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.