THE POWER OF MUSIC.
The natives were busy preparing for a grand Correboree, which, being
interpreted, means a grand gathering and celebration in honor of some
imposing event. Scouts were sent out in every direction, and every
hour brought fresh comers, who evinced the greatest possible curiosity
in the white people. At one time nearly sixty members of a different
tribe arrived in a body, and a fierce jabbering took place between the
old men of the tribes. Rough-and-Ready, who had by this time picked up
a few native words, came to Minnie and Joshua with a look of concern
on his face.
"They are quarrelling about us," he said. "As far as I can understand,
this new tribe lay claim to us for having been found in a country
which they say is theirs. I think I know how they will settle it, if
they settle it at all peaceably."
"How?" asked Joshua anxiously.
"They will separate us--two for each of the two strongest tribes."
Minnie caught Joshua's hand convulsively. "I know what you mean, my
dear," said Rough-and-Ready, a little sadly; "you and Joshua must not
be parted. And indeed, it would not be right; you belong to one
another. Well, the sailmaker and I will go our way and you will go
yours. Only you must be cunning and keep together. Joshua, tonight,
before the natives go to sleep, play a few soft airs upon your
accordion. You and Minnie must be in your hut together while you play.
And don't let them see the accordion. The music will fill them with
wonder, and it will be a strong reason with them why you should not be
parted. But indeed, my dear, if you continue to act your part well
there will be no fear of that."
"You are a good man," said Minnie gratefully, holding out her hand to
Rough-and-Ready.
He took it and pressed it to his lips, and held it in his with
infinite tenderness.
"No, my dear," he said, "I am not a good man. You have seen me at my
best. I am a convict, and when I came on board the 'Merry Andrew,' I
was trying to escape from the colony. There's many a black mark
against me which I doubt will never be wiped out in this world. I was
a little sinned against at first, it is true, but I had my revenge
afterwards; I couldn't be meek and humble under undeserved punishment.
There! that's all I shall tell you about myself. Your imagination must
fill in the outlines. And, mind you! you can't make me out worse than
I am. I am glad I have made this confession, lame and bald as it is;
it has relieved my mind." He turned his back to them, with a motion
which said, "You see what a vagabond I am; I am not fit company for
such as you."
But Minnie laid one hand upon his shoulder, and with the other turned
his face towards hers.
"You are a good man," she repeated earnestly, looking into his eyes,
which were filled with tears, "and I honor and respect you."
"And I, too," said Joshua, grasping his hand heartily. "If it should
be our good fortune to meet under happier circumstances than these, I
will show my gratitude to you."
"There, there, there!" exclaimed Rough-and-Ready, half roughly, half
tenderly; "enough said about the past. We sha'n't be together much
longer, as I've told you, and as you'll soon find. We must take things
as they come, and make the best of them. Do you know the natives have
a curious fancy about you?" he said to Minnie. "There was once in
their tribe a young woman of rare beauty and virtues, who was idolized
by all I don't know how long ago this was, and it is only by piecing
stray words and actions together that I have been able to understand
it. Well, this young woman, by some means or other, was transformed
into a star. They believe you to be her, having taken mortal form
again to visit them. 'Tis a pretty fancy, isn't it?"
"But I am white, and"--
"She was black," interrupted Rough-and-Ready gayly. "That is easily
accounted for; they believe that when they die they jump up white. If
you were of their color, they would not have the fancy about you."
By the evening there were not less than a hundred and fifty savages
collected together. Although the weather was warm, they were lying
down before their campfires, with the exception of one group of about
twenty old men and doctors of the principal tribes, who were earnestly
engaged in discussing matters relating to the white people. An old
chief of the tribe who had first discovered the castaways was on his
feet, declaiming violently, with extravagant action, in which,
nevertheless, there was much dignity. Opara was his name. His hair and
beard were white, and his face and body were scored with ugly seams
gained in battle, or in the exercise of the strange rites and
ceremonies of his tribe. On his neck and breast, and from his
shoulders to his hips, were still to be seen, old as he was, the
gashes made in his youth to entitle him to the dignity of manhood. A
great chief was Opara--wise in council, fearless in battle and had
been the most skilful of all his tribe with boomerang and spear, and
middla, and in throwing the wirra.
"The strangers are ours," he said; "the sacred crow, Karakorok,
witnesseth that they are ours by right. The heavens were filled with
light, and great voices thundered. We listened in awe. Fire rent the
mountains, and made new caverns sacred. Light dived into raging
waterfalls, cutting the earth. We waited full a moon. The storm
ceased; the spirits spoke no more. We waited another moon. The stars
fell near the sea--into it. We went there, wanting to know. We brought
the strangers back. They are ours."
Up rose Wealberrin, chief of the other tribe. No less famous he than
Opara. White-bearded, too, and tattooed from top to toe, and no less
cunning with war and hunting weapons. Around his waist was a belt made
of the hair of the enemies he had slain in battle.
"Not so," he said. "The _land_ is ours. There, in Pandarri Kurto
(heaven's cavern), lie our mintapas--our doctors. There are our
hunting-grounds--our fishing-lands. There we make men of our sons.
Shall I take Opara's food, and call it mine by right? He would reply
as becomes a warrior. If I ask, he would give. But I ask not now. The
land is ours. What is found on the land is ours."
"Once lived Mirgabeen," said Opara. "Bright-eyed, fleet-footed,
hollow-backed. Her tongue spoke the music of the birds. Her dark hair
hung down to her arched feet. She could shroud her glory in it--as
night the day. She was beloved by all. Too bright for earth, she lives
in the heavens now, a star. She looks down on me. She hears me speak.
So dwelt with us a maid, whose supple limbs cleaved the water, who
sang the music of the woods. The trees bent to her as she walked. The
branches bowed before her, and whispered to her, and she replied. She
left us for the grand vault where moons are made. What was ours is
ours. She has come back to us. She is ours."
"So be it," said Wealberrin. "The others then are ours. Opara has
spoken."
"She has with her a mate," said Opara, "whom she has touched upon the
breast. Let Wealberrin take two--we two. Then we shall have peace."
Wealberrin would have replied, but as he rose to his feet a wondering
expression stole into his face, and into the faces of all assembled
there. For from Minnie's gunyah issued sounds so soft and sweet that
the night-birds hushed their voices to listen. The breeze was so light
that the melodious notes hung upon the air, and lingered long before
they died away. The savages clutched each other, and stood transfixed
with fear and wonder. What voices were these that were speaking? In
their dreams they had never heard any thing so sweet. Opara had said
it. Minnie had come from the vault where the moons are made, and was
speaking to the spirits of another world. Motionless, with bended
heads or with forms inclined towards the sound, they stood like
figures of stone, in reverential attitude. And did not move a limb
when the music ceased; for a shadow fell upon the moonlit space, and
Minnie came to the opening of the gunyah and looked in dumb amazement
at the strange scene before her.
And now the day has come upon which the grand ceremony of the
Corroboree is to be celebrated. The rival tribes have settled their
dispute. Rough-and-Ready, who is the Chorus of the party, tells his
friends that Joshua and Minnie are to remain with Opara's tribe, and
that he and the sailmaker are to be attached to Wealberrin's. Joshua
hints at resistance, but Rough-and-Ready declares it would be madness.
"If there was no woman in the case," he says, "I might counsel
differently; but for Minnie's sake we must have no fighting. We might
kill a score or two of the natives, but you must bear in mind there
are half a thousand of them here now. Then their spears are poisoned.
Suppose one should strike Minnie. No, no; submission is our best
course." So, with much grief, they are compelled to make up their
minds to submit.
All day long, there is great feasting. An emeu has been hunted down,
and the fat carefully distributed among the natives; honey and sweet
roots have been brought in in abundance, and the bushes have been
stripped of their fruit. Rude seats of vines, decorated with flowers,
have been placed for Minnie and Joshua in front of their gunyah, and
in front of the seats a kind of arched screen of leaves and branches
has been erected, through the network of which they can see and be
seen. When night comes, fires are lighted, the flickering flames of
which give birth to monstrous shadows that flit about the trees, and
fill the woods with grotesque shapes. Minnie and Joshua watch with a
kind of wonder the shadows created by the fire nearest to them. Now
the light goes down, and the black shapes dart through the woods, or
run swiftly along the branches, ravenously, and with cruel intent, as
it appears; anon, the flame leaps up, and the shadows fly and shift
restlessly about, with lightning speed, as if suddenly surprised by an
enemy. Their attention, however, is soon diverted from these inanimate
creations. The natives are assembling. Men, women, and children troop
in from all quarters, and seat themselves round and about the fires in
somewhat orderly fashion. There cannot be less than five or six
hundred of them. All being seated, a long silence ensues, broken at
length by a circle of singers, who chant a monotonous song, narrating
how they had journeyed towards the sea into which stars were falling,
and how they had found the strangers, and brought them to their camp.
As they sing this song over and over again, they beat time with their
clubs. A brave then chants a tradition of one of their ancient chiefs,
who was compelled to fly before a hostile tribe; all his young
warriors were slain, and he alone escaped; but his enemies determined
to put an end to him, set fire to the bush around him, and he was
encircled by a net of flame. Suddenly the earth opened, and water
stole up from the caverns and extinguished the fire, and so the chief
was saved, and a great river was made, in which fish was plentiful. In
the midst of the silence which follows this song, a man springs from
out the shadows. His face is crossed with lines of red and yellow, and
his body is painted white. In his hand is a branch of green leaves,
and a great tuft of emeu-feathers is on his head. He stands perfectly
still for full a quarter of an hour, looking into the sky for the
spirits of dead men. What inspiration falls upon him at the end of
that time it would probably be difficult to explain; but he waves his
branch of green leaves to and fro, and the singers strike up another
song, and the musicians beat time as before with their war-clubs,
while the chief actor in the scene rushes about, and flourishes his
arms in a gradually-worked-up state of the wildest excitement. He
vanishes in the shade as suddenly as he had appeared, and in his place
leap a dozen men, presenting so startling an appearance that Minnie
clasps Joshua's hand in sudden alarm. Flowers are twined round their
ankles and above their knees. Some have tails or dingoes wound about
their heads, others wreaths of down from the white cockatoo; some have
tails of wallabies attached to their peaked beards, and all have
feathers in their hair. White rings are round their eyes, their noses
are striped, and lines of red, yellow, and black are painted from
their shoulders and breasts down to their waists, where a white ring
encircles them. The singers burst into song again, and the
hideously-decorated figures begin to dance, advancing towards the
singers and retreating from them; their motions at first are slow and
tremulous, but soon they are leaping and jumping frantically from side
to side, each trying to out-tire the others, with such violent exertion
as to cause them presently to fall upon the ground in a state of
exhaustion. As soon as each recovers, he rises, and dances by himself,
and the women utter cries of commendation, and beat the ground in
ecstasy. These performers are followed by others, who dance in a
serpentine line, until they present the appearance of a serpent coiling
and uncoiling itself; as they dance, they make a hissing sound with
their tongues, to imitate the hissing of a serpent. And so through the
night the Corroboree continues, until, thoroughly worn out, the savages
retire to their rest, and the woods that a while ago were filled with
such strange life and sound, are lying quiet and solemn in the
peaceful light of the stars.
Wealberrin and his tribe are ready to start, and Rough-and-Ready and
the sailmaker have come to wish Minnie and Joshua good-by. They go
into the woods, out of sight of the natives, and sit sadly upon trunks
of trees that have been blown down by storms.
"I have heard say, or have read somewhere," says Rough-and-Ready,
striving to speak gayly, "that life is made up of meetings and
partings, so that this is quite a natural thing, and not to be repined
at. What we've got to do is to make the best of things."
"It might be worse," says Tom the sailmaker, good-naturedly assisting
Rough-and-Ready to cheer Minnie's spirits.
"Bravo, Tom!" exclaims Rough-and-Ready. "It might be a good deal
worse. We have escaped greater dangers than the present one, and if we
act wisely and bravely we shall escape this. But it all depends upon
ourselves, and if we lose courage, we lose all. You must bear that in
mind, my dear. Why, this day twelve months we may be talking together,
and smiling at these experiences which now seem so hard to bear!"
But Minnie only smiles sadly in reply, and Joshua asks Rough-and-Ready
if there is any thing they can give him to enable him to bear them in
remembrance.
"Nothing is needed," replies Rough-and-Ready. "We have not been
together for a very long time, but our acquaintanceship has been
sufficiently eventful to cause us never to be able to forget each
other. Yet I should like one thing," with a tender glance at Minnie.
"What?" she asks, learning by his look that it is something in her
power to give.
"A piece of your hair, Minnie," he says.
Minnie desires Joshua to cut off a lock with his knife, and he cuts a
thick tress and gives it to Rough-and-Ready, who winds it round his
finger and puts it into his pocket.
"Now," says he, "for a little sensible talk. Your sole aim must be to
endeavor to work your way near to the settled districts, where you may
have the chance of falling in with white people. Southward lies your
chance of being rescued. Every day the squatters are coming farther
inland in search of new ground for cattle-stations, and every day this
fresh opening up of the country adds to the chances of escape.
Whosesoever lot it is to first fall in with our countrymen must tell
them that there are two white people living with one of the native
tribes who are desirous of getting into civilized company again. That
will make them look out for us perhaps. You will find that stockmen
and bushmen are as fine and manly a set of fellows as you would desire
to meet. I think you have the best chance of first hearing the crack
of a stockman's whip, for your tribe is more of a southern one than
ours." Then Rough-and-Ready told them, as much for the purpose of
diverting Minnie's attention from the sad parting near at hand as for
any other, of the wonderful enterprise of the Australian pioneers of
progress, of the dangers they cheerfully encounter, of the unknown
country they bravely plunge into, of the hardships they bear and make
light of, and of the grand future that awaits the beautiful Australian
continent.
"To my thinking," he says with enthusiasm, "there is no life that
contains so much pure enjoyment as the life of a backwoodsman. I would
not change it for any other--only I would prefer, for occasional mates
and companions, white people instead of savages. I don't believe man
was intended to live in close cities."
"But even such a life as you describe," says Joshua, "leads to the
making of great cities. The pioneers go first, and the masses follow."
"That's the worst of it," says Rough-and-Ready; "they follow, and are
not content to live naturally. They make streets and cramp them up
with just room enough for a score of men to walk abreast in. Down in
Sydney there are streets, as you know, where not a half a dozen men
could walk abreast through; but that's the way of all cities, large or
small. Directly new land is opened up, in troop the masses, as you
call them, who make their streets and build their houses as if there
wasn't an inch of ground to spare; while all around them are thousands
and thousands of miles of lovely country, with trees and flowers, and
fruit, and fish, and game, inviting them to come and enjoy life as it
ought to be enjoyed!"
"Well," says Joshua, "'tis the way of the world. _You_ were never
intended to live in cities, that's clear."
"I don't know. I dare say, once upon a time, I should have thought I
was mad if such ideas as I have now had entered my head. I wasn't
always so rough as I am now. But cities are necessary, I suppose; and
it's folly to talk as I do. Why, I don't doubt that in less than fifty
years a city will be built even here in these wild woods; and perhaps
on this very spot where we now sit they'll build a prison." He speaks
these last words with a dash of bitterness: but he soon shakes off his
cynical humor, and proceeds to speak of more important matters
concerning the present. "Be especially careful of one thing," he
concludes, "never by any chance let them see your accordion." (Joshua
had it slung round his shoulders, wrapped in a bag of fur which Minnie
had made for it.) "When you play, let the natives hear the music, not
see where it comes from. By that means you will best preserve your
influence and Minnie's over them. And bear in mind--work southward."
Here two natives make their appearance, and after looking attentively
at the white people, glide away quietly.
"'Tis time to go," says Rough-and-Ready, jumping to his feet; "that is
their delicate way of telling us that they are waiting." Minnie, with
streaming eyes, raises her face to his. He stoops and kisses her, and
says tenderly, "God bless and protect you, my dear!" The four of them
shake hands sorrowfully, and part--never again to meet on earth. So
Rough-and-Ready and Tom the sailmaker disappear from the yearning gaze
of their friends, and from this story; and Joshua and Minnie are left
thus strangely alone.