XXVI.
MERCEDES' MESSAGE
(To La Divina Pastora)
Mother, Mercedes couldn't come.
She sent me in her stead;
For she's all the work to do at home,
Now that mother is dead.
Mercedes is nearly twice my size,
I think she's over eleven;
And she says that you, who're so good and wise.
Must know dear mother in heaven.
But that is so far off she says,
Perhaps you've neither heard,
That father's gone back to his old strange ways,
And Pedro - he is the third -
Had yellow fever, bad, in May,
And was stung by a snake in June;
And Popocita is wasting away -
The neighbour's say it's the moon.
For the timite was all blown off by the gale,
And the light strikes down on her face;
Her features are changed, and she's, oh! so pale -
They say it's a noted case.
The rice was done 'ere the year began,
And father's not planted a yard;
Often the neighbours themselves have none.
And our life is very hard;
Popocita is hungry and cries at night -
The Padre says we must pray;
And we've prayed, Oh, Mother, with all our might
But heaven is so far away!
The landlord, old Antonio,
Says praying won't raise a cent;
He comes every day, when father's away.
To bother Sis for the rent.
She hates him worse than a toad; but, alack,
The neighbours begin to flout her:
And Mercedes says: "Please, send mother back.
For we can't get on without her!"
S.
p. 122
NOTES.
Scribbler began an ambitious collection of tales in rhyme,
under this same title, "La Divina Pastora" the idea running
through it being pilgrims telling each his or her story by way
of confession of sins, prayer, etc., to the Blessed Virgin. Some
tales are of considerable length and too serious for inclusion
among these "Legends," which, it will be seen, are intended
mainly for children. This one, "Mercedes' Message," however,
is childish enough for anything, so in let it go.
Mercedes, i.e., "Mercy," a common Spanish name.
Venezuelans in large numbers come on pilgrimage to the
shrine of "La Divina Pastora". (See above, Legend XXV).
There is also a considerable Spanish population still in Trinidad,
especially in the southern portion of the island.
"Yellow fever." Now extinct in Trinidad, and rare in
Venezuela, but very prevalent in former days. Creoles, however,
generally took it mildly, so that little was thought of it.
"Moon" Creoles are much afraid of the moon. If you
sleep in the full moon "your features will be changed" - not
for the better seemingly.
"Timite." A kind of palm leaf used to thatch cottages.
"Father's not planted a yard." An example of Mañana,
mañana. (Cf. Legend XIX).
I.
p. 123
SOURCE: Legends of the Bocas, Trinidad. By A.D. Russell, London: Cecil Palmer, 1922. pp. 122-123
..............................................................................................................................
"Patria est communis omnium parens" - Our native land is the common parent of us all. Keep it beautiful, make it even more so.
Blessed is all of creation
Blessed be my beautiful people
Blessed be the day of our awakening
Blessed is my country
Blessed are her patient hills.
Mweh ka allay!
Guanaguanare
Mercedes' Message (To La Divina Pastora) [Poem]
Legends Of The Bocas, Trinidad [Text]
Trinidad
By A.D. RUSSELL
First Puisne Judge, Trinidad and Tobago
with
An Introduction by Sir John Chancellor, K.C.M.G.
Governor and Commander-in-Chief of that Colony,
1916-1921
LONDON
CECIL PALMER
OAKLEY HOUSE, BLOOMSBURY STREET, W.C.1.
FIRST
EDITION
1933
COPYRIGHT
Printed in Great Britain
by J. J. Kelimer & Co., Ltd., 11, Marshalsea Road, London, S.E.1.
THESE legends, inspired— nay, it may be said created—
by the scenes to which they relate, with little oral, and
less written or printed tradition to account for the marvels
they contain (except Legends XVII to XXI, which are his-
torical), came to their recipient at intervals during the course
of fifteen years' residence in what is undoubtedly one of the
most beautiful islands in the world. Some, such as "M'an
Grosdent," Los Cotorros," "The Presbyter and the Pitch-
Men," came to him in mirth. Others such as "Duendes'
Mead," "The Three Caves," "La Divina Pastora," "A
Morning Vision," came to him in sorrow. All alike, however,
came of themselves, with little or no drudgery of literary
composition. To the genius loci, therefore, is due any merit
they may possess. For their demerits, which doubtless are
numerous, the deficiencies of the medium ought to be remem-
bered. Non sum dignus, though the deity have entered. When,
instead of a dry lawyer, some true vates sacer visits these shores,
or (as will doubtless happen, though the Serpent forgot to
mention it), one springs from the soil, then shall be seen the
fulness of the inspiration of Trinidad woods and caves and
waterfalls, and the amazing Bocas del Drago.
The identities of "Scribbler," who wrote the verses, and
of "Ignotus," who edited them, may safely be left to the
imagination of the reader.
Port of Spain,
29th March, 1922.
CONTENTS.
I. Dedication To A Child 1
II. The Serpent's Prophecy 3
III. Saint Mary's Bay and the Phantom Boat 7
IV. The Authentic Legend of M'an Grosdent 10
V. The Man of Eld's First Tale 14
VI. Corsair's Bay 22
VII. Boca Chimes 35
VIII. The Three Caves 37
IX. La Sierra Del Diablo 31
X. Sainte Marie de Teteron 33
XI. A Morning Vision 42
XII. Los Cotorros 47
XIII. The Soucouyen of Sodor 49
XIV. The Presbyter and the Pitch-Men 51
XV. Paoua's Bay 55
XVI. DUENDES' Mead 58
XVII. Cristobal Colon 73
XVIII. Raleigh's Comings 77
XIX. Lament for Apodocca 81
XX. Nelson and Villeneuve 84
XXI. Picton's Dream 86
XXII. The Man of Eld's Second Tale 92
XXIII. Blackbeard's Song 103
XXIV. Brigand Hill 106
XXV. La Divina Pastora 108
XXVI. Mercedes' Message 122
XXVII. Comparisons 124
XXVIII.A Wraith 127
XXIX. A Boca Rose 129
Epilogue 132
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
Statue of Columbus facing page 4
Copper Hole 8
First Boca — Sierra del Diablo and M'an Teteron's Tooth 1o
Hart's Cut : "Goppee" 16
Corsair's Bay (Winn's Bay) 22
Second Boca 26
Teteron Bay 34
Lennegan, In the Five Islands 48
Maracas 50
(a) Pitch Lake 52
(h) Pitch Lake 52
La Tinta Bay, Chacachacare 62
A Cacique's Grave 74
The Road to El Dorado 78
A Mountain Brook 100
Where Teach Landed 106
High Woods 108
INTRODUCTION.
I HAVE been requested by my friend Mr. Justice Russell
to write an introduction to his volume "Legends of the Bocas."
Though I have no qualifications for such a task, I have
undertaken it because he has asked me to do so, and because
I take a very great interest in everything connected with
Trinidad.
Those who have never visited the tropics cannot visualise
the physical beauties of Trinidad with its valleys and clear
running streams, with its mountain ranges clad to their highest
peaks with luxuriant vegetation and lit by a vertical sun whose
fierce rays are tempered by the humidity of the atmosphere.
To the inhabitants of cold grey northern lands, the climate is
enervating; but to those who from youth have lived there,
Trinidad is as a country where it is ever afternoon.
It is a mistake to believe that the inhabitants of the tropics
do not work hard; but it is true that there is no part of the
world where idleness is so easy and so agreeable as in the tropics.
Few of those who have lived long in them can be ignorant of
the temptation to lead a life of dreamy idleness under those
sunny skies. In the pleasant island of Trinidad, Candide's
maxim: "il faut cultiver notre jardin" does not apply; for
a scratch will make its fertile soil yield all that is necessary
for a man of simple wants.
An English visitor recently addressing a Trinidadian re-
posing by the road side, said to him: "What are you doing
there, passing the time, I suppose?" "No," was the reply,
"No, I am letting the time pass me." But it is not because
that attitude is general that no one, so far as I am aware, has
up to now made a collection of the local legends of Trinidad.
It is because the energies of those who are qualified to write
them are fully occupied in developing the resources of the Island,
of which nearly one half still remains under virgin forest. All
good Trinidadians, therefore, and all who have known and loved
Trinidad owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Justice Russell,
than whom Trinidad has no warmer friend and sympathetic
admirer, for preserving their local legends in the picturesque
and imaginative medium he has chosen for the present volume.
J.R.C.
London, 24.4.22.
p. xi
SOURCE: Legends of the Bocas, Trinidad. By A.D. Russell, London: Cecil Palmer, 1922.
..............................................................................................................................
"Patria est communis omnium parens" - Our native land is the common parent of us all. Keep it beautiful, make it even more so.
Blessed is all of creation
Blessed be my beautiful people
Blessed be the day of our awakening
Blessed is my country
Blessed are her patient hills.
Mweh ka allay!
Guanaguanare
Dedication To A Child [Poem]
DEDICATION
Sing a song of aeons! They were on Time's shelf :
Some were clear as crystal, some were dull as delf;
One aglow with glory, another dross and dregs:
But in a row they made a show - like Easter eggs.
Sing a song of childhood! Fate was once a child:
He came a-choosing aeons, and to himself he smiled,
And turned them in his fingers and tossed them in the wind;
And some he caught, and others not - for Fate is blind.
Sing a song of marvels! The aeons found a voice,
And bade their little tyrant be wise and make a choice.
Hear their several stories, spare such as should please :
And so, like you, he listened to such tales as these.
Tales of mighty marvels, of dragons and of deeps;
Islands going sailing, and a gulf that creeps
On and ever onward, till the hills are rent.
And like a pall it covers all a continent.
Plagues that turn to fishes, towns that turn to trees,
Chapel bells a-chiming under whelming seas ;
Witches and their wonders, maids that grow to rocks;
Earth and sky commingled by convulsive shocks.
These things pleased him greatly, till he older grew ;
Then his fancy altered, and he chose anew;
Tales of love and duty, tried in woe and weal:
If less he smiled, 'twas that the Child had learned to feel.
As a child has wisdom, so had Fate, and knew
Aeons have their purpose, and their work to do:
Work that's fair and honest, work that's true and brave.
Seed to sow, and grain to grow, and souls to save.
Sing a song of Goodness! Aeons have their day.
But the Will that made them is with us alway;
Time halts at His bidding. Fate lives in His fear.
Oh, may that Will be gracious still to you, my dear.
SCRIBBLER
NOTES
Instead of "A Child" it ought to be "The Child". There
was only one Child in the world for Scribbler. It was writing
for her benefit, probably, made his style what it is. That is
the best excuse we can put forward for Scribbler.
The scenery of the Bocas, generally, is wild, majestic,
soul-stirring. Parts have a softer charm. Our illustrations
may give some idea of the latter. Not of the former - enormous
cleavages among primeval rocks, such as the Second Boca, defy
photography. The Mountains of Paria to Eastward, distinctly
visible, yet far enough removed to look "en-skyed," are a
background to the whole.
To be amid such surroundings and produce only bur-
lesques! Could there be a more signal proof of poetical
deficiency?
Ignotus
..............................................................................................................................
"Patria est communis omnium parens" - Our native land is the common parent of us all. Keep it beautiful, make it even more so.
Blessed is all of creation
Blessed be my beautiful people
Blessed be the day of our awakening
Blessed is my country
Blessed are her patient hills.
Mweh ka allay!
Guanaguanare
The Serpent's Prophecy [Poem]
II.
THE SERPENT'S PROPHECY.
By A.D. Russell
The Dragon of Paria ruled the land, the Serpent she ruled the sea;
And all went well, till a quarrel befell, concerning Trinity:
The Dragon claimed it for his own, 'twas a link in his mountain chains;
Oh, he spake her fair; but the Serpent was ware, and mocked him for his pains.
The Dragon rose in his rage and his wrath, with his seven heads out-thrust;
She flung twelve leagues of gulf between, and bade him do his worst.
O Golfo triste!
Then he reared himself on the mountain's crest, and reached out over the sea ;
And the smoke of his mouth rolled north and south, and over to Trinity.
He stretched and he strained, his embers rained like a shower of falling stars;
Iëre shook, as his thunders broke on the face of her wave-washed scaurs.
E'en the Serpent shrank, 'neath his neck long and lank, with its seven fierce heads in a bunch;
Then she rose in the air, like a Diable-Mer, and bit it clean through with a crunch!
Isla liberada!
Then the Serpent she sang a wondrous song, a conqueror's song sang she:
"Oh, my waves are red with the Dragon's blood, and Iëre belongs to me;
To have and to hold, to make, to mould, with the wash of my coiling tides,
While the Moon is regent of the sky, and the Southern Cross abides.
Oh, she shall be free, as my waters be, and the winds that o'er them blow;
And she shall have peace, and her fame increase, and her name shall all men know.
Isla fortunada!
"Her seasons shall seem an endless spring, her flowers bloom all year round;
I will make her rich with oil and with pitch in her caverns underground.
And gold shall be found; and the fruits of the ground shall grow and cover her;
Her Triple Hills shall glad the gaze of the Great Discoverer;
And men shall come from many lands to scan her wonders o'er;
There shall be a place for every race, and a welcome aye for more.
Isla amistosa!
"They shall grow as the seed of the Serpent's breed, in wisdom and in worth;
For learing fair shall flourish there, and art have second birth.
Oh, loyalty and liberty shall there go hand in hand;
And equal laws, and the island's cause, shall hoop them as a band.
The island's name, the island's fame, the island's growth and grit,
Shall be their boast' from coast to coast, and the world shall echo it."
Isla milagrosa!
NOTES.
Scribbler was a nonentity on board. The concert at the
hotel was his debut. He recited this rhapsody about the island.
Being visitors, people thought it polite to applaud. The
Magnate, who is deaf, asked to see the words. That was
enough. Scribbler was launched. Thenceforward his pro-
ductions poured out remorselessly.
Yes, yes, it was his own doggerel. Nobody else ever came
forward to claim it. True, that might be because nobody
thought it worth while. In any case. Scribbler made it over
to me as a home product, when he ... .
But that is anticipating. The Magnate knew a lot about
oil. His literary taste, however, was undeveloped. Some noble
lines of mine left him absolutely cold. He could follow what
Scribbler was trying to get at, he said, but my efforts were
beyond him. Scribbler, pedestrian Scribbler, was his man.
Scribbler had helped the Child to get over her sea-sickness.
That, I think, influenced the old man. It certainly did Mrs.
Magnate. He was a thoroughly good-natured fellow, Scribbler,
to give him his due. Children took to him; and if, instead
of legends, he had written a book of nursery rhymes, I believe
it would have been a success.
One thing I didn't like about Scribbler. He was an
unscrupulous inventor. An example will show this.
Columbus, when he discovered the island which he thought
fit to christen "La Trinidad," instead of "Iëre," as the Caribs
(and Scribbler later on) called it, had a rough passage getting
into the Gulf of Paria by the south-east, and called the strait:
La Boca de la Sierpe, "The Serpent's Mouth." (Note.— Sierpe is feminine, in contradistinction to Serpiente, which is
either masculine or feminine; so Scribbler was right as far
as sex goes). The currents had coiled about his caravel, and
the name was a metaphor. Some openings to the north-west
he called: Las Bocas del Drago, "The Dragon's Mouth."
Another metaphor, but less appropriate.
Was Scribbler satisfied with these names? Not he! He
must need invent things which were perfectly untrue, and
work them up in such a way as to make Columbus seem god-
father to his absurdities.
p. 5
A Carib mythology. That is what it really came to be. Now,
is that fair on the poor Caribs? They had a bad name before.
Cannibal comes from Carib, carib-al, we are told. But, however
they may have devoured each other, I don't believe they would
have swallowed Scribbler's mythology. Unhappily, the race
is extinct, at least in this island. Scribbler, therefore, could do
as he liked. And it will be seen he has artfully mixed in a lot
of true stuff, about the island being rich in minerals and things,
just to bamboozle people.
What he says as to "gold being found" is a bloomer. Iron
pyrites there are, in plenty. Sir Walter Raleigh took them for
gold. Or "the Mother of Gold," whatever he meant by that.
Up to date there is no gold mining in the Island.
"Diable-Mer." Somebody lent Scribbler a book: "Sea
Fish of Trinidad" by Harry Vincent. If you want to know
everything about Diable-Mer (being patois for the giant-ray or devil-fish,
manta-birostris) you will find it there. But
Scribbler always exaggerates and although devil-fish may jump high,
the feat he makes this one do is preposterous.
However, it is Scribbler's poem, not mine. So imprimatur.
By-the-bye, I have a decided objection to the introduction
of foreign words into English literature; and Scribbler's tags
of Spanish, Isla fortunada, Isla amistosa, and all the rest of
it are ... .
Well, they are Scribbler all over.
Triple Hills: i.e. the Trinity Hills at Moruga supposed
to have been the "three peaks with one base" first sighted
by Columbus. On commencing the voyage, be had specially
invoked the assistance of the Blessed Trinity. Naturally,
therefore, it was a miracle.— Hence Scribbler's Isla Milagrosa,
" Miraculous Island " : {See Leqend XVII).
"Golfo triste." So Columbus called the Gulf of Paria.
Others have thought it rather a jolly place. We certainly found it so.
p. 6
SOURCE: Legends of the Bocas, Trinidad, By A.D. Russell, London: Cecil Palmer, 1922. pp. 3-4
..............................................................................................................................
"Patria est communis omnium parens" - Our native land is the common parent of us all. Keep it beautiful, make it even more so.
Blessed is all of creation
Blessed be my beautiful people
Blessed be the day of our awakening
Blessed is my country
Blessed are her patient hills.
Mweh ka allay!
Guanaguanare
St Mary's Bay [Poem]
III.
ST. MARY'S BAY
By A.D. Russell
St. Mary's Bay is fair by day,
St. Mary's Bay is bright;
Tranquil and deep, the blessed sleep
Which broods o'er it by night;
And well it is our Lady's grace
Defends the charmed spot;
For, in the middle of the night,
Passes the Phantom Boat.
The Phantom Boat, the Phantom Boat !
Who wakes may hear it pass
Sleep sound, sleep Safe, by Mary's grace
Sleep sound and let it pass.
Was that the howl of a dog, or an owl
A-hoot in the Ceiba tree?
What means that note on the night afloat,
As of laughter wild and free
Voices of women and of men,
And the splash of oars between;
Jesus, Maria, guard us then,
'Tis sure no earthly din.
A laugh, a scream! and 'tis gone like a dream;
The splash of oars is o'er;
The pirate rude, and his demon's brood.
Melt into space once more.
Saint Mary holds her Virgin sway.
O'er land and sea and air;
No harm can break their quiet sleep.
Who rest beneath her care.
NOTES.
"Every night? I can't vouch for that," said the Count.
"But one night I stayed here, years ago, it certainly did pass."
We had come "down the islands" Why? Well, as
Scribbler would say, why indeed? Port of Spain is an ideal
tropical city. Also the Queen's Park Hotel, situated on the
spacious Savannah, with Government House and its ornamental
grounds right opposite, was delightful to stay in. Everybody,
however, kept saying: "Go down the islands. You won't
know real Trinidad life till you go down the islands!" So
we went down the islands, and landed on St. Mary's Bay;
and the Count, who was staying at Copper Hole, came to call.
He it was who told us about the ghost. Or, to be more
precise, the Phantom Boat, which passes there nightly.
"The Johnny Walkers were here at the time," he explained.
"No, not the Johnny Walkers you mean. Another family
altogether. Bridge went on till all hours, and it was close on
midnight when my wife and I got to bed. She was busy with
her chapelet. But, of a sudden, "Felix," she said, "did you
hear that boat passing?"
"Do you know, once she mentioned it, I did hear whatever
it was. Plash, plash, plash, at widish intervals, but quite
distinct. Then a sound like voices, vague and only faintly
audible; but, of a sudden, Sainte Vierge Marie" — and the
Count, like a pious aristocrat, crossed himself — "a scream
that made your blood run chill ! I heard quite as much as
I wanted that night, I assure you!"
It seemed for the moment as though life "down the
islands" were going to be something else than we were looking
for. Under cross-examination, however, the Count modified
the horrific element.
The scream? Yes, certainly he and his wife had both
heard it. But there had been laughter too. More laughter
than screaming.
"We thought perhaps it was people from some of the
other Bays."
("Bay" in their Creole parlance means a house on one of
these islets. Naturally they select a bay suitable for bathing,
when they want to build).
"But no; they were all people we knew, and could not
reasonably suspect of running a spree at that hour of the night.
I would have stayed on, but my wife would not hear of it.
We made an excuse and left the next morning."
p. 8
"Whose boat is it?" piped the Child.
"Blackbeard's," replied the Count conclusively.
"Who is Blackbeard?"
Ma chere, you have never read 'Tom Cringle's Log' or
'The Master of Ballantrae' Otherwise you would know that
'Blackbeard' was a noted pirate. He visited Trinidad in 1716,
and pillaged a ship loaded with cocoa in the harbour. Merely
that, I believe, so far as facts go. But legends—oh, galore!
"Why does he come to Saint Mary's Bay?"
"After buried treasure, I suppose. Isn't that the regular
thing in the story books?"
"Yes, yes, of course. I ought to have guessed it. He wants
to come on shore, but that lovely statue of Saint Mary in front
prevents his landing."
"Right, right, my child. — A cocktail? No thank you. —
Good gracious, you have got hold of Henry!"
The dusky one-eyed compounder of inebriants grinned all
over. He was evidently a celebrity—like Blackbeard.
"There's the man to give you stories of ghosts and
soucouyens. Well, chin-chin."
"What is a soucouyen?" queried the Child.
"My dear it is late, and the remous is just beginning."
"What is the remous?"
The Count made a dash for his hat, and ran down the
gravel path. "An revoir," he called out, getting into his boat.
"Henry will enlighten you on local topics."
Whether or not the Phantom Boat passed that night, this
deponent is unable to say. The Magnate had the Manager of
his Oil Company bawling at him all night, about derricks and
sumps and seeps and financial matters. Blackbeard and ship-
mates would nave wanted powerful megaphones to get a
hearing.
Next morning, at early coffee, however. Scribbler was to
the fore with his inevitable "legend." A short one, for a
mercy. He afterwards got somebody — the Child, I suspect — to
set it to music. Nobody, thank goodness, seemed to care to
sing it. Not on account of the music, I assured the Child.
She made some unintelligible remark, and left the room.
p. 9
SOURCE: Legends of the Bocas, Trinidad. By A.D. Russell, London: Cecil Palmer, 1922. p.7
..............................................................................................................................
"Patria est communis omnium parens" - Our native land is the common parent of us all. Keep it beautiful, make it even more so.
Blessed is all of creation
Blessed be my beautiful people
Blessed be the day of our awakening
Blessed is my country
Blessed are her patient hills.
Mweh ka allay!
Guanaguanare
Boca Chimes [Poem]
VII. BOCA CHIMES.
By A.D. Russell
In the air there is a chiming, stealing far from out the west,
Where the crimson sun is sinking, o'er the mountains to his rest.
Oft, at eve, I hear that chiming, solemn, silvery, dying fast;
'Tis as from some Chapel hidden 'mid these Bocas wild and vast.
Chime, chime, chime ! God is Eternity, the world is Time !
Oft, at eve, I've sought that chiming ; sought it by the lone sea shore,
'Mong the islets and the reaches, where the seabird hovers o'er;
'Mid the ebb- and 'mid the flow-tide, 'mid the remous' rune-like moan,
Till my heart is sick with longing, and my eyes are weary grown.
Chime, chime, chime ! God is Eternity, the world is Time!
Somewhere, somewhere that fair Chapel hidden lies from mortal ken,
In an elder world of wonder, for a race of sinless men ;
And they kneel in the old arches, young and old, and evermore
Rises up the rich, undoubting, simple faith of days of yore.
Chime, chime, chime ! God is Eternity, the world is Time!
Might I find it, might I enter, kneel within its hallowed shrine,
Lave me at its mossy fountain, it might calm this heart of mine;
Still the anguish, still the grieving, heal all sorrow, cleanse all sin . . .
But the Way is deep in shadow, and the Light is all within.
Chime, chime, chime ! God is Eternity, the world is Time!
NOTES.
Somebody, I forget who, entertained us one day with a
vague tradition, said to exist among the fisher people, about
voices being heard in the Second Boca.
Men's voices. Young men's, I think, the idea was.
Certainly no women's.
Scribbler takes a hold of this, and of course spoils it. He
must have a mixed congregation, or the Child would be dis-
pleased. He deliberately sacrifices what might have been a
sort of Parsifal Legend. Yes, sacrifices it. For surely the
natural thing would have been to introduce Papa Teteron
and his sons as Cenobites, leading a mysterious life like
Amfortas, or whatever his name was, and his sons.
But no, Scribbler always knew better than anyone else.
SOURCE: Legends of the Bocas, Trinidad. By A.D. Russell, London: Cecil Palmer, 1922. pp. 25-26
..............................................................................................................................
"Patria est communis omnium parens" - Our native land is the common parent of us all. Keep it beautiful, make it even more so.
Blessed is all of creation
Blessed be my beautiful people
Blessed be the day of our awakening
Blessed is my country
Blessed are her patient hills.
Mweh ka allay!
Guanaguanare
The Authentic Legend of M'an Grosdent [Poem]
THE AUTHENTIC LEGEND OF M'AN GROSDENT
(As told by an Irish Dominican Father)
Oh, M'an Grosdent was a witch indeed.
And a grand old witch was she;
She sold her soul to the Devil twice.
And cheated him of his fee.
But when it came to the third compact.
The Devil he swore an oath.
That he would have M'an Grosdent's soul.
Though she were never so loath.
Oh M'an Grosdent, Dent M'an Grosdent!
He gave her the girth of the good green earth,
And the height of the clouds that soar.
And a voice that spoke like a thunder peal.
Or the wild Tornado's roar;
He gave her the speed of the rushing winds,
And the strength of the whelming seas;
And teeth that could bite through the hardest rock,
For she bargained for all these.
Oh M'an Grosdent, Dent M'an Grosdent!
Seven hundred years he granted her.
To do as she should please;
The earth was weary of her deeds.
Aweary were the seas.
She slew the infant in its cot.
The monarch on his throne.
She grew and she slew, till the years ran through
And the Devil came for his own.
Oh M'an Grosdent, Dent M'an Grosdent!
p. 10
But when the Devil saw her there, Tis sore afraid was he;
For she had grown so tall, so stout.
He readied scarce to her knee
"Oh come with me, Machree," says he,
"And come with me, my dear:
"Have I not done your full pleasure,
"So many and many a year?"
Oh M'an Grosdent. Dent M'an Grosdent!
"My full pleasure," quoth she, "forsooth!
"Small pleasure have I known;
"But if I need must go with you,
"Tis go I must, ochone!
"So make your back both strong and broad,
"And fly with me with heed;
"For I'm old and frail, and if I fall,
"Oh, 'twill be the Devil indeed! ''
Oh, M'an Grosdent, Dent M'an Grosdent !
The Devil he flew o'er Montserrat,
With M'an Grosdent on his back ;
But when he saw Tucuche's height.
He cried, "Ochone, alack!
"I never can fly so high," said he.
"With such an awful load;"
And he turned from the hills, and made for the isles.
And he spilt her on the road!
Oh, M'an Grosdent, Dent M'an Grosdent !
At Diego Martin, 'tis known for certain.
She came down with a thud;
For witches there, enough and to spare.
Have sprung from the witch's blood.
Her heart is buried at Hart's Cut,
Her head is Gasparee ;
And there in sooth, you may see her tooth.
Oh, a good mile out at sea.
Oh, M'an Grosdent, Dent M'an Grosdent !
p. 11
And do you doubt this legend old?
Or is it proof you crave?
Go, visit Gasparee, my child.
And see the wondrous cave,
Oh, that is M'an Grosdent's brain-pan;
The little Cave's her eye;
And if you don't believe it now.
Why - neither in truth do I!
Oh, M'an Grosdent, Dent M'an Grosdent!
S.
NOTES
The Count took us to Pointe Baleine, where the remains of an old whale-oil refinery still stand to explain the name. What we went to see, however, was "The Caves" : (see Legend VIII. )
Towards the evening the parish priest of Diego Martin and the Isles came to call, and brought with him one of the Fathers from Saint Mary's College. Two such brogues you never heard! One could observe Scribbler assimilating them for literary purposes.
The next legend was bound to be "brogued."
A rock in the First Boca is pointed out to visitors as "M'an (i.e., Madame) Teteron's Tooth." Teteron Village, called after a respectable French-Creole family of the same designation, is close by. Hence the nickname. No harm is thought of it. Who the individual ancestress was, nobody knows. Nobody cares either. The rock has always been called so. It is rather a family distinction.
Now, had Scribbler invented something complimentary, something nice, to explain the size of the lady's tooth, probably the Teteron family would have complimented him. With a fine mackerel, say. Or a fair-sized grouper. When not too large, a grouper, done with a good wine sauce (Vieille au vin), is a most delicious dish.
No, no: that is not Scribbler's way.
p. 12
The name Teteron is not sonorous enough for him. Also he is a Royalist. Round-heads, Cromwell's men, are his historical antipathies. French Round-heads, Têtes-rondes, even in the twentieth century and the West Indies, and though the best Catholics in the world, find Scribbler indifferent, not to say hostile. To work up a lagging inspiration he must change the name.
Now, to me, this appears mean. The Teteron family were in possession, so to speak, and entitled to mention. Still, blessings sometimes come in disguise, and so it happened to the Teterons. Scribbler's explanation of the Tooth was not nice, not complimentary.
You will read it in the legend. Endorse it personally, I will not! M'an Gros-Dent (Grosse-Dent) and her creator, must settle matters between themselves. I am thankful, at any rate, that the respectable M'an Teteron is out of it.
"Diego Martin Witches." Father O'Dowd, who is a wag, stuffed Scribbler with tales about women who wrote Latin, yet could not read a word of English, and such-like fairy tales. Scribbler, having no sense of humour, took it all senously.
"Hart's Cut," however, is a deliberate attempt to mislead the reader. The word is "Hart,'' not heart, to begin with. Also it was clearly explained to Scribbler that it stood for a gaoler of the name of Lovelace-Hart, who employed the prisoners on Carrera Island, a penal settlement halt a mile away, to make the cut or canal which bears his name. Scribbler was really too unscrupulous.
Tucuche is commonly reputed to be the highest mountain in the island. Cerro Naranjo, in Toco, and Aripo, near Arima, however, dispute the claim.
Montserrat is a lowish range in the centre of the island. On its slopes flourish many nine cocoa estates, belonging to old French-Creole families, including the Count's. According to him, the allegation that the Devil flew o'er Montserrat is likely to be resented. They are all sportsmen and good Catholics, and would have shot the Devil at sight, had he really come there.
"Neither in truth do I." This is the most bare-faced hoax of all. I think it decidedly unfair of Scribbler to have gone away, and left me to bear the brunt of publishing it. Only an elevated consciousness of rectitude, besides my plighted word to the deceased, induces me to shoulder die responsibility.
I.
p. 13
SOURCE: Legends of the Bocas, Trinidad. By A.D. Russell, London: Cecil Palmer, 1922. pp. 10-13
..............................................................................................................................
"Patria est communis omnium parens" - Our native land is the common parent of us all. Keep it beautiful, make it even more so.
Blessed is all of creation
Blessed be my beautiful people
Blessed be the day of our awakening
Blessed is my country
Blessed are her patient hills.
Mweh ka allay!
Guanaguanare
A Morning Vision [Poem]
XL. A MORNING VISION.
I lay when dawn was breaking.
And dreamed of days that were;
The lapless tide was waking,
And birds began to stir,
E'en as they might in England
In a green midsummer.
All in a leafy thicket
Of jasmin, cool and lush.
They were as gay a picket
As ever sang in bush
The Chow-chow, he sang loudest.
Sweet as an English thrush.
Well might his song be thrush-like,
A thrush, a thrush is he;
His varied notes, they gush like
The song of brook or sea;
His cousin over the water
Chants not more cheerily.
To him lest bard should tender
Some lesser meed of fame.
No touch of tropic splendour
Belies his sober claim —
A plain grey English minstrel
Under an Indian name.
Alike is your true singer
In all the climes that be;
He loves the bright day-bringer.
He loves the pleasant lea;
Not, not the swamp, the jungle,
Nor yet the lonesome sea.
There richer hues may glimmer,
As gruesome beasts go by —
The snake with coral shimmer,
The hawk with emerald eye;
The gull shrill to the tempest.
The parrot shriek on high.
The songster scans the clearing,
He is a merry thief ;
With songs and ways endearing.
He steals away your grief;
And well he knows the "Julie,"
The corn, the cabbage leaf.
The God-bird — have you guessed it !
Your old-world "Jenny Wren!"
Here, too, a favoured guest, it
Frequents the haunts of men.
One high within my chamber
Made chirp enough for ten.
In gamut still ascending,
Without, the Jacamar,
Trilled on and on, unending;
I knew his note from far:
Methinks the quaintest choir-bird
Of all the birds that are.
A dozen little Grass-birds
Along my lattice came.
All with their proper pass-words.
Each with his family name;
Their chief, the Pico-Plata,
Of ancient Spanish fame.
In black and white and yellow,
A rich Canary hue,
With cheery notes, and mellow.
The Honey-Creeper flew.
And perched on my old pipe-rack,
To join the merry crew.
These, ay, and many, many
A happy bird beside.
Sang joyously; nor any
Gave heed to how I sighed,
A-listening to their lilting.
That might not be denied.
And still I lay a- dreaming,
And mourning on my bed
Till all the east was beaming
And half the west was red;
A Colibri came flashing.
And hovered o'er my head.
Vermilion tiny ringlets
Looped in a golden crest;
Two ruby flames for winglets.
And tiny opal breast,
So busily it bickered,
Not might a moment rest.
Ah, winged gem, no sadness
Might ever dwell with you!
An ecstasy, a madness.
Dull mortals never knew,
Roared like a fairy furnace
Your rushing pinions through.
Rose-flashing, fiery-darting.
Passion- or angel-bid,
It touched my eyes; and, smarting
In orb and drowsy lid,
I saw a sudden glory
From common vision hid.
Blue was the sky with millions
Of souls in azure sheen;
Star spoke to star, and trillions
Of voices sang between;
A never-ending present
Was as the past had been . . . .
A-top of an old stable,
My window near below,
Loud, loud, as he was able,
A cock began to crow;
My morning vision ended.
And left me to my woe.
pp. 40-45
NOTES.
Supposed to have been "beholden" at Pointe Baleine. This
is another production belonging to the period of Scribbler's
mourning for his comrade-in-arms. Cf. Legend VIII. Here,
it is noticeable, his grief is more resigned.
"L'Enfant y est pour quelque chose." (the Child has some-
thing to do with it), the Count declared.
Certainly the description of local song-birds, constituting
the main interest of the poem, is playful, not to say humorous,
in tone. It is exceptionally accurate too. Why? For a very
simple reason; the Chile! began a collection of wild birds,
and Scribbler had to study what he was writing about — a thing
he very seldom troubled to do.
"Colibri," i.e., humming-bird. The description given cor-
responds to Trochilus Moschitus, the ruby-hued variety. By
the bye, the theory about tropical song-birds being plain-
coloured and frequenting cultivated parts, while gaudy ones
are songless or utter only raucous cries and belong to the
jungle, etc., originated with the Magnate. He, now, was an
accurate observer. Remarkably good-natured too as a rule.
When Scribbler stole the idea and put it in his verses, far from
being angry the old man seemed quite bucked. Scribbler
was a favourite with him. He knew his people in Canada,
who, it came out later, were in a more important position
than anyone would have imagined who only knew Scribbler.
(See Legend XXVII).
The Magnate never liked me. He pretended to fall asleep
when I explained how birds were classified : raptores, incessores,
rasores, etc.; and once, on the voyage, when he found me sitting
on deck with the Child, he was positively rude, I thought.
p. 45
"Chow-chow,"(alias "day-clean" (because he heralds the
dawn) or "Mocking Thrush, really a kind of thrush. A
remarkable variety of notes^ and would-be-dignified way of
strutting about, with funny little half-flights. Chow-chow ts a
phonetic rendering of his call to his mate.
"Godbird." Everybody knows the old rhyme: "Robin
Redbreast and Jenny wren are God's cock and hen." It is
curious to find something analogous in the West Indies. Notes
rather loud for "chamber music," which, however, he specially
cultivates.
"Jacamar" This is more of an operatic fellow, going up
and up chromatically, and getting very excited in the process.
Long tail tipped with white.
"Grass-birds." So called because they feed on grass seeds;
a numerous family, most of them with pretty little notes.
"Pico-Plata" ("Silver-beak,") is really a high-class per-
former. They are pugnacious little birds, despite their French
patois nickname: "Cici Zebe." Cici means little fellow or
puny thing; Zebe stands for des herbes. {See "Qiseaux de
I'Ile de la Trinidad," par A. Leotaud. Port d'Espagne, 1866,
page 326.)
"Honeycreeper" or Sucrier; very common, notes cheery,
though not (to my ear) particularly sweet. Rather smaller,
but same colour, as the wild canary.
SOURCE: Legends of the Bocas, Trinidad. By A.D. Russell, London: Cecil Palmer, 1922. pp. 42-46
..............................................................................................................................
"Patria est communis omnium parens" - Our native land is the common parent of us all. Keep it beautiful, make it even more so.
Blessed is all of creation
Blessed be my beautiful people
Blessed be the day of our awakening
Blessed is my country
Blessed are her patient hills.
Mweh ka allay!
Guanaguanare
The Presbyter And The Pitch-Men [Poem]
XIV. THE PRESBYTER AND THE PITCH-MEN.
By A.D. Russell
The Presbyter lay on a lordly bed,
A silken canopy hung o'er his head;
His cheeks were plump, his nose was red.
And he had an easy conscience.
A silvery sound the stillness broke;
The clock kept striking, stroke on stroke.
At the twelfth, the Presbyter awoke . . .
He woke with an easy conscience.
"Pax vobiscum," thrice he said:
What do these Ghosts about my bed?"
The Presbyter was not afraid,
Because of his easy conscience.
The first Ghost, he began to say:
"All we were dwellers at La Brea. "
The Presbyter wished them far away,
In spite of his easy conscience.
"By La Brea Church we slept full sound,
For the ground, we thought, was holy ground;
An odour of sanctity wrapped us round,
And we had an easy conscience.
But men they came with picks and staves ;
They dug the pitch, nor spared our graves.
And earned our bodies over the waves!
Can they have an easy conscience?
In New York our remains were bought
By a Syndicate, which heeded nought.
Bones or pitch?— Not worth a thought!
They seldom have a conscience.
They smashed us up to pieces small,
Skull and cross-bones, legs and all:
We're mixed up quite beyond recall . . .
It's really beyond all conscience!
They wear us out in various modes,
For some are roofs, and some are roads;
We labotu: tmder heavy loads . . .
The wagons have no conscience.
And so we've come across the seas.
To try and get a little ease;
'Tis high, high time, as Your Rev'rence sees,
To deal with us in conscience!
The Presbyter's voice rang like a bell:
"There's a bigger Pitch Lake down in . . .
For sinners — ay, and slackers as well;
And the Devil has no conscience!
Each of us has his work to do,
I as Presbyter, you as you;
A ghostly work, and a temporal too,
Which calls for an easy conscience.
Think, men, 'twas not for some paltry pence !
But piles of dollars — leave out the cents.
Bargain? What I — such as a man of sense
Accepts with an easy conscience.
Our island pitch has quite a name :
We pitched you in, so it's all the same ;
You may think of yourselves as men of fame,
And still have an easy conscience.
Your bodies were grown so much like pitch.
The Lord alone knew which was which;
The Church was poor, and now it's rich
And it has an easy conscience.
You've helped the Church, you've blessed the poor;
None now need beg from door to door.
I only wish we had some more . . .
I'd still have an easy conscience.
Go back to your roads, and back to your roofs
You merit more severe reproofs ;
But by serving; well the world's behoofs
You may still have an easy conscience.
So he blessed the Ghosts with a heart a-glow,
They whimpered their thanks, and turned to go.
It cheered their hearts at least to know
They'd been sold with an easy conscience.
pp. 51-53
NOTES.
"An Auto-da-fé!" carolled the Count. "An Auto-da-fé!"
We haven't had one this year. High time to begin. We must
not let ancient customs fall into desuetude."
"An Auto-da-fé?" faltered Scribbler, turning green and
blue.
"Certainly, an Auto-da-fé!" and the Count, despite
bulk, jumped around like a school-boy. "Don't you know our
Spanish laws are in force? Anyone making fun of a priest is
burnt, in a Sanbenito, with most interesting ceremonies."
"But, but, but," faltered Scribbler, his knees knocking
together. "m—m—my man isn't a priest. He's only a
P—p—Presbyter!"
He had gone to visit the Pitch Lake. There, of all mankind
he encountered a Chinaman.
Trinidad is a land of many nationalities. English, Welsh,
Scotch, Irish, Manxmen, Channel Islanders, Canadians, Yanks,
French, Corsicans, Venezuelans, Spaniards, Portuguese, Col-
ombians, Costa Ricans, Peruvians, Chilians, Nicaraguans,
p. 53
Mexicans, Barbadians, Demerarians, Tobagonians, Vincent-
ians, Jamaicans, and the overflow of other West Indian Islands,
Italians. Danes, Dutchmen, Swiss — no, thank God, no Germans
-—Swedes, Norwegians, Poles, Czechs and Slavs of various
hyphens, Russians, Negroes, Jews, Syrians, Caribs (a few I
now learn). East Indians — a third of the whole population —
Chinese.
Mostly shop-keepers, the Chinese: rum-and-provision.
Which end of the building Scribbler went to, we will not
surmise.
Anyhow, out of the Celestial's unintelligible gutturals and
gesticulations, he conceived — erroneously, beyond doubt — that
a churchyard adjoining pitch-lands had been . . .
See the Legend!
Auto-da-fé or not. Scribbler was well roasted. The Count had no mercy. So graphically did he picture the flames,
so liberally pile up the faggots, the Child too, finally, believed.
Did she flinch? Was she frightened?
No, sir!
Heaps of girls go through life looking for their chance to
be heroines. The Child found hers right now.
Stake? She would go to a dozen stakes with her beloved
Scribbler.
She was the stuff to do it, too.
The Count, whose face had been like stone, softened
instantly.
"Bless you, ma chère," he said, patting her head, "you will be a brave woman one of these days. You are one already.
They are wrong to call you 'The Child.' We won't have
Scribbler burnt this time — for your sake."
He never told them it was all a hoax. He cleared out. He
was wise, the Count.
Would I have been wise too! When the Magnate came
home, my innocence did not save me from his wrath.
"My daughter hoaxed! My daughter made a fool of!"
The relationship to himself made it lèse-majesté.
His language threatened to bring down the roof. Mrs.
Magnate dissolved in tears. A doctor was called in, and ordered
the Child to bed. She remained there for a fortnight.
The Count wrote a letter of apology. I did the same, and
went to Tobago for the round trip.
Some are roofs, etc. Roof- and road-making are the principal purposes for which Trinidad asphalt is applied.
p. 54
SOURCE: Legends of the Bocas, Trinidad. By A.D. Russell, London: Cecil Palmer, 1922. pp. 51-54
..............................................................................................................................
"Patria est communis omnium parens" - Our native land is the common parent of us all. Keep it beautiful, make it even more so.
Blessed is all of creation
Blessed be my beautiful people
Blessed be the day of our awakening
Blessed is my country
Blessed are her patient hills.
Mweh ka allay!
Guanaguanare
Duendes' Mead [Poem]
XVI. DUENDES' MEAD.
By A.D. Russell
I.
Nightfall on the Seashore.
When the sun has sunk to rest,
Somewhere — who knows? — in the west
O'er yon fairy dome that marks the crest
Of the towering Spanish Main;
And skies erewhile in crimson drest
Doff their mantle, and in plain
Hodden-grey are clad again;
When the darkness 'gins to thicken,
(Ah, that hour of doom,
Then it is sweet babes do sicken,
By curst necromancers stricken,
To their early tomb).
And lifeless things beseem to quicken
'Mid the growing gloom;
See, along the shelving strand,
Over shingle, over sand,
Over cruel rocks, unmeet
For little toddling feet.
One by one, or hand in hand
Tiny figures steal along
In a shadowy band.
Without father, without mother,
Without God to bless,
Close they cling to one another
In their helplessness.
p. 58
2.
A Melancholy Doom.
Microcosms
Forbid to grow,
In their bosoms
Leap and glow
Heats and passions such as men know.
As our failings,
So are theirs:
Idle wailings,
Brief despairs.
Mimic mortals' shallow cares.
Nay, our sorrow
Cannot match
Theirs: no morrow
E'er shall snatch
Light from the Daystar to brighten their watch;
Watch never-ending,
Instinctive, yet vain;
From woe beyond mending
A solace to gain —
The daydream called living to dream once again.
None now may sain them:
The priest and his book
Are powerless to gain them
In heaven a nook;
What the Dove hath not blessed must belong to
the Rook.
Formed in His fashion
Who died on the tree.
Even God's passion
Cannot set free
One of these little ones such as they be.
p. 59
Such as dead ages,
In lust and in crime,
Have writ in the pages
Of pitiless time,
Such, such are these creatures formed
out of earth's slime.
Formed of earth's slime.
And set forth on life's path,
Brief was the time
Of your sinning; yet hath
The sentence gone forth that condemned
you to wrath.
Duendes' Song.
3.
"Come away, brother! Come and see
How the mist is yellow over the moon,
And the long, long roll coming in from the sea
Has set the Bell-buoy playing his tune.
Ding-dong! Ding-dong! 'Twere sweet to be
A Bell-buoy swinging out on the sea;
Others are merry — but never we.
"Look, look, sister! There, far away,
The waves are gathering more and more;
Soon the reef will be hid with spray,
And the waters flow free from shore to shore.
'Twill be merry so, for the waters, to flow
Now in at the Boca, now out to sea;
They may make merry — but never we.
p. 60
Brother, sister, listen well;
We feel no breeze, but the air is humming;
The mist is torn, and the waters swell —
Alack, alack, the rain is coming.
By the long grey shore of the angry sea,
Homeless, comfortless go we."
Chacachacare : Its Changing Aspects.
4.
On Chacachacare, when the nights are starry,
The north wind plays a tune
O'er the gap in the middle, like the bow on a fiddle.
And it runs in an endless rune.
Ever and ever and ever the same,
Yet ever the lilt is new;
'Tis the song of the deep, and the winds that sweep
O'er its leagues of changing blue,
Where the Witch of the Sea alone sits she,
And her magic cauldrons brew;
And the meteors stream like the steely gleam
Of her locks blown loose on the breeze;
And bright as day is the silvery bay
That laughs to the outer seas.
Fair, fair as by day the wavelets play,
And flash in the charmed night;
And over each wave, come they never so oft,
An elfan rainbow gleams aloft,
All made of the moonbeam's light.
But it is not so when the Duendes come;
The stars are gone, the winds are dumb ;
The moon on the horizon's rim,
Through a watery haze looks dwarfed and dim.
Now, m the hush of the witching hour.
The waters are silent, the headlands lower;
And rocks and shadows and woods conspire
In dim funereal attire,
And leaden hue
To mantle o'er the cheerful view.
p. 61
Duendes' Ball
5.
"Brothers, sisters, heed the call,
At your liking, at your leisure:
Dance, dance in the Duendes' ball;
Without music, without measure;
Foot it bravely, little ones all.
Let us make belief of pleasure.
"At your liking, at your choosing,
Come who will, stay who would stay ;
Nor complying, nor refusing
Matters, let who will obey.
Laughing's weeping, winning's losing.
In our mockery of play.
"In our play, as in our dances,
All is empty, all is show:
Void of change, secure from chances,
Ever driven to and fro;
Naught decreases, naught enhances
Our share assured of weal or woe.
"Ah, our weal is grief unending,
Life-in-death, a lengthened trance;
There alone is no pretending —
Frisk it, Duendes, frisk and prance ;
Bigones litde ones befriending,
Cheerly come, and join the dance."
p. 60
Why They are Doomed.
6.
Child "Oh, mother, what may Duendes be?
And were they little ones once like we? "'
Mother "Angels and blest Saints be near
us!
Hush, hush, my child, who knows who
hear us?"
Child "Were they born of real mothers?''
Mother "Heaven sain the child! Ay, of
what others?"
Child "Cradled and kissed, and wrapped
and tended,
From every thought of harm defended?
Oh, did their mothers love them true,
And they love them, as I love you?"
Mother (aside) "What folly is in it?— Darling, yes;
It must have been so, more or less.
A mother must love, who-so she be,
How vile so-e'er,
The little child that climbs her knee
And claims her care.
It is but the sign of the blessed cross
In its last hour,
To save it from eternal loss
And the Devil's power.
But the Devil, oh he walks cunningly,
With aspect mild,
Along the shore of the treacherous sea,
Or in the wild
Where ravine lurks in cave and tree),
To snare the child.
Too late the mother, in despair,
Besieges heaven with plaint and prayer —
Too late, too late!
Her child is gone to the demons' lair
In the hands of hate."
p. 63
Child "Now shame, now shame, mother
so dear,
The little child was not to blame!"
Mother "Nay, but the mother was, my
dear,
And that is nigh the same.
'Tis God Himself has set a shore,
Where they are bid to dwell;
And he who would the gulf bridge o'er
In danger is of hell.
Alack and well-a-day.
If one should cross your way!
Say, say your prayers in haste and dread,
And make God's blessed sign ;
Or ere the morrow you'll be dead.
And your soul will be in tyne."
Satan in Watch.
7.
The Angelus had toned its chime,
The cottage lights been lit a time,
And dew lay thick on the grass like rime.
The wind was still, the sea scarce heard
Far out on the shore; not a thicket stirred
Till the silence broke in the note of a bird.
Loud it came in the hush of night,
Strident and strange — a sound that might
Affray, but was not a cry of affright.
A thrill it sent through the ceibas tall,
Where they stretched their boughs like a leafy pall,
It seemed — it seemed like a signal call.
Why should signal call be made?
Something comes through the tangled glade,
But 'tis only the form of a tiny maid.
A thing of joy, a heavenly sprite,
That threads the gloom by some inner light.
What does she here in the lonesome night ?
p. 64
San Juan's Shrine.
8.
She has been to the stream by the ruined tower,
Whose waters, flung in a crystal shower,
To banish ill have a heavenly power.
The old-time builder, void of guile,
Has been laid in his grave a goodly while,
But his angel haunts the mouldering pile.
And the folk from the neighbouring villagery
Will kneel and pray as they pass that way.
To good San Juan of Santa Fe.
The little maid her prayers has said,
In the lonely church withouten dread;
She prayed for the living, she prayed for the dead.
For the suffering souls in Purgatory,
That quickly cleansed they might be,
And from the winnowing flame set free.
And ever she pleaded, o'er and o'er,
Till her eyes grew dim, and her knees were sore,
For the little souls on Limbo's shore;
That they might be spared the grief and pain,
Outcasts forever to remain,
And be taken in heaven's grace again.
p.65
Maiden's Prayer.
9.
"Father," she prayed, "Thy will be done,
But let my soul be pledge for one,
For Jesus sake, Thy only Son.
"He was a sinless child on earth,
Perfect and pure from His holy birth,
Yet others too He deemed of worth.
"For when His followers forbade.
He called to the little ones and said,
'It was of such that heaven was made.'
Awhile to save one from its doom,
In that rueful realm, that land of gloom,
Lord, let me suffer in its room.
''A little while to feel the bliss
Of a father's arms, a mother's kiss,
Ah, grant it only, only this !"
Who Overheard.
10.
(An angel listened,
Marvelling;
A tear glistened,
On flashing wing;
It sprang to heaven as rainbows spring.
"A miracle
Grant, of Thy might;
Her prayer fulfil
This very night;
Let a child of woe be a child of light !"
p. 66
But the Devil, too,
Her prayer had heard ;
He mocked and flew
As an evil bird
That scents a prey when the night is stirred.)
On the Way Home.
11.
Now, the pathway homeward wending,
To left, to right, uncertain bending.
Her prayer still ran on without ending.
Stay, what is there in the narrow track?
A helpless babe — look, look, alack,
Its limbs are maimed, its feet bent back !
Its look is raised to the heedless sky;
Its face is woe, but it makes no cry;
A tear is standing in either eye.
Its garment floats like a tattered doud
That is swept from view when the winds are loud;
Oh! God, it looks like an infant's shroud !
p. 67
A Comparison.
12.
Child and child. Alike? Ah, no;
One pure, through Christ, as the driven snow;
And one condemned, a waif of woe.
One fresh from font and hallowed cell,
With saints and angels fit to dwell;
The other, a denizen of hell.
Oh, fate severe ! Oh, woeful place,
For demons e'en ! And see, that face
Were fitter for a child of grace.
Eternal woe ! What grief was there
In its great eyes and piteous air —
Infinite, infinite despair !
A look ne'er seen 'neath earthly skies,
Where the gleam of the glow-worm never dies —
The glow-worm hope that shines in men's eyes.
What a Babe Dare Do.
13.
A little child is wiser far
Than learned theologians are;
They puzzle o'er the things to do ;
It knows the thing;, and does it too.
A little child can be more brave
Than those who greatest powers have;
And heaven oft in joy has smiled
On the foolishness of a holy child.
The little maid no tarry made,
No time took she to be afraid ;
Heedless of dangers and of harms.
She clasped the Duende in her arms.
p. 68
Passing Away.
14.
"Baby dear, I love you so !
Listen how the waters flow;
As they still and stiller play,
So my life too ebbs away.
When 'tis ended, you and I
Swift to heaven then shall fly.
"Baby dear, when I am dead . . .
There's a halo round your head !
Can you feel it ? — Nay, 'tis true,
Christ Himself had given it you.
He has washed away your sin,
And holy Saint Peter will let us in.
"Baby, the tide is nearly out,
The wash at the bar has turned about.
My soul says yes, my body no;
Is it my sins won't let me go?
Ah, all my sins on Christ I cast . . .
Now my soul will go at last.
"Baby, baby, let me cling !
I am but a little thing.
Darling, you've been dead before,
Guide my steps the threshold o'er;
The spirit world is strange and new,
Baby, for me, more than for you.
"Hark the rushing sound ! They come,
Angels to bear us quickly home.
Look, look, afar in the crystal skies—
'Tis all alight with children's eyes.
By the jasper stream and the golden stair,
What happy faces wait us there.
p. 69
"Ah, surly this must be a land,
Fashioned for babes by Jesus' hand;
As He promised long ago,
When He blessed them down on earth below.
See, He looks smiling from above
On children's play in this land of love."
Her Memory.
15.
There is a spot by Tinta's shore,
It stands for all the world to see;
The humming-bird oft poises o'er,
And flow'rets tempt the honey bee;
The lilac scents the tranquil air,
The cassia casts its shower of gold;
The plenteous foison of God's care,
Bourgeons in splendours manifold —
All that Dame Nature's lap can hold.
All that Dame Nature's lap can hold,
Of sweets and virtues here combine;
O'er cedar fair and camphor old
Pours in cascade the flow'ring vine.
The murmur of the laughing wave
Runs endless on, like childhood's song;
The stealing deer, with aspect grave,
Comes here to gaze, and tarries long.
As if this spot could know no wrong.
As if this spot could know no wrong,
To beast, or insect, bird or flower,
No ravening tribe brine feud among
The habitants of such a bower:
So formed for joy, so fashioned fair,
The cynosure of all around,
No eye may grieve, no sorrow wear
Its antic cloak with cypress bound.
But memory whispers: "Holy ground."
p. 70
Memory whispers : "Holy ground,"
And points with loving care the spot
Where once a little maid was found,
Her chosen name: "Forget-me-not."
Ay, ne'er forgotten shall she be,
While grudging time on his dusty roll
Of dull things that have ceased to be,
Still guards the simple cross and scroll:
"A little babe that saved a soul."
NOTES.
Scribbler adopted the Spanish form of the word
"Duende." The vocal e at the end evidently suited his lines;
also the French patois form looks so appalling when spelt,
"douennde." Ghosts of unchristened children is of course
the meaning. "Duendes' Mead" (so named by Scribbler
and the Child on the ground of some fancied resemblance
to "fairy rings" at home), an insignificant depression ad-
joining La Tinta, Chacachacare, in no way justifies Scribbler's
description ; while the story, in my belief, is an absolute
invention.
"Fairy dome that marks the crest." There is a dome —
rather leaning to one side — in the sky-line of the Mountains
of Paria, which form such a romantic background to the
Bocas. (See Legend VIII).
"Chacachacare." Dog-island this is supposed to mean.
The isthmus of La Tinta dividing it, "the gap in the middle"
is a striking feature, being little above sea-level; while the
portion on which the Roman Catholic Church stands is high,
and on the east the island rises suddenly to an extraordinary
altitude, with a light-house on the top, 800 feet above sea-level.
"Feet bent back." Twisted round it should rather be.
You can always tell a duende by this peculiarity. Avoid it
when possible, but if it actually bars your way, walk back upon
it, turning your head left and right on your shoulders. In this
way its feelings will be hurt, probably through a suggested
resemblance to its malformation, and it will vanish.
"San Juan of Santa Fe." We have been unable to identify
this saint.
p. 71
"Chosen name." Creoles indulge in many names. A most
unattractive elderly black lady once explained to me that her
pet name was such and such, her motto name something else,
and — really I forget the rest.
"Cross and scroll." There is nothing; of the sort at
Duendes' Mead. This is another of Scribbler's crams.
"Limbo," i.e., limbus infantium of the theologians. Scrib-
bler, who was always in a hurry, set to work on the basis of
local superstition. Had he troubled to consult the Catholic
Encyclopedia, for example, his views might have been
considerably modified. He writes from a mediaeval point of
view, so is entitled to claim the authority of St. Augustine
and the African Fathers, who held that unbaptized mfants
share in the positive misery of the damned, though in the
mildest way, so that their existence is worth something to
them, though query, how much? But it is right to state that
many centuries ago. Pope Innocent III rejected that view,
and was followed by St. Thomas Aquinas, "the Angelic
Doctor," who declared that the infants' limbo is a place of
positive happiness, in which the soul is united to God by a
knowledge of Him proportionate to nature's capacity. Savon-
arola held that these infants' souls will be united to glorious
bodies at the Resurrection, and that the renovated earth, of
which St. Peter speaks (II Pet. iii, 13), will be their happy
dwelling place for eternity. Protestants, especially Calvinists,
have generally followed the harsher Augustinian view, which
was also maintained by Catholic theologians such as Bellarmine
and Bossuet; but the prevailing view among modern
Catholics is that limb. inf. is a place or state of perfect natural
happiness. (Cath. Enc. s.v. "Limbo.")
"Glow-worm hope." Too reminiscent of Poe. I pointed
it out to Scribbler. His only answer was a pun: "Well,
but if it is a propos? " And the Child laughed, as though
he had said something clever.
p. 72
SOURCE: Legends of the Bocas, Trinidad. By A.D. Russell, London: Cecil Palmer, 1922. pp. 58-72
..............................................................................................................................
"Patria est communis omnium parens" - Our native land is the common parent of us all. Keep it beautiful, make it even more so.
Blessed is all of creation
Blessed be my beautiful people
Blessed be the day of our awakening
Blessed is my country
Blessed are her patient hills.
Mweh ka allay!
Guanaguanare
The Soucouyen of Sodor [Poem]
XIIL
THE SOUCOUYEN OF SODOR
Oh, the Soucouyen of Sodor, it was an evil Sprite;
It slept away the blessed day, it wrought ill all the night.
A ball of flame, along it came, flying without a wind;
And when it burst, that thing accurst, it smote the steersman blind.
Oh, the Soucouyen of Sodor was the terror of the coast!
2.
The "Jesus-Maria-Jose," she hailed from Pampatar;
It sent her on the cruel rocks, away by Balatá
The "San Pedro" of Carúpano, the "Santa Fe" of Sais
And many more it drove on shore and perished in like wise.
Oh, the Soucouyen of Sodor, it was a gruesome ghost!
3.
There was a lown in Sodor town, this fiend inhabited.
He slept away the blessed day, at night he lay for dead;
Now they have taken that lifeless lown, and put fire to his toes;
A burning match they made him clutch; and sore they wrung his nose.
Oh, Soucouyen of Sodor, 'tis time to be at home!
4.
They racked him here, they racked him there, his blood was all a-froth...
A ball of flame a-flying came, and flew in at his mouth.
Then sore, then sore that lown 'gan roar, for mercy sore he cried;
But they have taken the miscreant and drowned him in the tide.
And the Soucouyen of Sodor since then has ceased to roam!
S.
p. 49
NOTES.
This is a "Henry." Has the reader forgotten the dusky,
one-eyed compounder of intoxicants? (See Legend III).
The Count had vouched for him as an authority on Soucouyens.
No doubt he was one. Scribbler, however, seems to me to have
jumped the track, in part at least.
A pious lady, who shall be nameless, used to go to four
o'clock Mass. Pallid, clad in black, she glided along the street.
Two negroes, watching, concluded the worst. Next morning
they lay in wait, and, with the best intentions, beat the old
lady nearly to death.
That was their conception of a soucouyen. It is, we believe,
the common one - a miscreant who takes somebody else's skin
and goes about in it to do mischief.
Scribbler's Soucouyen, like Scribbler himself, must be
original. He is above borrowing anyone's skin. He disguises
himself as a ball of fire, which strikes men blind...
True, the question would seem to arise: What does the
orthodox Soucouyen do with his own skin while masquerading
in somebody else's? Presumably he leaves it at home. On
the body it belongs to. If so much be conceded. Scribbler's
conception may hold water. Inanimate, like a dead thing, the
deserted body feels no pain; only when the spirit returns,
and flies in at the mouth, consciousness is restored, and there
is a piteous appeal for mercy.
Sodor, i.e. Saute d'Eau, water-fall. A place on the coast,
north of Maracas Village.
Balatá, Carúpano; Spanish words ending in a vowel or s
generally have the accent on the penult; but exceptions are
numerous in native place-names, e.g. Balatá, Potosí, Caroní,
Boyacá, Cumaná, Pária, Carúpano.
I.
p. 50
SOURCE: Legends of the Bocas, Trinidad. By A.D. Russell, London: Cecil Palmer, 1922. pp. 49-50
..............................................................................................................................
"Patria est communis omnium parens" - Our native land is the common parent of us all. Keep it beautiful, make it even more so.
Blessed is all of creation
Blessed be my beautiful people
Blessed be the day of our awakening
Blessed is my country
Blessed are her patient hills.
Mweh ka allay!
Guanaguanare
Lament For Apodocca [Poem]
XIX. LAMENT FOR APODOCCA.
By A.D. Russell
Oh, Abercromby sailed the sea,
With Harvey at his side,
Until they came to Trinity,
Upon the weltering tide.
They sailed in at the Dragon's Mouth,
By Madam Teteron's Rock-a,
And there in Chaguaramas Bay,
They came on Apodocca.
Oh, Apodocca sleeps so sound.
Who'll waken Apodocca?
"Up, up, my lads! 'Tis broad daylight,
This is no time for slumber;
Here be our dreaded foes in sight.
And more than thrice our number.
'Tis vain to fly, to fight is vain;
Was ever such a sore fix?
Their ships are all about us here,
And twenty-four to our six."
Oh, Apodocca slept so sound,
Who's wakened Apodocca?
What means yon flush across the hills?
What means yon murky veil?
'Tis not the red of immortelles,
'Tis not the rain clouds' trail.
The landscape fair is darkened o'er,
The hills are in eclipse ;
"To save them from our hands, my lads,
The Spaniard 's burnt his ships! "
Oh, Apodocca's wide awake,
You won't catch Apodocca !
p. 81
What s brighter than the levin-brand?
What's louder than the thunder ?
'Tis Spain's proud flagship blowing up,
Her timbers rent asunder.
She sinks, her Admiral sinks with her,
He's flung his life away . . . .
Now he sleeps sound (as he was wont),
In Chaguaramas Bay !
Oh, Apodocca sleeps so sound,
Who'll waken Apodocca?
NOTES.
Were falsification ever admissible in art — a supposition
which personally we deny — it would doubtless be for the
purpose of heightening actual events. That is what Scribbler
tries to do here.
French privateers had been making the West Indies un-
pleasant for English merchantmen. England, therefore, sent
out a considerable fleet, to which the Spanish fleet and land
forces could make no effective resistance. Under the circum-
stances, Admiral Apodocca burnt his ships, to prevent their
falling into the enemy's bands, and Governor Chacon surrendered
the island. Tried by Council of War in Spain, both were
honourably acquitted.
Something dignified, something majestic, we conceive,
could have been made out of these facts. The unruffled Chacon,
the impetuous Apodocca — burning with fury, then burning
his ships; how fine a contrast for artistic delineation!
What does Scibbler do? He makes Admiral Apodocca
blow himself up in his flag-ship. Why? To heighten the
effect, to give him a fictitious instead of a real heroism. — But
hullo! What is here?
"Apodocca sleeps so sound, who'll waken Apodocca?"
A sluggard and a hero at the same time! What kind of
combination is that?
p. 82
When I spoke to Scribbler about it, he explained to me
that Spaniards were brave by universal consensus; but that
by universal consensus, also, they were indolent. Manana,
manana. That was their motto . . . .
I feel inclined to write "A Lament for Mr. Scribbler." I
should be much more comfortable, were he here to enjoy
personally any attentions which may be going. — The Spanish
element in the island is still a thing to be reckoned with.
"Abercromby, Harvey." Sir Ralph Abercromby, K.B., and
Rear-Admiral Harvey commanded respectively the land and
naval forces employed. — The Capitulation was signed 18th
February, 1797.
"Immortelle." A tall tree planted to shade cocoa. In
December it sheds its leaves, and from then on to February
is ablaze with vivid red flowers. Wax-like and delicate.
Gorgeous ! There is no other expression to describe the effect.
Cocoa-growing districts, such as Montserrat, are luminous for
miles around.
I.
p. 83
SOURCE: Legends of the Bocas, Trinidad. By A.D. Russell, London: Cecil Palmer, 1922. pp. 81-83
..............................................................................................................................
"Patria est communis omnium parens" - Our native land is the common parent of us all. Keep it beautiful, make it even more so.
Blessed is all of creation
Blessed be my beautiful people
Blessed be the day of our awakening
Blessed is my country
Blessed are her patient hills.
Mweh ka allay!
Guanaguanare
Comparisons [Poem]
XXVII. COMPARISONS.
By A.D. Russell
Las Madres del Cacao flame
In crimson every year;
So my heart kindles at her name,
Yet faints when she is near:
Thus sinners sink 'twixt joy and shame
When heaven's gates appear.
The Ballata in each fourth year
Bedecks itself in gold;
But oh, the wonder of her hair,
Fold over golden fold.
Is as a halo — a despair
For mortals to behold.
The roble scents the fainting air,
And spreads its tender bloom :
But every scene grows fairer where
Her presence fills the room;
We breathe a more celestial air,
A spiritual perfume.
So earthly things resemble her,
But heavenly things more well:
A something sets our hearts astir
Which lips can never tell:
To think of her as woman, were
A thought unthinkable.
p. 124
NOTES.
For a Count of the Holy Roman Empire — such our friend
was — to have to write a letter of apology (see Legend XIV),
was a thing never to be got over.
Also, as he admitted himself, the Count etait ne farceur.
(I began, in fact, to have doubts about his good faith as to
the Phantom Boat, and the impossibility of the Devil flying
over Montserrat. See Legends III and IV).
It is scarcely surprising, therefore, that Scribbler was not
long let alone.
The Count went to work in rather a shabby way, I consider.
Pretending to be acting from the highest motives, when in
reality he was merely venting his spleen. He had a soft side for
the Child, however; and conceivably may have persuaded
himself he was acting in her interest.
He asked Scribbler, bluntly, what were his intentions
regarding the girl. What was the meaning of his daily visits
to "Holyrood"? I may explain that the Magnate had rented
a magnificent palace of that name, at the St. Clair comer of
the Savannah. Scribbler and I were staying at the Queen's
Park Hotel.
"Moi, je suis homme marie." "It makes nothing how often
I go there." His English commonly went wrong under
excitement. And for Ignotus" . . . .
(Ignotus is my nom-de-plume. I have no desire to identify
my real name with Scribblerian literature).
"Ignotus," said he coolly, '' is too old to think of changing
his condition."
Impertinence! My age, after all . . . .
But no matter. Were they trifling with one another's feelings,
he desired to know. If so, both would regret it. The Magnate
would want a Prince for her -perhaps a Royalty. A Duke at
the very least. Even if Scribbler was a millionaire. . . .
Scribbler shut him up rather well. He was not a millionaire,
he said; but he mentioned a figure considerably above what
we had dreamed of. (The Count treated him after that with
marked respect). He had not breathed a word of sentiment
to the girl. He would not think of doing so. He knew he was
unworthy of her. No man would ever be worthy. She was an
angel . . . .
p. 125
The finest gusher in the Magnate's oil-fields wasn't in it
with Scribbler.
Then, of a sudden, the well choked itself, and — Scribbler
became hysterical. He knew he was an idiot! All that the
Count had said, he had told himself a thousand times over. —
He would go and drown himself !
Who, then would console the Child, the Count demanded.
He must live for the girl's sake. Perhaps, after all, the Magnate,
who was a plain man, might not care for royalties. He even
went the length of offering to entrer en pourparlers with the
old man on Scribbler's behalf. Scribbler, however, even in a
collapsed state, had more common-sense, After the recent
Auto-da-fe incident, he probably thought the Count would not
be the best intermediary.
This effusion, entitled "Comparisons," was among
Scribbler's papers. Not among those done up by themselves
and labelled "Legends." Still, as illustrating Scribbler's con-
sciousness of unworthiness and hysterical tendency, it may be
of interest.
"Madres del Cacao" ("Mothers of the Cocoa.") A fanciful
name given bv the Spaniards to the immortelles planted as
shade trees. (See Legend XIX) *
Ballata. This fine hard-wood tree flowers only in wet years.
Roughly, every third or fourth. The flower is not exactly
"gold." Neither was the Child's hair-"Entre or et roux,"
the Count called it. The flower is an intermediate tint too.
The fruit is delicious. Pity Scribbler could not have worked
that in, rather than the Roble, whose scent, though sweet,
is rather overpowering at -close quarters. Hence Scribbler's
"fainting air." But the flower is glorious; a rich, dull
yellow.
p. 126
SOURCE: Legends of the Bocas, Trinidad. By A.D. Russell, London: Cecil Palmer, 1922. 124-126
..............................................................................................................................
"Patria est communis omnium parens" - Our native land is the common parent of us all. Keep it beautiful, make it even more so.
Blessed is all of creation
Blessed be my beautiful people
Blessed be the day of our awakening
Blessed is my country
Blessed are her patient hills.
Mweh ka allay!
Guanaguanare
