Part 5 (1/2)

IN this ballad, I have strung together some of the more striking particularities of the Marquesas. It rests upon no authority; it is in no sense, like ”Rahero,” a native story; but a patchwork of details of manners and the impressions of a traveller. It may seem strange, when the scene is laid upon these profligate islands, to make the story hinge on love. But love is not less known in the Marquesas than elsewhere; nor is there any cause of suicide more common in the islands.

{61} Note 1, page 61. ”_Pit of Popoi_.” Where the breadfruit was stored for preservation.

{62a} Note 2, page 62. ”_Ruby-red_.” The priest's eyes were probably red from the abuse of kava. His beard (_ib._) is said to be worth an estate; for the beards of old men are the favourite head adornment of the Marquesans, as the hair of women formed their most costly girdle. The former, among this generally beardless and short-lived people, fetch to-day considerable sums.

{62b} Note 3, page 62. ”_Tikis_.” The tiki is an ugly image hewn out of wood or stone.

{67} Note 4, page 67. ”_The one-stringed harp_.” Usually employed for serenades.

{69} Note 5, page 69. ”_The sacred cabin of palm_.” Which, however, no woman could approach. I do not know where women were tattooed; probably in the common house, or in the bush, for a woman was a creature of small account. I must guard the reader against supposing Taheia was at all disfigured; the art of the Marquesan tattooer is extreme; and she would appear to be clothed in a web of lace, inimitably delicate, exquisite in pattern, and of a bluish hue that at once contrasts and harmonises with the warm pigment of the native skin. It would be hard to find a woman more becomingly adorned than ”a well-tattooed” Marquesan.

{72} Note 6, page 72. ”_The horror of night_.” The Polynesian fear of ghosts and of the dark has been already referred to. Their life is beleaguered by the dead.

{74} Note 7, page 74. ”_The quiet pa.s.sage of souls_.” So, I am told, the natives explain the sound of a little wind pa.s.sing overhead unfelt.

{78} Note 8, page 78. ”_The first of the victims fell_.” Without doubt, this whole scene is untrue to fact. The victims were disposed of privately and some time before. And indeed I am far from claiming the credit of any high degree of accuracy for this ballad. Even in a time of famine, it is probable that Marquesan life went far more gaily than is here represented. But the melancholy of to-day lies on the writer's mind.

TICONDEROGA A LEGEND OF THE WEST HIGHLANDS

TICONDEROGA

THIS is the tale of the man Who heard a word in the night In the land of the heathery hills, In the days of the feud and the fight.

By the sides of the rainy sea, Where never a stranger came, On the awful lips of the dead, He heard the outlandish name.

It sang in his sleeping ears, It hummed in his waking head: The name-Ticonderoga, The utterance of the dead.

I. THE SAYING OF THE NAME

ON the loch-sides of Appin, When the mist blew from the sea, A Stewart stood with a Cameron: An angry man was he.

The blood beat in his ears, The blood ran hot to his head, The mist blew from the sea, And there was the Cameron dead.

”O, what have I done to my friend, O, what have I done to mysel', That he should be cold and dead, And I in the danger of all?

Nothing but danger about me, Danger behind and before, Death at wait in the heather In Appin and Mamore, Hate at all of the ferries And death at each of the fords, Camerons priming gunlocks And Camerons sharpening swords.”

But this was a man of counsel, This was a man of a score, There dwelt no pawkier Stewart In Appin or Mamore.

He looked on the blowing mist, He looked on the awful dead, And there came a smile on his face And there slipped a thought in his head.

Out over cairn and moss, Out over scrog and scaur, He ran as runs the clansman That bears the cross of war.

His heart beat in his body, His hair clove to his face, When he came at last in the gloaming To the dead man's brother's place.

The east was white with the moon, The west with the sun was red, And there, in the house-doorway, Stood the brother of the dead.

”I have slain a man to my danger, I have slain a man to my death.

I put my soul in your hands,”

The panting Stewart saith.

”I lay it bare in your hands, For I know your hands are leal; And be you my targe and bulwark From the bullet and the steel.”

Then up and spoke the Cameron, And gave him his hand again: ”There shall never a man in Scotland Set faith in me in vain; And whatever man you have slaughtered, Of whatever name or line, By my sword and yonder mountain, I make your quarrel mine. {103} I bid you in to my fireside, I share with you house and hall; It stands upon my honour To see you safe from all.”