1816.—JANUARY 1. (continued 4)

APRIL 15.

At noon this day we found ourselves once more sailing on the Atlantic, and bade farewell to the Gulf of Florida without having heard any news of the dreaded Commodore Mitchell. The narrow and dangerous part of this Gulf is about two hundred miles in length, and fifty in breadth, bordered on one side by the coast of Florida, and on the other, first by Cuba, and then by the Bahama Islands, of which the Manilla reef forms the extremity, and which reef also terminates the Gulf. But on both sides of these two hundred miles, at the distance of about four or five miles from the main land, there extends a reef which renders the navigation extremely dangerous. The reef is broken at intervals by large inlets; and the sudden and violent squalls of wind to which the Gulf is subject, so frequently drive vessels into these perilous openings, that it is worth the while of many of the poorer inhabitants of Florida to establish their habitations within the reef, and devote themselves and their small vessels entirely to the occupation of assisting vessels in distress. They are known by the general name of “wreckers,” and are allowed a certain salvage upon such ships as they may rescue. As a proof of the violence of the gales which are occasionally experienced in this Gulf, our captain, about nine years ago, saw the wind suddenly take a vessel (which had unwisely suffered her canvass to stand, while the rest of the ships under convoy had taken theirs down,) and turn her completely over, the sails in the water and the keel uppermost. It happened about four o’clock in the afternoon: the captain and the passengers were at dinner in the cabin; but as she went over very leisurely, they and the crew had time allowed them to escape out of the windows and port-holes, and sustain themselves upon the rigging, till boats from the ships near them could arrive to take them off. As she filled, she gradually sunk, and in a quarter of an hour she had disappeared totally.

APRIL 17.

THE FLYING FISH.

Bright ocean-bird, alike who sharing

Both elements, could sport the air in,

Or swim the sea, your winged fins wearing

The rainbow’s hues,

Your fate this day full long shall bear in

Her mind the muse,

In vain for you had nature blended

Two regions, and your powers extended;

Now high you rose, now low descended;

But folly marred

Those gifts, the bounteous dame intended

To prove your guard.

A flying fish, could bounds include her?

She winged the deep, if birds pursued her;

She swam the sky, if dolphins viewed her;

But now what wish

Tempts you to watch yon bright deluder,

Unthinking fish?

Alas!—a fly above you viewing,

Gay tints his gilded wings imbuing,

You mount; and ah! too far pursuing

At fancy’s call,

Heedless you strike the sails, where ruin

Awaits your fall.

Your fins, too dry, no longer play you,

And soon those fins no more upstay you;

You drop; and now on deck survey you

Jack, Tom, and Bill,

Who up may take, and down may lay you,

As suits their will.

Oh! list my tale, fair maids of Britain!

This subject fain I’d try my wit on,

And show the rock you’re apt to split on:

Then cry not—“Pish!”—

You’re all (I’m glad the thought I hit on)

Just flying fish!

Beauty, does nature’s hand bestow it?

It swells your pride, and plain you show it;

Though wealthy cit, and airy poet

Your charms pursue,

Church—physic—law—you he fair, you know it,

You’ll none, not you!= .

Age looks too dry, and youth too blooming:

The scholar’s face there’s too much gloom in;

This man’s too dull, that too presuming;

His mouth’s too wide!—

For mending, Lord! you think there’s room in

The best, when tried.

In each you find some fault to snarl at,

And wilful seek the sun by starlight;

Till some gay glittering rogue in scarlet,

Who lures the eye,

Dazzles poor miss, and then the varlet

Pretends to fly.

His flight has piqued, his glitter caught her;

And soon her mammy’s darling daughter,

Whose eyes have made such mighty slaughter,

Charm’d by a fop,

Is fairly hit ’twixt wind and water,

And, miss! you drop!

Then certain fate of fallen lasses,

When short-lived bliss more frail than glass is,

To eyes of all degrees and classes

Exposed you stand,

And soon your beauty circling passes

From hand to hand.

In vain your flattering charms display you;

From home and parents far away, you

See former friends with scorn survey you;

While fools and brutes

May take you up, or down may lay you,

As humour suits.

Oh! mark, dear girls, the moral story

Of one, who breathes but to adore ye!

Let no rash action mar your glory;

But when you wish

To catch some coxcomb, place before ye

The flying fish.

APRIL 20.

Two or three years ago, our captain, while his vessel was lying in Black River Bay, for the purpose of loading, was informed by his sailors, that their beef and other provisions frequently disappeared in a very unaccountable manner. However, by setting a strict watch during the night, he soon managed to clear up the mystery: and a negro, who had made his escape from the workhouse, and concealed himself on board among the bags of cotton, was found to be the thief. He was sent back to the workhouse, of which the chain was still about his neck. But another negro had better luck in a similar attempt on board of a different vessel. He contrived to secrete himself in the lower part of it, where the sugar hogsheads are stored, unknown to any one. As soon as the cargo was completed, the planks above it were caulked down, and raised no more till their ship reached Liverpool; when, to the universal astonishment, upon opening the hold, out walked Mungo, in a wretched condition to be sure, but still at least alive, and a freeman in Great Britain. During his painful voyage, he had subsisted entirely upon sugar, of which he had consumed nearly an hogshead; how he managed for water I could not learn, nor can imagine.

APRIL 23.

The old steward, this morning, told one of the sailors, who complained of being ill, that he would get well as soon as he should reach England, and could have plenty of vegetables; “for,” he said, “the man had only got a stomachick complaint; nothing but just scurvy!”

APRIL 24.

Sea Terms.—The sheets, a term for various ropes; the halyards, ropes which extend the topsails; the painter, the rope which fastens the boat to the vessel; the eight points of the compass, south, south and by east, south-south east, south east and by east, south-east, east south and by east, east south east, east and by south east. The knowledge of these points is termed “knowing how to box the compass.”

APRIL 27.

Many years ago, a new species of grass was imported into Jamaica, by Mr. Vassal, (to whom an estate near my own then belonged), as he said “for the purpose of feeding his pigs and his bookkeepers.” Its seeds being soon scattered about by the birds, it has taken possession of the cane-pieces, whence to eradicate it is an utter impossibility, the roots being as strong as those of ginger, and insinuating themselves under ground to a great extent; so that the only means of preventing it from entirely choking up the canes, is plucking it out with the hand, which is obliged to be done frequently, and has increased the labour of the plantation at least one third. This nuisance, which is called “Vassal’s grass,” from its original introducer, has now completely over-run the parish of Westmoreland, has begun to show itself in the neighbouring parishes, and probably in time will get a footing throughout the island. St. Thomas’s in the East has been inoculated with another self-inflicted plague, under the name of “the rifle-ant,” which was imported for the purpose of eating up the ants of the country; and so to be sure they did, but into the bargain they eat up every thing else which came in their way, a practice in which they persist to this hour; so that it may be doubted whether in Jamaica most execrations are bestowed in the course of the day upon Vassal’s grass, the rifle-ants, Sir Charles Price’s rats, or the Reporter of the African Society; only that the maledictions uttered against the three first are necessarily local, while the Reporter of the African Society comes in for curses from all quarters.

APRIL 30. (Tuesday.)

A whole calendar month has elapsed since our quitting Jamaica, during which the wind has been favourable for something less than four-and-twenty hours; either it has blown precisely from the point on which we wanted to sail, or has been so faint, that we scarcely made one knot an hour. However, on Tuesday last, finding ourselves in the latitude of the “still-vexed Bermoothes,” by way of variety, a sudden squall carried away both our lower stunsails in the morning; and at nine in the evening there came on a gale of wind truly tremendous. The ship pitched and rolled every minute, as if she had been on the point of overturning; the hencoops floated about the deck, and many of the poultry were found drowned in them the next morning. Just as the last dead-light was putting up, the sea embraced the opportunity of the window being open, to whip itself through, and half filled the after-cabin with water; and in half an hour more a mountain of waves broke over the vessel, and pouring itself through the sky-light, paid the same compliment to the fore-cabin, with which it had already honoured the after one. About four in the morning the storm abated, and then we relapsed into our good old jog-trot pace of a knot an hour. Our passengers consist of a Mrs. Walker with her two children, and a sick surgeon of the name of Ashman.

MAY 5. (Sunday.)

We continue to proceed at such a tortoise-pace, that it has been thought advisable to put the crew upon an allowance of water.

MAY 7.

A negro song.—“Me take my cutacoo, (i. e. a basket made of matting,) and follow him to Lucea, and all for love of my bonny man-O—My bonny man come home, come home! Doctor no do you good. When neger fall into neger hands, buckra doctor no do him good more. Come home, my gold ring, come home!” This is the song of a wife, whose husband had been Obeahed by another woman, in consequence of his rejecting her advances. A negro riddle: “Pretty Miss Nancy was going to market, and she tore her fine yellow gown, and there was not a taylor in all the town who could mend it again.” This is a ripe plantain with a broken skin. The negroes are also very fond of what they call Nancy stories, part of which is related, and part sung. The heroine of one of them is an old woman named Mamma Luna, who having left a pot boiling in her hut, found it robbed on her return. Her suspicions were divided between two children whom she found at play near her door, and some negroes who had passed that way to market. The children denied the theft positively. It was necessary for the negroes, in order to reach their own estate, to wade through a river at that time almost dry; and on their return, Mammy Luna (who it should seem, was not without some skill in witchcraft,) warned them to take care in venturing across the stream, for that the water would infallibly rise and carry away the person who had stolen the contents of her pot; but if the thief would but confess the offence, she engaged that no harm should happen, as she only wanted to exculpate the innocent, and not to punish the guilty. One and all denied the charge, and several crossed the river without fear or danger; but upon the approach of a belly-woman to the bank, she was observed to hesitate. “My neger, my neger,” said Mammy Luna, “why you stop? me tink, you savee well, who thief me?” This accusation spirited up the woman, who instantly marched into the river, singing as she went ( and the woman’s part is always chanted frequently in chorus, which the negroes call, “taking up the sing”).

“If da me eat Mammy Luna’s pease-O,

Drowny me water, drowny, drowny!”

“My neger, my neger,” cried the old woman, “me sure now you the thief! me see the water wet you feet. Come back, my neger, come back.” Still on went the woman, and still continued her song of

“If da me eat Mammy Luna’s pease, &c.”

“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,

Prostrate she falls, and thanks the Sire of life,

Whose arm hath snatched her from the billowy strife.

That duty done, she rose, and gazed around:

Mossed are the rocks, and flowers bestrew the ground.

Not distant far, a group of fragrant trees

Bend with their golden fruit. The ocean-breeze

Shakes a gigantic palm, which o’er a cave

Its dark green foliage spreads, and wildly wave

Their blooming wreaths, all starred with midnight dews,

A thousand creeping plants of thousand hues.

Then flashed the dreadful truth on Irza’s view!

That cave—those trees—that giant palm she knew!

Then from her lips for ever fled the smile:

—“Mother of God!” she shrieked, “the Demon-Isle!”—

Long on a broken crag she knelt, and prayed,

And wearied every saint for strength and aid;

Then speechless, heedless, senseless lay; when, lo!

Strange mutterings near her roused from torpid woe

Her soul to fresh alarms. Her head she reared,

And near her face an hideous face appeared;

But straight ’twas gone!—In trembling haste she rose,

And saw a ring of monstrous dwarfs inclose

Her rugged couch. Not Teniers’ hand could paint

Forms more grotesque to scare the tempted saint,

Than here, as on they pressed in circling throng,

With gnashing teeth seemed for her blood to long,

And grinned, and glared, and gloated! Quicker grew

Her breath! Death hemmed her round! As yet, ’tis true,

Far off they kept; but soon, more daring grown,

More near they crept, oft sharpening on some stone

Their long crookt claws; and still, as on they came,

They screeched and chattered; and their eyes of flame,

Twinkling and goggling, told, what pleasure grim

‘Twould give to rack and rend her limb from limb:

—“Heaven take my soul!” she cried,—when, hark! a

moan,

So full, so sad, so strange—not shriek—not groan—

Something scarce earthly—breathed above her head—

‘Twas heard, and instant every imp was fled.

What was that sound? What pitying saint from high

Had stooped to save her? Now to heaven her eye

Grateful she raised. Almighty powers!—a form,

Gigantic as the palm, black as the storm,

All shagged with hair, wild, strange in shape and show,

Towered on the loftiest cliff, and gazed below.

On her he gazed, and gazed so fixed, so hard,

Like knights of bronze some hero’s tomb who guard.

Bright wreaths of scarlet plumes his temples crowned,

And round his ankles, arms, and wrists were wound

Unnumbered glassy strings of crystals bright,

Corals, and shells, and berries red and white.

On her he gazed, and floods of sable fires

Rolled his huge eyes, and spoke his fierce desires,

As on his club, a torn-up lime, he leaned.—

“Help, Heaven!” thought Irza, “‘tis the master-fiend!”

Not long he paused: he now with one quick bound

Sprang from the cliff, and lighted on the ground.

Back fled the maid in terror; but her fear

Was needless. Humbly, slowly crept he near,

Then kissed the earth, his club before her laid,

And of his neck her footstool would have made:

But from his touch she shrank. He raised his head,

And saw her limbs convulsed, her face all dread,

And felt the cause his presence! Sad and slow

He rose, resumed his club, and turn’d to go.

Reproachful was his look, but still ’twas kind;

He climb’d the rock, but oft he gazed behind;

He reach’d the cave; one look below he threw;

Plaintive again he moan’d, and with slow steps withdrew.

She is alone; she breathes again!—Fly, fly!—

Ah! wretched girl, too late! with frenzied eye,

(Scarce gone the master-fiend) his imps she sees,

Pour from the rocks, and drop from all the trees

With yell, and squeak, and many a horrid sound,

And form a living fence to hedge her round:

—“Now then,” she cried, 4 c all’s over!—oh! farewell,

Farewell, Rosalvo!” On her knee she fell,

And told her beads with trembling hands. Yet still

On came the throng; and soon, with wanton skill

(Lured by its coral glow and cross of gold),

One snatch’d her chaplet, nor forsook his hold,

Though hard she struggled: while more bold, more fierce

Another seized her arm, and dared to pierce

With his sharp teeth its snow. The pure blood stream’d

Fast from the wound, and loud the virgin scream’d;

And strait again was heard that sad strange moan,

And instant all the dwarfs again were flown.

Scarce conscious that she lived, scarce knowing why,

Half grieved, half grateful, Irza raised her eye:

Still on the rock (not dared he down to spring)

Dark and majestic stood the demon-king;

Then lowly knelt, and raised his arm to wave

An orange bough, and court her to his cave.

Lost are her friends; no help, no hope is nigh;

What can she do, and whither can she fly?

To him already twice her life she owes,

And but his presence now restrains her foes.

On wings of flame the sun had left the main;

And peeping from the trees, the imps too plain

Shot darts of rage from their green orbs of sight:

She heard their gibberings, and she mark’d their spite;

And, while they eyed her form, their care she saw

To grind their teeth, and whet each cruel claw.

Demons alike, the monarch-demon’s breast

Appear’d least fierce; of ills she chose the best,

Sought, where profaned her coral rosary lay,

Then slowly mounted where he show’d the way.

Cautious he led her tow’rds his lone abode,

And clear’d each stone that might impede her road.

With pain she trod: she reach’d the cave; but there

No more their weight her wearied limbs could bear.

Exhausted, fainting, anguish, terror, thirst,

Fatigue o’erpower’d her frame: her heart must burst,

Her eyes grow dim! Sunk on the rock she lies,

And sinking, prays she never more may rise.

Long in this deathlike swoon she lay: at length

Exhausted nature show’d forth all its strength,

And call’d her back to life. Her opening eyes

Beheld a grotto vast in depth and size,

Whose high straight sides forbade all hopes of flight:

The fractured roof gave ample space for light,

Through which in gorgeous guise the day-star shone

On many a lucid shell and brilliant stone.

Through pendent spars and crystals as it falls,

Each beam with rainbow hues adorns the walls,

Gilds all the roof, emblazes all the ground,

And scatters light, and warmth, and splendour round.

Gently on pillowing furs reposed her head;

With many a verdant rush her couch was spread;

A gourd with blushing fruits was near her placed,

Whose scent and colour woo’d alike her taste;

And round her strewn there bloom’d unnumber’d flowers

Charming her sense with aromatic powers.

One only object chill’d her blood with ear:

Far off removed (but still, alas! too near),

Scarce breathing, lest a breath her sleep might break,

There stood the fiend, and watch’d to see her wake.

In sooth, if credit outward show might crave,

Than Irza, ne’er had nymph an humbler slave.

He watched her every glance; her frown he fear’d;

And if his pains to meet her wish appear’d,

All pains seem’d far o’er-paid, all cares appeased,

And so she found but pleasure, he was pleased.

One power he claim’d, but claim’d that power alone:

Still, when he left her side, a mass of stone

Barr’d up the grotto, nor allow’d her feet

To pass the limits of her bright retreat.

But when in quest of food not forced to stray,

In Irza’s sight he wore the livelong day,

And show’d her living springs and noontide shades,

Spice-breathing groves, and flower-enamell’d glades.

For her he still selects the sweetest roots,

The coolest waters, and the loveliest fruits;

To deck her charms the softest furs he brings,

And plucks their plumage from flamingo wings;

Bids blooming shrubs, to shade her, bend in bowers,

And strews her couch with fragrant herbs and flowers

While many an ivy-twisted grate restrains

The splendid tenants of the etherial plains.

Then, when she sought her lonesome grot at eve,

And waved her hand, and warn’d him take his leave,

Her will was his: he breathed his plaintive moan,

Gazed one last look, then gently roll’d the stone.

Perhaps, such constant care and worship paid,

More fit for angel than for mortal maid,

At length had won her, with more grateful mind

To view his gifts, and pay respect so kind;

But, as her giant-gaoler she esteem’d

Some prince of subterraneous fire, she deem’d

His favours snares, his presents only given

To shake her faith, and steal her soul from heaven.

Still then her loathing heart remain’d the same,

Joy’d when he went, and shudder’d when he came;

And when to share his fruits by hunger press’d,

Ever she bless’d them first, and cross’d her breast.

Days creep—months roll—no change! no hope! and oh!

Rosalvo lost, what hope can life bestow?

Death, only death, she feels, can end her woes;

Nor doubts death soon will bring that wish’d-for close;

For now her frame, her mind, confess disease;

Painful and faint she moves; her tottering knees

Scarce bear her weight; and oft, by humour moved,

Her sickening soul now loathes what late it loved.

It comes! the moment comes! Her frame is rent

By sharper pangs; her nerves, too strongly bent,

Seem on the point to break; her forehead burns;

Her curdling blood is fire, is ice by turns;

Her heart-strings crack!—“This hour is sure her last!’

Fainting she sinks, and hopes “that hour is pass’d!”

Wake, Irza, wake to grief most strange and deep!

Still must thou live, and only live to weep!

Oh, lift thine aching head, thy languid eyes,

And mark what hideous stranger near thee lies.

“Guard me, all blessed saints!”—A monster child

Press’d her green couch; and, as it grimly smiled,

Its shaggy limbs, and eyes of sable fire,

Betray’d the crime, and claim’d its hellish sire!

“Lost! lost! My soul is lost!” the affrighted maid,

(Ah, now a maid no more!) distracted, said,

And wrung her hands. Those words she scarce could say;

Yet would have pray’d, but fear’d’t was sin to pray!

That only veil which ne’er admits a stain,

The veil of ignorance, was rent in twain:

In spite of virtue, cloisters, horror, youth,

She knows, and feels, and shudders at the truth.

That night accursed!—In death-like swoon she slept—

Then near her couch if that dark demon crept—

Oh! where was then her guardian angel’s aid?

And would not heavenly Mary save her maid?

Deprived of sense—betray’d by place and time—

Then was she doom’d to share the unconscious crime?

Debased, deflower’d, and stamp’d a wretch for life,

A monster’s mother, and a demon’s wife?

Oh! at that thought her soul what passions tear!

How then she beats her breast, how rends her hair,

And bids, with golden ringlets scatter’d round,

Stream all the air, and glitter all the ground!

Sighs, sobs, and shrieks the place of words supply;

And still she mourns to live, and prays to die,

Till heart denies to groan, and eyes to flow;

Then, on her couch of rushes sinking low,

Languid and lost she lies, in silent, senseless woe.

What lifts her burning head? why opes her eye?

What makes her blood run back? A faint shrill cry!

Too well, alas! that cry was understood:

The monster pined for want, and claim’d its food.

Then in her heart what rival passions strove!

How shrinks disgust, how yearns maternal love!

Now to its life her feelings she prefers;

Now Nature wakes, and makes her own—“’Tis hers!”

Loathing its sight, she melts to hear its cries,

And, while she yields the breast, averts her eyes.

Not so the demon-sire: the child he raised,

He kiss’d it—danced it—nursed it—knelt, and gazed,

Till joyful tears gush’d forth, and dimm’d his sight:

Scarce Irza’s self was view’d with more delight.

He held it tow’rds her—horror seem’d to thrill

Her frame. He sigh’d, and clasp’d it closer still.

Once, and but once, his features wrath express’d:

He saw her shudder, as it drain’d her breast;

And, while reproach half mingled with his moan,

Snatch’d it from her’s, and press’d it to his own.

Three months had pass’d; still lived the monster-brat:

Its sire had sought the wood; alone she sat:

She sheds no tears—no tears are left to shed;

Unmoisten’d burn her eyes—her heart seems dead—

Her form seems marble. Lo! from far the sound

Of music steals, and fills the caves around.

She starts!—scarce breathing—trembling;—“Oh! for

wings!”—

But hark! for nearer now the minstrel sings. .

SONG.

1.

When summer smiled on Goa’s bowers

They seem’d so fair;

All light the skies, all bloom the flowers,

All balm the air!

The mock-bird swell’d his amorous lay,

Soft, sweet, and clear; .

And all was beauteous, all was gay,

For she was near.

2.

But now the skies in vain are bright

With Summer’s glow;

The pea-dove’s call to Love’s delight

Augments my woé;

And blushing roses vainly bloom;

Their charms are fled,

And all is sadness, all is gloom,

For she is dead!

3.

Now o’er thy head, my virgin love,

Rolls Ocean’s wave;

But fond regret, in myrtle grove,

Hath dug thy grave.

Sweet flowers, around her vacant urn

Your wreaths I’ll twine,

And pray such flowers, ere Spring’s return,

May garland mine!

“He! he!”—That love-lorn dirge—that heavenly

tongue—

That air, she taught him; ’t was Rosalvo sung!

Rosalvo, whom the waves, which wreck’d their bark,

Had borne, like her, for purpose sad and dark,

To that strange isle; though far remote the beach

From Irza’s grot, which Fate ordain’d him reach;

But now at length his curious search explores

These rude and slippery crags and distant shores;

And while he treads his dangerous path, the strains

Which Irza taught him soothe her lover’s pains.

She hears his steps, and hears them soon more near;

And loud she cries—“Rosalvo! Hear! oh, hear!

‘Tis Irza calls!” and now more quick, more nigh,

Down the steep rock she hears those footsteps fly.

Again she calls. He comes! He searches round;

He seeks the gate, and soon the gate is found.

Alas! ’t is found in vain! the marble guard

Seem’d rooted as the rock, whose mouth it barr’d.

Yet still, with labouring nerves, to move the stone

He struggles. Now he stops; and, hark! A groan!

But one; then all was hush’d! A sickening chill

Seized Irza’s heart, and seem’d her veins to thrill.

Fain had she call’d her youthful bridegroom’s name;

Her tongue Fear’s numbing fingers seem’d to lame.

Footsteps!—more near they drew:—slow rolled the

stone—

The infernal gaoler came, but came alone.

With anxious glance his eye explored the cell;

But when it fix’d on her’s, abash’d it fell.

He knelt, and seem’d to fear her frown. He bore

His club.‘T was splash’d with brains! ’t was wet with

gore!

She fear’d—she guess’d—she rush’d—she ran—she

flew,—

Nor dared the fiend her frantic course pursue.

“Rosalvo! speak! Rosalvo!” Shrill, yet sweet,

She wakes the echoes. What obstructs her feet?

‘T is he, the young, the good, the kind, the fair!

As some frail lily, which the passing share *

Or wanton boy hath wounded, droops its head,

Its whiteness wither’d, and its fragrance fled,

Low lay the youth, and from his temple’s wound

With precious streams bedew’d the ensanguin’d ground.

Then reason fled its seat! She shrieks! she raves!

And fills with hideous yells the ocean caves;

Rends her bright locks, and laughs to see them fly,

And bids them seek Rosalvo in the sky.

To dig his grave she fiercely ploughs the ground,

Loud shrieks his name, nor feels the flints that wound

Her bosom’s globes, and stain their snow with gore,

As wild she dashes down, and beats in rage the floor.

Now fail her strength, her spirits; mute she sits,

Silent and sad; then laughs and sings by fits.

A statue now she seems, or one just dead,

Her looks all gloom, her eyes two balls of lead:

Then simply smiles, and chaunts, with idiot glee,

“Ave Maria! Benedicite!”

Till, Nature’s powers revived by rest, again

The fury passions riot in her brain,

And all is rage, revenge, and helpless, hopeless pain.

Days, weeks, months pass. Time came with slow relief;

But still at length it came. No more her grief

Disturbs her brain: she knows “that groan was his!”

And fully feels herself the wretch she is.

She rises: towards the grotto’s mouth she goes,

Nor dares the fiend her wandering steps oppose.

She seeks the spot on which Rosalvo fell,

On which he died! She knows that spot too well!

But, lo! no corse was there! All smooth and green

A velvet turf o’erstrewn with flowers was seen,

And fenced with roses. “Oh! whose pious care

Hath deck’d this grave? Hear, gracious Heaven, his

prayer,

When most he needs!” While thus in doubt she stands,

She marks the fiend’s approach. His ebon hands

Sustain’d a gourd of flowers of various hue;

He pour’d them, kiss’d the turf, and straight withdrew

Hither each morn his blooming gifts he bore,

Smooth’d the green sod, and strew’d it o’er and o’er.

Hither, each morn, came Irza; on those flowers

She wept, she pray’d, she sang away her hours.

So mourns the nightingale on poplar spray *,

Her callow brood by shepherds borne away,

Weeps all the night, and from her green retreat

Fills the wide groves with warblings sad as sweet.

And still fresh woes succeed. She feels again

Mysterious pangs, nor doubts her cause of pain.

Too sure, while lost in maniac state she lay,

Her sense, her wits, her feeling all away,

The fiend once more had seized the unguarded hour

To force her weakness, and abuse his ower.

“Qualis populeâ,” &c.—Virgil.

Again Lucina came. That new-born cry,

Shuddering, again she heard; her fearful eye

Wander’d around awhile, nor dared to stay.

“There, there he lies! my child!” With fresh essay

Once more she turn’d. But when at length her sight

Dwelt on its face, her wonder—her delight—

Can ne’er by tongue be told, by fancy guess’d!

Frantic she caught, she kiss’d, and lull’d him on her breast.

Oh! who can paint how Irza loved that child!

Grieved when he moan’d, and smiled whene’er he smiled!

His dimpled arm soft on the rushes lay;

Through his fine skin the blood was seen to play;

That skin than down of swans more smooth and white;

Nor e’er shone summer sky so blue and bright,

As shone the eyes of that same cherub elf;

In small the model of her beauteous self.

The scant gold locks which gilt his ivory brow,

Were sun-beams gleaming on a globe of snow;

And on his coral lips the red which stood,

Shamed the first rose, whose milk was Paphia’s blood.

By fairy-thefts since nurses were beguiled,

Never stole fairy yet a lovelier child!

In Nature’s costlier charms no babe array’d,

At length a mother’s fears and throes repaid:

Not when Lucina first in myrtle grove,

To Beauty’s kiss presented new-born Love;

And while, with wond’ring eyes, the immortal boy

Imbibed new light, and pour’d ecstatic joy:

He kiss’d and drain’d by turns her fragrant breast,

Till amorous ring-doves coo’d the god to rest.

Mothers may love as much, but never more,

Nor e’er did mother love so well before,

As Irza loved that child! Her sable lord

Mark’d well that love; and now, to health restored,

He felt her child to home would chain her feet,

Nor roll’d the stone to close her lone retreat.

Still, when he went, he with him bore away

That fav’rite babe, nor fear’d she far would stray.

Arm’d with his club, she now might safely rove

Through verdant vale, or weep in shadowy grove;

For soon the dwarfs were used to bear her sight,

Knew that dread club, nor dared indulge their spite.

Still from afar off looks of rage they cast,

And shrilly squeal’d and clamour’d as she pass’d;

But by their flight when near she came, ’t was seen,

They own’d allegiance, and confess’d their queen.

One morn her savage lord, in quest of food,

Forsook tho cave, and sought th’ adjacent wood;

And as her darling boy he with him bore,

Irza, unwatch’d, might pace the sounding shore.

Listless and slow she moved, and climb’d with pain

A tow’ring cliff, which beetled o’er the main.

Now three full years had flown, since Irza’s eye

Had dwelt on human form, and since reply

From human tongue had blest her ear.‘Tis true,

Throned on a rock, which spread before her view

The sea’s wide-stretching plains, she once descried

A gallant vessel plough the neighbouring tide.

By cries to draw it near she long essay’d,

And oft a palm-bough waved in sign for aid:

But all her cries and all her signs were vain;

On sail’d the bark, nor e’er return’d again!

On that same rock she sat, and eyed the wave,

And wish’d she there had found her wat’ry grave!

Fain had she sought one then, plunged from the steep.

And buried all her sufferings in the deep;

But faith alike and reason bade her shun

That wish, nor break a thread which God had spun.

Hark!—was it fancy?—hark again!—the shores

Echo the sound of fast approaching oars.

Oh! how she gazed!—a barge (by friars ’twas mann’d)

Cut the smooth waves, and sought the rocky strand.

Soon (while his wither’d hands a crosier hold,

All rich with gems, and rough with sculptured gold),

Landing alone, a reverend monk appear’d:—

His jewell’d cross—his flowing silver beard—

“‘Tis he!—‘tis he!”—swift down the steep she flies,

Falls at the stranger’s feet, and frantic cries,

Down her pale cheek while tears imploring roll,

“Help, father abbot! save me! save my soul!”

‘Twas he indeed! that bark which ne’er return’d,

Well on the cliff* her fair wild form discern’d,

But deem’d some island-fiend had spread a snare

To lure them with a form so wild and fair.

Yet oft in Lisbon would those seamen tell,

How angled for their souls the prince of hell;

And warmly paint, their leisure to beguile,

The fallen angel of th’ enchanted isle.

At length this wonder reach’d the abbot’s ear,

And prompt affection made the wonder clear:—

“’Twas Irza! shipwreck’d Irza! none but she

So heav’nly fair, so lonely lost could be!”

Straight he prepares anew that sea to brave,

Which once already seem’d to yawn his grave;

Nor ask, how chanced it that he reach’d the shore:

It was through a miracle and nothing more.

Whether on monkish frock as safe rode he,

As night-hags skim in sieves o’er Norway’s sea;

Or like Arion plough’d the wat’ry plain,

Horsed on some monster of the astonish’d main,

Some shark, some whale, some kraken, some sea-cow—

St. Francis saved him, and it boots not how.

And now again the saint his priest survey’d,

From waves and winds imploring heavenly aid;

Resolved for Irza’s sake to brave the worst

Which fate could offer on that isle accurst.

Far off his ship was anchor’d; on that strand

Not India’s wealth could make a layman land!

Therefore with none but monks he mann’d his barge,

Which bore of beads and bells a sacred charge;

Whole heaps of relics lent by Cintra’s nuns,

And holy water (blest at Rome) by tons!

His toils were all o’erpaid! he saw again

His fav’rite child, and kindly soothed her pain;

And while her tale he heard, oft dropp’d a tear,

And sign’d his beard-swept breast in awe and fear:

Then bade her speed the friendly bark to gain,

And fly the infernal monarch’s green domain;

Nor yield her tyrant time to cast a spell,

And rouse to cross her flight the powers of hell.

Then first from Irza’s cheek the glow of red,

By hope of rescue raised, grew faint, and fled;

Trembling she nam’d her cherub-boy, confess’d

A mother’s fondness fill’d his mother’s breast;

Described how fair he look’d, how sweet he smiled,

And fear’d her flight might quite destroy her child.

Then rose the abbot’s ire—ee Oh, guilty care!”

Frowning, he cried, and shook his hoary hair:

“Fair is the imp? and shall he therefore breathe

To win new subjects for the realms beneath?

The fiends most dangerous are those spirits bright,

Who toil for hell, and show like sons of light;

And still when Satan spreads his subtlest snares,

The baits are azure eyes, the lines are golden hairs.

Name thou the brat no more! To Cintra’s walls

Fly, where thy footsteps mild repentance calls.

I’ll hear no plaint! kneel not! I’m deaf to prayer!

Swift, brethren, to the barge this maniac bear;

Speed! speed!—no tears!—no struggling!—no delay

Row, brethren, row, and waft us swift away!”

The monks obeyed. Then, then in Irza’s soul

What various passions raged, and mock’d control!

Now how she mourn’d, now how she wept for joy,

How loathed the sire, and how adored the boy!

The barge is gain’d; they row. When, lo! from high

Her ear again receives that well-known cry,

That sad, strange moan! she starts, and lifts her eye.

There, on a rock which fenced the strand, once more

She saw her demon-husband stand: he bore

Her beauteous babe; and, while he view’d the barge,

Keen anguish seem’d each feature to enlarge,

And shake each giant limb. With piteous air

His arms he spread, his hands he clasp’d in prayer;

Knelt, wept, and while his eye-balls seem’d to burn,

Oft show’d the child, and woo’d her to return.

His suit the monks disdain; the barge recedes;

More humbly now he kneels, more earnest pleads.

But when he found no tears their course delay,

And still the boat pursued its watery way;

Then, ’gainst his grief and rage no longer proof,

He gnash’d his teeth, he stamp’d his iron hoof,

Whirl’d the boy wildly round and round his head,

Hash’d it against the rocks, and howling fled.

Loud shrieks the mother! changed to stone she stands,

And silent lifts to heav’n her clay-cold hands:

Then, sinking down, stretch’d on the deck she lies,

Hid her pale face, and closed her aching eyes.

But hark! why shout the monks?—C£ Again,” they said,

“Again the demon comes!” with desperate dread

Starts the poor wretch, and lifts her anguish’d head.

Yes! there the infant-murderer stood once more,

But now far different were the looks he wore.

No bending knee, no suppliant glance was seen,

Proud was his port, and stern and fierce his mien.

His blood-stain’d eye-balls glared with vengeful ire;

His spreading nostrils seem’d to snort out fire.

Swiftly from crag to crag he following sprung,

While round his neck his shaggy offspring clung;

And now, like some dark tow’r, erect he stood,

Where the last rock hung frowning o’er the flood:—

“Look! look!” he seem’d to say, with action wild,

“Look, mother, look! this babe is still your child!

With him as me all social bonds you break,

Scorn’d and detested for his father’s sake:

My love, my service only wrought disdain,

And nature fed his heart from yours in vain!

Then go, Ingrate, far o’er the ocean go,

Consign your friend, your child to endless woe!

Renounce us! hate us! pleased, your course pursue,

And break their hearts who lived alone for you!”

His eyes, which flash’d red fire—his arms spread wide,

Her child raised high to heaven—too plain implied,

Such were his thoughts, though nature speech denied.

And now with eager glance the deep he view’d,

And now the barge with savage howl pursued;

Then to his lips his infant wildly press’d,

And fondly, fiercely, clasp’d it to his breast:

Three piteous moans, three hideous yells he gave,

Plunged headlong from the rock, and made the sea his

grave.

Where, screen’d by orange groves and myrtle bowers,

Saint-favour’d Cintra rears her gothic towers;

A nun there dwells, most holy, sad, and fair,

Her only business penance, fasts, and prayer;

Her only joy with flowers the shrines to dress,

Weep with the suff’ring, and relieve distress.

A poor lay-sister she; yet golden rain

Showers from her hand to glad each barren plain:

In other eyes she lights up joy, but ne’er

Those eyes of hers were seen a smile to wear:

From other breasts she plucks the thorn of grief,

But feels, her own admits of no relief.

Where age and sickness count the hours by groans,

Uncalled, she comes to hear and hush their moans.

There, ever humble, watchful, patient, kind,

No nauseous task, no servile care declined,

O’er the sick couch, all day, all night she hangs,

Till health or death relieves the sufferer’s pangs.

No thanks she takes, no praise from man receives,

Her duty done, the rest to God she leaves;

But only when her care redeems a life,

Parting she says—“Pray for a demon’s wife!”

With blessings still, whene’er that nun they view,

The young, the aged her sainted steps pursue,

And cry, with bended knee and suppliant air,

ee Sister of mercy, name us in thy prayer!”

With beads the night, in gracious acts the day,

So wore her youth, so wears her age away.

Now cease, my lay! thy mournful task is o’er;

Irza, farewell! I wake thy lute no more.

“Was such her fate? and did her days thus creep

So sad, so slow, till came the long last sleep?

And did for this her hands with roses twine

The Saviour’s altars and the Virgin’s shrine?

Pure, beauteous, rich, did all these blessings tend,

But from the world in prime of life to send

This gifted maid, in prayer to waste her hours,

And weep a fancied crime in cloister’d bowers?”

Oh, blind to fate! perhaps that fancied crime

Which bade her quit the world in youthful prime,

Snatch’d her from paths, where beauty, wealth, and fame

Had proved but snares to load her soul with shame,

And spared her pangs from wilful guilt which flow,

The only serious ills that man can know!

Ah! what avails it, since they ne’er can last,

If gay or sad our span of days be past?

Pray, mortals, pray, in sickness or in pain,

Not long nor blest to live, but pure from stain.

A life of pleasure, and a life of woe,

When both are past, the difference who can show?

But all can tell, how wide apart in price

A life of virtue, and a life of vice.

Then still, sad Irza, tread your thorny way,

Since life must end, and merits ne’er decay.

Wounded past hope, still prize the pleasure pure,

To heal those hearts which yet can hope a cure;

Nor doubt, the soul which joys in noble deeds

Shall reap a rich reward when most it needs.

When comes that day to conscious guilt so dread,

Angels unseen shall bathe your burning head:

The prayers of orphans fan with balmy breath,

And widow’s blessings drown the threats of death;

Each sigh your pity hush’d shall swelling rise

In loud hosannas when you mount the skies;

And every tear on earth to sorrow given,

Be precious pearls to wreathe your brows in heaven!

APRIL 17.

Piansi i riposi di quest’ umil vita,

E sospirai la mia perduta pace!”

I regret the loss of our dead calm and our crawling pace of a knot and a half an hour; for during the last four days we have had nothing but gales and squalls, mountainous waves, the vessel rolling and pitching incessantly, and the sea perpetually pouring in at the windows and down through the hatchway. Into the bargain, we are now sufficiently towards the north to find the weather perishingly cold, and we have neither wood nor coals enough on board to allow a fire for the cabin.

But, among all our inconveniences, that which is the most intolerable undoubtedly arises from the sick apothecary. It seems that his complaint is the consequence of dram-drinking, which has affected his liver. Since his coming on board, he has continued to indulge his taste; and growing worse (as might be expected), he has now thought proper to put himself in a state of salivation: the consequence is, that what with the mercury and what with the man, aided by the concomitant effluvia of our cargo of sugar, rum, and coffee, for a combination of villanous smells, Falstaff’s buck-basket was nothing to the cabin of the Sir Godfrey Webster. I could almost fancy myself Slawken-bergius’s Don Diego just returned from the Promontory of Noses, and that I had exchanged my snub for a proboscis; so much do all my other senses appear to be absorbed in that of smelling, and so completely do I seem to myself to be nose all over. As to the poor apothecary, his mercury annoys us without any signs as yet of its benefiting himself. He grows worse daily, and I greatly doubt his ever reaching England.

APRIL 19. (Sunday.)

I have not been able to ascertain exactly the negro notions concerning the Duppy; indeed, I believe that his character and qualities vary in different parts of the country. At first, I thought that the term Duppy meant neither more nor less than a ghost; but sometimes he is spoken of as “the Duppy,” as if there were but one, and then he seems to answer to the devil. Sometimes he is a kind of malicious spirit, who haunts burying-grounds (like the Arabian gouls), and delights in playing tricks to those who may pass that way. On other occasions, he seems to be a supernatural attendant on the practitioners of Obeah, in the shape of some animal, as familiar imps are supposed to belong to our English witches; and this latter is the part assigned to him in the following “Nancy-story:”—

“Sarah Winyan was scarcely ten years old, when her mother died, and bequeathed to her considerable property. Her father was already dead; and the guardianship of the child devolved upon his sister, who had always resided in the same house, and who was her only surviving relation. Her mother, indeed, had left two sons by a former husband, but they lived at some distance in the wood, and seldom came to see their mother; chiefly from a rooted aversion to this aunt; who, although from interested motives she stooped to flatter her sister-in-law, was haughty, ill-natured, and even suspected of Obeahism, from the occasional visits of an enormous black dog, whom she called Tiger, and whom she never failed to feed and caress with marked distinction. In case of Sarah’s death, the aunt, in right of her brother, was the heiress of his property. She was determined to remove this obstacle to her wishes; and after treating her for some time with harshness and even cruelty, she one night took occasion to quarrel with her for some trifling fault, and fairly turned her out of doors. The poor girl seated herself on a stone near the house, and endeavoured to beguile the time by singing—

‘Ho-day, poor me, O!

Poor me, Sarah Winyan, O!

They call me neger, neger!

They call me Sarah Winyan, O!’

“But her song was soon interrupted by a loud rushing among the bushes; and the growling which accompanied it announced the approach of the dreaded Tiger. She endeavoured to secure herself against his attacks by climbing a tree: but it seems that Tiger had not been suspected of Obeahism without reason; for he immediately growled out an assurance to the girl, that come down she must and should! Her aunt, he said, had made her over to him by contract, and had turned her out of doors that night for the express purpose of giving him an opportunity of carrying her away. If she would descend from the tree, and follow him willingly to his own den to wait upon him, he engaged to do her no harm; but if she refused to do this, he threatened to gnaw down the tree without loss of time, and tear her into a thousand pieces. His long sharp teeth, which he gnashed occasionally during the above speech, appeared perfectly adequate to the execution of his menaces, and Sarah judged it most prudent to obey his commands. But as she followed Tiger into the wood, she took care to resume her song of

‘Ho-day, poor me, O!’

in hopes that some one passing near them might hear her name, and come to her rescue. Tiger, however, was aware of this, and positively forbad her singing. However, she contrived every now and then to loiter behind; and when she thought him out of hearing, her

‘Ho-day! poor me, O!’

began again; although she was compelled to sing in so low a voice, through fear of her four-footed master, that she had but faint hopes of its reaching any ear but her own. Such was, indeed, the event, and Tiger conveyed her to his den without molestation. In the meanwhile, her two half-brothers had heard of their mother’s death, and soon arrived at the house to enquire what was become of Sarah. The aunt received them with every appearance of welcome; told them that grief for the loss of her only surviving parent had already carried her niece to the grave, which she showed them in her garden; and acted her part so well, that the youths departed perfectly satisfied of the decease of their sister. But while passing through the wood on their return, they heard some one singing, but in so low a tone that it was impossible to distinguish the words. As this part of the wood was the most unfrequented, they were surprised to find any one concealed there. Curiosity induced them to draw nearer, and they soon could make out the

‘Ho-day! poor me, O!

Poor me, Sarah Winyan, O!’

“There needed no more to induce them to hasten onwards; and upon advancing deeper into the thicket, they found themselves at the mouth of a large cavern in a rock. A fire was burning within it; and by its light they perceived their sister seated on a heap of stones, and weeping, while she chanted her melancholy ditty in a low voice, and supported on her lap the head of the formidable Tiger. This was a precaution which he always took when inclined to sleep, lest she should escape; and she had taken advantage of his slumbers to resume her song in as low a tone as her fears of waking him would allow. She saw her brothers at the mouth of the cave: the youngest fortunately had a gun with him, and he made signs that Sarah should disengage herself from Tiger if possible. It was long before she could summon up courage enough to make the attempt; but at length, with fear and trembling, and moving with the utmost caution, she managed to slip a log of wood between her knees and the frightful head, and at length drew herself away without waking him. She then crept softly out of the cavern, while the youngest brother crept as softly into it: the monster’s head still reposed upon the block of wood; in a moment it was blown into a thousand pieces; and the brothers, afterwards cutting the body into four parts, laid one in each quarter of the wood.”

From that time only were dogs brought into subjection to men; and the inhabitants of Jamaica would never have been able to subdue those ferocious animals, if Tiger had not been killed and quartered by Sarah Winyan’s brothers. As to the aunt, she received the punishment which she merited, but I cannot remember what it was exactly. Probably, the brothers killed and quartered her as well as her four-footed ally; or, perhaps, she was turned into a wild beast, and supplied the vacancy left by Tiger, as was the case with the celebrated Zingha, queen of Angola; who, although she embraced Christianity on her death-bed, and died according to the most orthodox forms of the Romish religion, still had conducted herself in such a manner while alive, that shortly after her decease, the kingdom being ravaged by a hyena, her subjects could not be persuaded but that the soul of this most Christian queen had transmigrated into the body of the hyena. Yet this was surely doing the hyena great injustice; for she, at least, had never been in the habit of composing ointments by pounding little children in a mortar with her own hands; an amusement which Zingha had introduced at the court of Angola. It took surprisingly; shortly, no woman thought her toilette completed, unless she had used some of this ointment. Pounding children became all the rage; and ladies who aspired to be the leaders of fashion, pounded their own.

APRIL 20.

EPIGRAM.—(From the French.)

“Whose can that little monster be?

Its parents really claim one’s pity!”

“Madam, that child belongs to me.”—

“Well, I protest, she’s vastly pretty!”

APRIL 21.

The weather gets no better, the apothecary gets no worse, and both are as foul and as disagreeable as they can well be. As to the man, it is wonderful that he is still alive, for he has swallowed nothing for the last three weeks except drams and laudanum. He drinks, and he stinks, and he does nothing else earthly or celestial. The quantity of spirits which he pours down his throat incessantly should, of itself, be sufficient to finish him; but he seems to have accustomed himself to drams, as Mithridates used himself to poisons, till his stomach is completely proof against them; or like the Scythian princess, who was fed upon ratsbane pap from her infancy, for the express purpose of one day or other poisoning Alexander in her embraces; and who arrived at such perfection, that although the venom did no harm to her own constitution, she killed a condemned criminal with a single kiss. The consequence was, that hemp fell fifty per cent, and Jack Ketch’s nose was put out of joint completely; for the devil a culprit of any pretensions to taste could be found in all Scythia, who could be prevailed upon to be executed except by her royal highness’s own lips. I am afraid this story is not strictly historical, and that we should look for it in vain in Quintus Curtius.

APRIL 23.

A gale of wind began to show itself on Monday night; it has continued to blow ever since with increasing violence, and is now become very serious. The captain says that he never experienced weather so severe at this season: this is only my usual luck. Certainly nothing can be more disagreeable than a ship on these occasions. The sea breaks over the vessel every minute, and it is really something awful to see the waves raised into the air by the force of the gale, hovering for a while over the ship, and then coming down upon us swop, to inundate every thing below deck as well as upon it. The wind is piercingly cold; the floors and walls are perpetually streaming. But a fire is quite out of the question; and, indeed, at one time to-day, our eating appeared to be out of the question too; for at four o’clock the cook sent us word, that the sea put the kitchen-fire out as fast as he could light it; that he was almost frozen, having been for the last eight hours up to his waist in water; and that we must make up our minds to get no dinner to-day. However, the steward coaxed him, and encouraged him, and poured spirits down his throat, and at last a dinner of some kind was put upon the table; but it had not been there ten minutes, before a tremendous sea poured itself down the companion stairs and through the hatchway, set every thing on the table afloat, deluged the cabin, ducked most of the company, and drove us all into the other room. I was lucky enough to escape with only a sprinkling; but Mrs. Walker was soaked through from head to foot. We can only cross the cabin by creeping along by the sides as if we were so many cats. Walking the deck, even for the sailors, is absolutely out of the question; and the little cabin-boy has so fairly given up the attempt, that he goes crawling about upon all fours. Even our Spanish mastiff, Flora, finds it impossible to keep her four legs upon deck. Every five minutes up they all go, away rolls the dog over and over; and when she gets up again, shakes her ears, and howls in a tone of the most piteous astonishment.

APRIL 24.

Though the gale was itself sufficiently serious, its effects at first were ludicrous enough; but yesterday it produced a consequence truly shocking and alarming. Edward Sadler, the second mate, was at breakfast in the steerage: the boatswain had been cutting some beef with a large case-knife, which he had afterwards put down upon the chest on which they were sitting: a sudden heel of the ship threw them all to the other side of the cabin: the knife fell with its haft against the ladder; and poor Edward falling against it, at least three inches of the blade were forced into his right side. The wound was dressed without the loss of a moment; but, from its depth, the jaggedness of the weapon with which it was made, and from a pain which immediately afterwards seized the poor fellow in his chest, the apothecary thinks that his recovery is very improbable: he says that the liver is certainly perforated, and so probably are the lungs. If the latter have escaped, it must have been only by the breadth of a hair. Every one in the ship is distressed beyond measure at this accident, for the young man is a universal favourite. He is but just one and twenty, good-looking, with manners much superior to his station; and so unusually steady, as well as active, that if Providence grants him life, he cannot fail to raise himself in his profession.

APRIL 25.

Edward complains no longer of the pain in his chest; he sleeps well, eats enough, has no fever, and every symptom is so favourable, that Dr. Ashman encourages us to hope that he has received no material injury. Our ship-carpenter has always appeared to be the sulkiest and surliest of sea-bears: yet, on the day of Edward’s accident, he passed every minute that he could command by the side of his sofa, kneeling, and praying, and watching him as if he had been his son; and every now and then wiping away his “own tears” with the dirtiest of all possible pocket-handkerchiefs. So that what Goldsmith said of Dr. Johnson may be applied to this old man: “He has nothing of a bear but his skin.” After tearing every sail in the ship into shivers, and being as disagreeable as ever it could be, the gale has at length abated. Yesterday it was a storm, and we were going to Ireland, Lisbon, Brest—in short, every where except to England; to-day, it is a dead calm, and we are going nowhere at all.

APRIL 26. (Sunday.)

The gale has returned with increased violence, and we are once more at our old trade of dead lights; however, for this time, the wind, at least, is in our favour.

APRIL 28.

The wounded mate is so much recovered as to come upon deck for a few hours to-day, and may now be considered as completely out of danger; although Dr. Ashman is positive (from his difficulty of breathing at first, and the subsequent pain in his chest) that his lungs must actually have been wounded, however slightly. We are now nearly abreast of Scilly; we fell in with several Scilly boats to-day, from whom we obtained a very acceptable supply of fish, vegetables, and newspapers.

APRIL 29.

An African Nancy-Story.—The headman (i. e. the king) of a large district in Africa, in one of his tours, visited a young nobleman, to whom he lost a considerable sum at play. On his departure he loaded his host with caresses, and insisted on his coming in person to receive payment at court; but his pretended kindness had not deceived the nurse of the young man. She told him, that the headman was certainly incensed against him for having conquered him at play, and meant to do him some injury; that having been so positively ordered to come to court, he could not avoid obeying; but she advised him to take the river-road, where, at a particular hour, he would find the king’s youngest and favourite daughter bathing; and she instructed him how to behave. The youth reached the river, and concealed himself, till he saw the princess enter the stream alone; but when she thought fit to regain the bank, she found herself extremely embarrassed.—‘Ho-day! what is become of my clothes? ho-day! who has stolen my clothes? ho-day! if any one will bring me back my clothes, I promise that no harm shall happen to him this day—O!’—This was the cue for which the youth had been instructed to wait. ‘Here are your clothes, missy!’ said he, stepping from his concealment: ‘a rogue had stolen them, while you were bathing; but I took them from him, and have brought them back.’—‘Well, young man, I will keep my promise to you. You are going to court, I know; and I know also, that the headman will chop off your head, unless at first sight you can tell him which of his three daughters is the youngest. Now I am she; and in order that you may not mistake, I will take care to make a sign; and then do not you fail to pitch upon me.’ The young man assured her, that, having once seen her, he never could possibly mistake her for any other, and then set forwards with a lightened heart. The headman received him very graciously, feasted him with magnificence, and told him that he would present him to his three daughters, only that there was a slight rule respecting them to which he must conform. Whoever could not point out which was the youngest, must immediately lose his head. The young man kissed the ground in obedience, the door opened, and in walked three little black dogs. Now, then, the necessity of the precaution taken by the princess was evident; the youth looked at the dogs earnestly; something induced the headman to turn away his eyes for a moment, and in that moment one of the dogs lifted up its fore paw.

‘This,’ cried the youth—‘this is your youngest daughter;’—and instantly the dogs vanished, and three young women appeared in their stead. The headman was equally surprised and incensed; but concealing his rage, he professed the more pleasure at that discovery; because, in consequence, the law of that country obliged him to give his youngest daughter in marriage to the person who should recognise her; and he charged his future son-in-law to return in a week, when he should receive his bride. But his feigned caresses could no longer deceive the young man: as it was evident that the headman practised Obeah, he did not dare to disobey him; and knew that to escape by flight would be unavailing. It was, therefore, with melancholy forebodings that he set out for court on the appointed day; and (according to the advice of his old nurse) he failed not to take the road which led by the river. The princess came again to bathe; her clothes again vanished; she had again recourse to her ‘Ho-day! what is become of my clothes?’ and on hearing the same promise of protection, the youth again made his appearance. ‘Here are your clothes, missy,’ said he; ‘the wind had blown them away to a great distance; I found them hanging upon the bushes, and have brought them back to you.’ Probably the princess thought it rather singular, that whenever her petticoats were missing, the same person should always happen to be in the way to find them: however, as she was remarkably handsome, she kept her thoughts to herself, swallowed the story like so much butter, and assured him of her protection. ‘My father,’ said she, ‘will again ask you which is the youngest daughter; and as he suspects me of having assisted you before, he threatens to chop off my head instead of yours, should I disobey him a second time. He will, therefore, watch me too closely to allow of my making any sign to you; but still I will contrive something to distinguish me from my sisters; and do you examine us narrowly till you find it.’ As she had foretold, the headman no sooner saw his destined son-in-law enter, than he told him that he should immediately receive his bride; but that if he did not immediately point her out, the laws of the kingdom sentenced him to lose his head. Upon which the door opened, and in walked three large black cats, so exactly similar in every respect, that it was utterly impossible to distinguish one from the other. The youth was at length on the point of giving up the attempt in despair, when it struck him, that each of the cats had a slight thread passed round its neck; and that while the threads of two were scarlet, that of the third was blue. ‘This is your youngest daughter;’ cried he, snatching up the cat with the blue thread. The headman was utterly at a loss to conceive by what means he had made the discovery; but could not deny the fact, for there stood the princesses in their own shape. He therefore affected to be greatly pleased, gave him his bride, and made a great feast, which was followed by a ball; but in the midst of it the princess whispered her lover to follow her silently into the garden. Here she told him, that an old Obeah woman, who had been her father’s nurse, had warned him, that if his youngest daughter should live to see the day after her wedding, he would lose his power and his life together; that she, therefore, was sure of his intending to destroy both herself and her bridegroom that night in their sleep; but that, being aware of all these circumstances, she had watched him so narrowly as to get possession of some of his magical secrets, which might possibly enable her to counteract his cruel designs. She then gathered a rose, picked up a pebble, filled a small phial with water from a rivulet; and thus provided, she and her lover betook themselves to flight upon a couple of the swiftest steeds in her father’s stables. It was midnight before the headman missed them: his rage was excessive; and immediately mounting his great horse, Dandy, he set forwards in pursuit of the lovers. Now Dandy galloped at the rate of ten miles a minute. The princess was soon aware of her pursuer: without loss of time she pulled the rose to pieces, scattered the leaves behind her, and had the satisfaction of seeing them instantly grow up into a wood of briars, so strong and so thickly planted, that Dandy vainly attempted to force his way through them. But, alas! this fence was but of a very perishable nature. In the time that it would have taken to wither its parent rose-leaves, the briars withered away; and Dandy was soon able to trample them down, while he continued his pursuit. Now, then, the pebble was thrown in his passage; it burst into forty pieces, and every piece in a minute became a rock as lofty as the Andes. But the Andes themselves would have offered no insurmountable obstacles to Dandy, who bounded from precipice to precipice; and the lovers and the headman could once more clearly distinguish each other by the first beams of the rising sun. The headman roared, and threatened, and brandished a monstrous sabre; Dandy tore up the ground as he ran, neighed louder than thunder, and gained upon the fugitives every moment. Despair left the princess no choice, and she violently dashed her phial upon the ground. Instantly the water which it contained swelled itself into a tremendous torrent, which carried away every thing before it,—rocks, trees, and houses; and ‘the horse and his rider’ were carried away among the rest.—‘Hic finis Priami fatorum!’ There was an end of the headman and Dandy! The princess then returned to court, where she raised a strong party for herself; seized her two sisters, who were no better than their father, and had assisted him in his witchcraft; and having put them and all their partisans to death by a summary mode of proceeding, she established herself and her husband on the throne as headman and head-woman. It was from this time that all the kings of Africa have been uniformly mild and benevolent sovereigns. Till then they were all tyrants, and tyrants they would all still have continued, if this virtuous princess had not changed the face of things by drowning her father, strangling her two sisters, and chopping off the heads of two or three dozen of her nearest and dearest relations.

It seems to be an indispensable requisite for a Nancy-story, that it should contain a witch, or a duppy, or, in short, some marvellous personage or other. It is a kind of “pièce à machines” But the creole slaves are very fond of another species of tale, which they call “Neger-tricks,” and which bear the same relation to a Nancy-story which a farce does to a tragedy. The following is a specimen:—A Neger-trick.—“A man who had two wives divided his provision-grounds into two parts, and proposed that each of the women should cultivate one half. They were ready to do their proper share, but insisted that the husband should at least take his third of the work. However, when they were to set out, the man was taken so ill, that he found it impossible to move; he quite roared with pain, and complained bitterly of a large lump which had formed itself on his cheek during the night. The wives did what they could to relieve him, but in vain they boiled a negro-pot for him, but he was too ill to swallow a morsel: and at length they were obliged to leave him, and go to take care of the provision-grounds. As soon as they were gone, the husband became perfectly well, emptied the contents of the pot with great appetite, and enjoyed himself in ease and indolence till evening, when he saw his wives returning; and immediately he became worse than ever. One of the women was quite shocked to see the size to which the lump had increased during her absence: she begged to examine it; but although she barely touched it with the tip of her finger as gingerly as possible, it was so tender that the fellow screamed with agony. Unluckily, the other woman’s manners were by no means so delicate; and seizing him forcibly by the head to examine it, she undesignedly happened to hit him a great knock on the jaw, and, lo and behold! out flew a large lime, which he had crammed into it. Upon which both his wives fell upon him like two furies; beat him out of the house; and whenever afterwards he begged them to go to the provision-grounds, they told him that he had got no lime in his mouth then, and obliged him from that time forwards to do the whole work himself.”