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: