

To find his thoughts so much less pure than theirs.

Oh! they _were_ pure! pure as the moon, whose ray

Loves on the shrines of virgin-saints to play;

Pure as the falling snow, ere yet its shower

Bends with its weight its own pale fragile flower.

Not fourteen years were Irza’s; nay, tis true,

Most maids at twelve know more than Irza knew:

And scarce two more had spread with silken down

Her youthful cousin’s cheek of glowing brown.

His tutor sage (in fact, not show, a saint)

Had kept his heart and mind secure from taint.

In liberal arts, in healthful manly sports,

In studies fit for councils, camps, and courts,

His moments found their full and best employ,

Nor left one leisure hour for guilty joy.

Since her blue dove-like eyes six springs had seen,

Immured in cloistered shades had Irza been,

From duties done her sole delight deriven,

And her sole care to please the queen of heaven.

None e’er approached her, save the pure and good:

Her promised spouse; that monk who near them stood;

Her viceroy uncle, and some guardian nun

Were all she e’er had seen by moon or sun.

No amorous forms, by wanton art designed,

Had e’er inflamed her blood, or stained her mind;

No hint in books, no coarse or doubtful phrase

E’er bade her curious thought explore the maze

No glowing dream by memory’s pencil drawn

Had e’er profaned her sleep, and made her blush at dawn.

With flowers she decked the virgin mother’s shrine,

Nor guessed a wonder made that name divine.

The very love, which lent her looks such fire,

Ne’er raised one blameful thought, nor loose desire;

Like streams of gold, which in alembic roll,

The flames she suffered but refined her soul;

Made it more free from stain, more light from dross,

With brighter lustre, and with softer gloss.

That, which she bore her bridegroom, well might claim

A brother’s love, and bear a sister’s name:

And e’en where now her lips in playful bliss

Sealed on Rosalvo’s eyes a balmy kiss,

Love’s highest, dearest grace she meant to show,

Nor thought he more could ask, nor she bestow.

III

From Goa’s precious sands to Lisbon’s shore.

The viceroy’s countless wealth that vessel bore:

In heaps there jewels lay of various dyes,

Ingots of gold, and pearls of wondrous size;

And there (two gems worth all that Cortez won)

He placed his angel niece and only son.

Sebastian sought the Moors! With loyal zeal

Rosalvo cased his youthful limbs in steel;

To die or conquer by his sovereign’s side

He came; and with him came his destined bride.

E’en now in Lisbon’s court for Irza’s hair

Virgins the myrtle’s nuptial crown prepare,

And Hymen waves his torch from Cintra’s towers,

Hails the dull bark, and chides the slow-winged hours.

Seldom in this bad world two hearts we see

So blest, and meriting so blest to be;

Then oh! ye winds, gently your pinions move,

And speed in safety home the bark of love.

Brood, Halcyon, brood: thy sea-spell chaunt again,

And keep the mirror of the enchanted main,

Where his white wing the exulting tropic dips,

Calm as their hearts, and smiling as their lips.

The charm prevails! Hushed are the waves and still;

The expanded sails light favouring zephyrs fill.

Wafting with motion scarce perceived; and now

In rapture Irza from the vessel’s prow

Gazed on an isle with verdure gay and bright,

Which seemed (so green it shone in solar light)

An emerald set in silver. Long her eyes

Dwelt on its rocks; and “Oh! dear friend,” she cries,

And clasps Rosalvo’s hand,--“admire with me

Yon isle, which rising crowns the silent sea!

How bold those mossy cliffs, which guard the strand,

Like spires, and domes, and towers in fairy-land!

How green the plains! how balsam-fraught the breeze!

How bend with golden fruit the loaded trees;

While, fluttering midst their boughs in joyful notes,

Myriads of birds attune their warbling throats!

Blooms all the ground with flowers! and mark, oh! mark

That giant palm, whose foliage broad and dark

Plays on the sun-clad rock!--Beneath, a cave

Spreads wide its sparry mouth: while loosely wave

A thousand creepers, dyed with thousand stains,

Whose wreaths enrich the trees, and cloathe the plains.

Dear friend, how blest, if passed my life could be

In that fair isle, with God alone and thee,

Far from the world, from man and fiend secure,

No guilt to harm us, and no vice to lure!

Bright round the virgin’s shrine would blush and bloom

That world of flowers, which pour such rich perfume;

And sweet yon caves repeat with mellowing swell

Eve’s closing hymn, when chimed the vesper-bell.”

The pilot heard--“Oh! spring of life,” he cried,

“How bright and beauteous seems the world untried!

I too, like you, in youth’s romantic bowers

Dreamt not of wasps in fruit, nor thorns in flowers;

And when on banks of sand the sunbeams shone,

I deemed each sparkling flint a precious stone.

Ah! noble lady, learn, that isle so fair,

The fields all roses, and all balm the air,

That isle is one, where every leaf’s a spell,

Where no good thing e’er dwelt, nor e’er shall dwell.

No fisher, forced from home by adverse breeze,

Would slake his thirst from yon infernal trees:

No shipwrecked sailor from the following waves

Would seek a shelter in those haunted caves.

There flock the damned! there Satan reigns, and revels!

And thence yon isle is called (( The Isle of Devils!”

Nor think, on rumour’s faith this tale is given:

Once, hot in youthful blood, when hell nor heaven

Much claimed my thoughts, (the truth with shame I tell;

Holy St. Francis, guard thy votary well! )

In quest of water near that isle I drew:

When lo! such monstrous forms appalled my view,

Such shrieks I heard, sounds all so strange and dread,

That from the strand with shuddering haste I fled,

Plyed as for life my oars, nor backward bent my head.

And though since then hath flown full many a year,

Still sinks my heart, still shake my limbs with fear,

Soon as yon awful island meets mine eye!

Cross we our breasts! say, ‘Ave!’ and pass by!”

IV.

The isle is past. And still in tranquil pride

Bears the rich bark its treasures o’er the tide.

And now the sun, ere yet his lamp he shrouds,

Stains the pure western sky with crimson clouds:

Now from the sea’s last verge he sheds his rays,

And sinks triumphant in a golden blaze.

Still o’er the heavens reflected splendours flow,

Which make the world of waters gleam and glow:

Wide and more wide each billow shines more bright,

Till all the empurpled ocean floats in light.

Soon as fair Irza marked the evening’s close,

Grave from her seat the young enthusiast rose,

Told o’er her beads, and when the string was said,

“Ave Maria!” sang the enraptured maid;

Her look so humble, so devout her air,

Each worldly wish appeared so lost in prayer,

All felt, no thought could to her mind be near,

That man her form could see, her voice could hear:

Hushed all the ship!--Each sailor checked his glee,

Clasped his hard hands, and bent his trembling knee;

And each (as rose that soft mysterious strain,

Best help in trouble, and sweet balm in pain)

Gazed on the maid with mingled awe and fear,

Damp on his cheek perceived the unwonted tear,

Then raised to Heaven his eyes in earnest prayer,

And half believed himself already there.

Low too Rosalvo knelt, nor knew, if now

For Mary’s grace, or Irza’s, rose his vow.

Scarce e’en the monk forbore to kneel; his child

Fondly he viewed, and sweetly, gravely smiled,

And blessed that God, as swelled each melting note,

Who gave such heavenly powers to human throat!

Melodious strains, oh! speed your flight above

On Neptune’s wings, and reach the ear of Love!

Oh! spread thy starry robe, celestial queen,

(For much thine aid she needs!) from ills to screen

Thy virgin-votaress!--Silence holds the deep,

And e’en the helmsman’s eyes are sealed by sleep:

Yet mark yon gathering clouds!--the moon is fled!--

Mark too that deathlike stillness, deep and dread!

And hark!--from yon black cloud an awful voice

Pours the wild chaunt, and bids the winds rejoice!

SONG OF THE TEMPEST-FIEND.

I marked her!--the pennants, how gaily they streamed!--

How well was she armed for resistance!

The waves that sustained her, how brightly they beamed

In the sun’s setting rays, and the sailors all seemed

To forget the storm-spirit’s existence.

But I marked her!--and now from the clouds I descend!

My spells to the billows I mutter!

I clap my black pinions! my wand I extend,

In darkness the sky and the ocean to blend,

And the winds mark the charms which I utter.

Now more and more rapid in eddies I whirl,

In my voice while the thunder-clap rumbles:

And now the white mountainous waves, as they curl,

I joy o’er the deck of the vessel to hurl,

And laugh, as she tosses and tumbles.

The crew is alarmed; but the tempest prevails,

No care from my fury delivers!

Ere there’s time for their furling the canvass, the sails

From the top to the bottom I split with my nails,

And they stream in the blast, rent in shivers!

The sky and the ocean, fierce battle they wage;

The elements all are in action!

No sailor the storm longer hopes to assuage:

What clamours, what hurry, what oaths, and what rage!

Oh, brave! what despair, what distraction!

Their heart-strings, they ache, while my ravage they view;

Each knee ’gainst its fellow is knocking!

My eyes, darting lightnings to dazzle the crew,

Burn and blaze; and those lightnings so forked and so blue

Make the darkness of midnight more shocking.

The morn to that vessel no succour shall bring!

Now high o’er the main-mast I hover;

Now I plunge from the sky to the deck with a spring,

And I shatter the mast with one flap of my wing;

It cracks! and it breaks! and goes over!

Hew away, gallant seamen! fatigue never dread;

You shall all rest to-night from your labours!

The ocean’s wide mantle shall o’er you be spread,

The white bones of mariners pillow your head,

And the whale and the shark be your neighbours.

For I swoop from aloft, and I blaze, and I burn,

While my spouts the salt billows are drinking:

And I drive ’gainst the vessel, and beat down the stern,

And pour in a flood, which shall never return,

And all cry--66 She’s sinking! she’s sinking!”--

The barge?--well remembered!--’tis strong, and ’tis large,

And will live in the billows’ commotion;

But now all my spouts from the clouds I discharge,

And down goes the vessel, and down goes the barge!

Hurrah! I reign lord of the ocean!

How their shrieks rose in chorus! Now all is at rest;

The tempest no longer is brewing!

My dreams by the harm newly done will be blest,

So I’ll sleep for a while on a thunder-cloud’s breast,

Then rouze to hurl round me fresh ruin.

Hushed is the storm: the heavens no longer frown;

And o’er that spot, where late the bark went down,

All bright and smiling flows the treacherous wave,

Like sunshine playing on a new-made grave.

Full rose the watery moon: it showed a plank,

To which, all deadly pale, with tresses dank,

And robes of white, on which the sea had flung

Loose wreaths of ocean-flowers, unconscious clung

A fair frail form:--‘twas Irza!--to the shore

Each following wave the virgin nearer bore;

And now the mountain surge overwhelmed the land,

Then flying left her on the wished-for strand.

Soon hope and love of life her powers renew;

Swift towards a cliff she speeds, which towers in view,

Nor waits the wave’s return’; and now again

Safe on the shore, and rescued from the main,