 | Wolfert's roost |  |
THE PHANTOM ISLAND.
And wave thy purple wings,
Now all thy figures are allowed,
And various shapes of things.
Create of airy forms a stream;
It must have blood and naught of phlegm;
And though it be a walking dream,
Yet let it like an odor rise
To all the senses here,
And fall like sleep upon their eyes,
Or music on their ear.—Ben Jonson.
“There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed
of in our philosophy,” and among these may be placed that marvel
and mystery of the seas, the Island of St. Brandan. Those
who have read the history of the Canaries, the fortunate islands
of the ancients, may remember the wonders told of this enigmatical
island. Occasionally it would be visible from their shores,
stretching away in the clear bright west, to all appearance substantial
like themselves, and still more beautiful. Expeditions
would launch forth from the Canaries to explore this land of
promise. For a time its sun-gilt peaks and long, shadowy promontories
would remain distinctly visible, but in proportion as the
voyagers approached, peak and promontory would gradually fade
blue water below. Hence this mysterious isle was stigmatized
by ancient cosmographers with the name of Aprositus or the Inaccessible.
The failure of numerous expeditions sent in quest
of it, both in ancient and modern days, have at length caused its
very existence to be called in question, and it has been rashly
pronounced a mere optical illusion, like the Fata Morgana of the
Straits of Messina, or has been classed with those unsubstantial
regions known to mariners as Cape Fly Away and the coast of
Cloud Land.
Let us not permit, however, the doubts of worldly-wise skeptics
to rob us of all the glorious realms owned by happy credulity
in days of yore. Be assured, O reader of easy faith!—thou
for whom it is my delight to labor—be assured that such an
island actually exists, and has from time to time, been revealed
to the gaze, and trodden by the feet, of favored mortals. Historians
and philosophers may have their doubts, but its existence
has been fully attested by that inspired race, the poets; who,
being gifted with a kind of second sight, are enabled to discern
those mysteries of nature hidden from the eyes of ordinary men.
To this gifted race it has ever been a kind of wonder-land.
Here once bloomed, and perhaps still blooms, the famous garden
of the Hesperides, with its golden fruit. Here, too, the
sorceress Armida had her enchanted garden, in which she held
the Christian paladin, Rinaldo, in delicious but inglorious thraldom,
as set forth in the immortal lay of Tasso. It was in this
island that Sycorax the witch held sway, when the good Prospero
and his infant daughter Miranda, were wafted to its shores.
Who does not know the tale as told in the magic page of Shakespeare?
The isle was then
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.”
of different powers, genii of earth, and air, and ocean, who have
made it their shadowy abode. Hither have retired many classic
but broken-down deities, shorn of almost all their attributes, but
who once ruled the poetic world. Here Neptune and Amphitrite
hold a diminished court; sovereigns in exile. Their ocean
chariot, almost a wreck, lies bottom upward in some sea-beaten
cavern; their pursy Tritons and haggard Nereids bask listlessly
like seals about the rocks. Sometimes those deities assume, it is
said, a shadow of their ancient pomp, and glide in state about a
summer sea; and then, as some tall Indiaman lies becalmed with
idly flapping sail, her drowsy crew may hear the mellow note of
the Triton's shell swelling upon the ear as the invisible pageant
sweeps by.
On the shores of this wondrous isle the kraken heaves its
unwieldy bulk and wallows many a rood. Here the sea-serpent,
that mighty but much contested reptile, lies coiled up during
the intervals of its revelations to the eyes of true believers. Here
even the Flying Dutchman finds a port, and casts his anchor, and
furls his shadowy sail, and takes a brief repose from his eternal
cruisings.
In the deep bays and harbors of the island lies many a spell-bound
ship, long since given up as lost by the ruined merchant,
Here too its crew, long, long bewailed in vain, lie sleeping from age
to age, in mossy grottoes, or wander about in pleasing oblivion of
all things. Here in caverns are garnered up the priceless treasures
flames the carbuncle. Here are piled up rich bales of Oriental
silks, boxes of pearls, and piles of golden ingots.
Such are some of the marvels related of this island, which
may serve to throw light upon the following legend, of unquestionable
truth, which I recommend to the implicit belief of the
reader.
THE ADALANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES.
A LEGEND OF ST. BRANDAN.
In the early part of the fifteenth century, when Prince Henry
of Portugal, of worthy memory, was pushing the career of discovery
along the western coast of Africa, and the world was
resounding with reports of golden regions on the mainland, and
new-found islands in the ocean, there arrived at Lisbon an old
bewildered pilot of the seas, who had been driven by tempests,
he knew not whither, and raved about an island far in the deep,
upon which he had landed, and which he had found peopled with
Christians, and adorned with noble cities.
The inhabitants, he said, having never before been visited by
a ship, gathered round, and regarded him with surprise. They
told him they were descendants of a band of Christians, who fled
from Spain when that country was conquered by the Moslems.
They were curious about the state of their fatherland, and
grieved to hear that the Moslems still held possession of the
kingdom of Granada. They would have taken the old navigator
through lack of devotion, or lack of faith in their words, he, declined
their invitation, and preferred to return on board of his
ship. He was properly punished. A furious storm arose, drove
him from his anchorage, hurried him out to sea, and he saw no
more of the unknown island.
This strange story caused great marvel in Lisbon and elsewhere.
Those versed in history, remembered to have read, in
an ancient chronicle, that, at the time of the conquest of Spain,
in the eighth century, when the blessed cross was cast down, and
the crescent erected in its place, and when Christian churches
were turned into Moslem mosques, seven bishops, at the head of
seven bands of pious exiles, had fled from the peninsula, and
embarked in quest of some ocean island, or distant land, where
they might found seven Christian cities, and enjoy their faith
unmolested.
The fate of these saints errant had hitherto remained a mystery,
and their story had faded from memory; the report of the
old tempest-tossed pilot, however, revived this long-forgotten
theme; and it was determined by the pious and enthusiastic,
that the island thus accidentally discovered, was the identical
place of refuge, whither the wandering bishops had been guided
by a protecting Providence, and where they had folded their
flocks.
This most excitable of worlds has always some darling object
of chimerical enterprise; the “Island of the Seven Cities” now
awakened as much interest and longing among zealous Christians,
as has the renowned city of Timbuctoo among adventurous travellers,
or the Northeast passage among hardy navigators; and it
portions of the Christian family might be discovered, and rëunited
to the great body of Christendom.
No one, however, entered into the matter with half the zeal
of Don Fernando de Ulmo, a young cavalier, of high standing in
the Portuguese court, and of most sanguine and romantic temperament.
He had recently come to his estate, and had run the
round of all kinds of pleasures and excitements, when this new
theme of popular talk and wonder presented itself. The Island of
the Seven Cities became now the constant subject of his thoughts
by day, and his dreams by night: it even rivalled his passion for
a beautiful girl, one of the greatest belles of Lisbon, to whom he
was betrothed. At length, his imagination became so inflamed
on the subject, that he determined to fit out an expedition, at his
own expense, and set sail in quest of this sainted island. It
could not be a cruise of any great extent; for, according to the
calculations of the tempest-tossed pilot, it must be somewhere in
the latitude of the Canaries; which at that time, when the new
world was as yet undiscovered, formed the frontier of ocean enterprise.
Don Fernando applied to the crown for countenance
and protection. As he was a favorite at court, the usual patronage
was readily extended to him; that is to say, he received a
commission from the king, Don Ioam II., constituting him Adalantado,
or military governor, of any country he might discover,
with the single proviso, that he should bear all the expenses of
the discovery, and pay a tenth of the profits to the crown.
Don Fernando now set to work in the true spirit of a projector.
He sold acre after acre of solid land, and invested the
proceeds in ships, guns, ammunition, and sea-stores. Even his
for he looked forward to a palace in one of the Seven Cities, of
which he was to be Adalantado. This was the age of nautical
romance, when the thoughts of all speculative dreamers were
turned to the ocean. The scheme of Don Fernando, therefore,
drew adventurers of every kind. The merchant promised himself
new marts of opulent traffic; the soldier hoped to sack and
plunder some one or other of those Seven Cities; even the fat
monk shook off the sleep and sloth of the cloister, to join in a
crusade which promised such increase to the possessions of the
church.
One person alone regarded the whole project with sovereign
contempt and growling hostility. This was Don Ramiro Alvarez,
the father of the beautiful Serafina, to whom Don Fernando was
betrothed. He was one of those perverse, matter-of-fact old
men, who are prone to oppose every thing speculative and romantic.
He had no faith in the Island of the Seven Cities;
regarded the projected cruise as a crack-brained freak; looked
with angry eye and internal heart-burning on the conduct of his
intended son-in-law, chaffering away solid lands for lands in the
moon; and scoffingly dubbed him Adalantado of Cloud Land.
In fact, he had never really relished the intended match, to which
his consent had been slowly extorted, by the tears and entreaties of
his daughter. It is true he could have no reasonable objections
to the youth, for Don Fernando was the very flower of Portuguese
chivalry. No one could excel him at the tilting match, or
the riding at the ring; none was more bold and dexterous in the
bull fight; none composed more gallant madigrals in praise of
his lady's charms, or sang them with sweeter tones to the accompaniment
and dance the bolero with more captivating grace. All these
admirable qualities and endowments, however, though they had
been sufficient to win the heart of Serafina, were nothing in the
eyes of her unreasonable father. Oh Cupid, god of Love! why
will fathers always be so unreasonable?
The engagement to Serafina had threatened at first to throw
an obstacle in the way of the expedition of Don Fernando, and
for a time perplexed him in the extreme. He was passionately
attached to the young lady; but he was also passionately bent
on this romantic enterprise. How should he reconcile the two
passionate inclinations? A simple and obvious arrangement at
length presented itself: marry Serafina, enjoy a portion of the
honeymoon at once, and defer the rest until his return from the
discovery of the Seven Cities!
He hastened to make known this most excellent arrangement
to Don Ramiro, when the long-smothered wrath of the old cavalier
burst forth. He reproached him with being the dupe of wandering
vagabonds and wild schemers, and with squandering all
his real possessions, in pursuit of empty bubbles. Don Fernando
was too sanguine a projector, and too young a man, to listen
tamely to such language. He acted with what is technically
called “becoming spirit.” A high quarrel ensued; Don Ramiro
pronounced him a madman, and forbade all farther intercourse
with his daughter, until he should give proof of returning sanity,
by abandoning this madcap enterprise; while Don Fernando
flung out of the house, more bent than ever on the expedition,
from the idea of triumphing over the incredulity of the graybeard,
when he should return successful. Don Ramiro's heart
visionary may persuade my daughter to elope with him, and
share his throne in this unknown paradise of fools? If I could
only keep her safe until his ships are fairly out at sea!
He repaired to her apartment, represented to her the sanguine,
unsteady character of her lover and the chimerical value
of his schemes, and urged the propriety of suspending all intercourse
with him until he should recover from his present hallucination.
She bowed her head as if in filial acquiescence, whereupon
he folded her to his bosom with parental fondness and kissed away
a tear that was stealing over her cheek, but as he left the chamber
quietly turned the key on the lock; for though he was a fond father
and had a high opinion of the submissive temper of his child,
he had a still higher opinion of the conservative virtues of lock
and key, and determined to trust to them until the caravels
should sail. Whether the damsel had been in any wise shaken in
her faith as to the schemes of her lover by her father's eloquence,
tradition does not say; but certain it is, that, the moment she
heard the key turn in the lock, she became a firm believer in the
Island of the Seven Cities.
The door was locked; but her will was unconfined. A window
of the chamber opened into one of those stone balconies, secured
by iron bars, which project like huge cages from Portuguese and
Spanish houses. Within this balcony the beautiful Serafina had
her birds and flowers, and here she was accustomed to sit on moonlight
nights as in a bower, and touch her guitar and sing like a
wakeful nightingale. From this balcony an intercourse was now
maintained between the lovers, against which the lock and key of
Don Ramiro were of no avail. All day would Fernando be occupied
in sweet discourse beneath his lady's window.
At length the preparations were completed. Two gallant caravels
lay at anchor in the Tagus ready to sail at sunrise. Late
at night by the pale light of a waning moon the lover had his
last interview. The beautiful Serafina was sad at heart and full
of dark forebodings; her lover full of hope and confidence “A
few short months,” said he, “and I shall return in triumph. Thy
father will then blush at his incredulity, and hasten to welcome to
his house the Adalantado of the Seven Cities.”
The gentle lady shook her head. It was not on this point she
felt distrust. She was a thorough believer in the Island of the
Seven Cities, and so sure of the success of the enterprise that she
might have been tempted to join it had not the balcony been
high and the grating strong. Other considerations induced that
dubious shaking of the head. She had heard of the inconstancy
of the seas, and the inconstancy of those who roam them. Might
not Fernando meet with other loves in foreign ports? Might not
some peerless beauty in one or other of those Seven Cities efface the
image of Serafina from his mind? Now let the truth be spoken,
the beautiful Serafina had reason for her disquiet. If Don Fernando
had any fault in the world, it was that of being rather inflammable
and apt to take fire from every sparkling eye. He had been
somewhat of a rover among the sex on shore, what might he be on
sea?
She ventured to express her doubt, but he spurned at the
very idea. “What! he false to Serafina! He bow at the shrine
of another beauty? Never! never!” Repeatedly did he bend
his knee, and smite his breast, and call upon the silver moon to
witness his sincerity and truth.
He retorted the doubt, “Might not Serafina herself forget
her plighted faith? Might not some wealthier rival present himself
while he was tossing on the sea; and, backed by her father's
wishes, win the treasure of her hand!”
The beautiful Serafina raised her white arms between the iron
bars of the balcony, and, like her lover, invoked the moon to
testify her vows. Alas! how little did Fernando know her
heart. The more her father should oppose, the more would she
be fixed in faith. Though years should intervene, Fernando on
his return would find her true. Even should the salt sea swallow
him up (and her eyes shed salt tears at the very thought),
never would she be the wife of another! Never, never, NEVER!
She drew from her finger a ring gemmed with a ruby heart, and
dropped it from the balcony, a parting pledge of constancy.
Thus the lovers parted with many a tender word and plighted
vow. But will they keep those vows? Perish the doubt!
Have they not called the constant moon to witness?
With the morning dawn the caravels dropped down the Tagus,
and put to sea. They steered for the Canaries, in those
days the regions of nautical discovery and romance, and the out-posts
of the known world, for as yet Columbus had not steered
his daring barks across the ocean. Scarce had they reached
those latitudes when they were separated by a violent tempest.
For many days was the caravel of Don Fernando driven about
at the mercy of the elements; all seamanship was baffled, destruction
seemed inevitable and the crew were in despair. All
at once the storm subsided; the ocean sank into a calm; the
clouds which had veiled the face of heaven were suddenly withdrawn,
and the tempest-tossed mariners beheld a fair and mountainous
gloom. They rubbed their eyes and gazed for a time almost incredulously,
yet there lay the island spread out in lovely landscapes,
with the late stormy sea laving its shores with peaceful
billows.
The pilot of the caravel consulted his maps and charts; no
island like the one before him was laid down as existing in those
parts; it is true he had lost his reckoning in the late storm,
but, according to his calculations, he could not be far from the
Canaries; and this was not one of that group of islands. The
caravel now lay perfectly becalmed off the mouth of a river, on
the banks of which, about a league from the sea, was described a
noble city, with lofty walls and towers, and a protecting castle.
After a time, a stately barge with sixteen oars was seen
emerging from the river, and approaching the caravel. It was
quaintly carved and gilt; the oarsmen were clad in antique garb,
their oars painted of a bright crimson, and they came slowly and
solemnly, keeping time as they rowed to the cadence of an old
Spanish ditty. Under a silken canopy in the stern, sat a cavalier
richly clad, and over his head was a banner bearing the sacred
emblem of the cross.
When the barge reached the caravel, the cavalier stepped on
board. He was tall and gaunt; with a long Spanish visage,
moustaches that curled up to his eyes, and a forked beard. He
wore gauntlets reaching to his elbows, a Toledo blade strutting
out behind, with a basket hilt, in which he carried his handkerchief.
His air was lofty and precise, and bespoke indisputably
the hidalgo. Thrusting out a long spindle leg, he took off a
huge sombrero, and swaying it until the feather swept the
and with the old Castilian courtesy, welcoming him to the Island
of the Seven Cities.
Don Fernando was overwhelmed with astonishment. Could
this be true? Had he really been tempest-driven to the very
land of which he was in quest?
It was even so. That very day the inhabitants were holding
high festival in commemoration of the escape of their ancestors
from the Moors. The arrival of the caravel at such a juncture
was considered a good omen, the accomplishment of an ancient
prophecy through which the island was to be restored to the
great community of Christendom. The cavalier before him was
grand-chamberlain, sent by the alcayde to invite him to the festivities
of the capital.
Don Fernando could scarce believe that this was not all a
dream. He made known his name, and the object of his voyage.
The grand chamberlain declared that all was in perfect accordance
with the ancient prophecy, and that the moment his
credentials were presented, he would be acknowledged as the
Adalantado of the Seven Cities. In the mean time the day was
waning; the barge was ready to convey him to the land, and
would as assuredly bring him back.
Don Fernando's pilot, a veteran of the seas, drew him aside
and expostulated against his venturing, on the mere word of a
stranger, to land in a strange barge on an unknown shore.
“Who knows, Señor, what land this is, or what people inhabit
it?”
Don Fernando was not to be dissuaded. Had he not believed
in this island when all the world doubted? Had he not
shrink from its shores when they lay before him in calm
weather? In a word, was not faith the very corner-stone of
his enterprise?
Having arrayed himself, therefore, in gala dress befitting the
occasion, he took his seat in the barge. The grand chamberlain
seated himself opposite. The rowers plied their oars, and renewed
the mournful old ditty, and the gorgeous but unwieldy
barge moved slowly through the water.
The night closed in before they entered the river, and swept
along past rock and promontory, each guarded by its tower. At
every post they were challenged by the sentinel.
“Who goes there?”
“The Adalantado of the Seven Cities.”
“Welcome, Señor Adalantado. Pass on.”
Entering the harbor they rowed close by an armed galley of
ancient form. Soldiers with crossbows patrolled the deck.
“Who goes there?”
“The Adalantado of the Seven Cities.”
“Welcome, Señor Adalantado. Pass on.”
They landed at a broad flight of stone steps, leading up between
two massive towers, and knocked at the water-gate. A
sentinel, in ancient steel casque, looked from the barbecan.
“Who is there?”
“The Adalantado of the Seven Cities.”
“Welcome, Señor Adalantado.”
The gate swung open, grating upon rusty hinges. They entered
between two row sof warriors in Gothic armor, with crossbows,
maces, battle-axes, and faces old-fashioned as their armor.
of the landing of the seven Bishops and their followers, and bonfires,
at which effigies of losel Moors expiated their invasion of
Christendom by a kind of auto-da-fé. The groups round the
fires, uncouth in their attire, looked like the fantastic figures
that roam the streets in Carnival time. Even the dames who
gazed down from Gothic balconies hung with antique tapestry, resembled
effigies dressed up in Christmas mummeries. Every
thing, in short, bore the stamp of former ages, as if the world had
suddenly rolled back for several centuries. Nor was this to be
wondered at. Had not the Island of the Seven Cities been cut
off from the rest of the world for several hundred years; and
were not these the modes and customs of Gothic Spain before it
was conquered by the Moors?
Arrived at the palace of the alcayde, the grand chamberlain
knocked at the portal. The porter looked through a wicket, and
demanded who was there.
“The Adalantado of the Seven Cities.”
The portal was thrown wide open. The grand chamberlain
led the way up a vast, heavily-moulded, marble staircase, and
into a hall of ceremony, where was the alcayde with several of
the principal dignitaries of the city, who had a marvellous resemblance,
in form and feature, to the quaint figures in old illuminated
manuscripts.
The grand chamberlain stepped forward and announced the
name and title of the stranger guest, and the extraordinary
nature of his mission. The announcement appeared to create no
extraordinary emotion or surprise, but to be received as the anticipated
fulfilment of a prophecy.
The reception of Don Fernando, however, was profoundly
gracious, though in the same style of stately courtesy which
every where prevailed. He would have produced his credentials,
but this was courteously declined. The evening was devoted to
high festivity; the following day, when he should enter the port
with his caravel, would be devoted to business, when the credentials
would be received in due form, and he inducted into office
as Adalantado of the Seven Cities.
Don Fernando was now conducted through one of those interminable
suites of apartments, the pride of Spanish palaces, all
furnished in a style of obsolete magnificence. In a vast saloon
blazing with tapers was assembled all the aristocracy and fashion
of the city; stately dames and cavaliers, the very counterpart of
the figures in the tapestry which decorated the walls. Fernando
gazed in silent marvel. It was a reflex of the proud aristocracy
of Spain in the time of Roderick the Goth.
The festivities of the evening were all in the style of solemn
and antiquated ceremonial. There was a dance, but it was as if
the old tapestry were put in motion, and all the figures moving
in stately measure about the floor. There was one exception,
and one that told powerfully upon the susceptible Adalantado.
The alcayde's daughter—such a ripe, melting beauty! Her
dress, it is true, like the dresses of her neighbors, might have
been worn before the flood, but she had the black Andalusian eye,
a glance of which, through its long dark lashes, is irresistible.
Her voice, too, her manner, her undulating movements, all smacked
of Andalusia, and showed how female charms may be transmitted
from age to age, and clime to clime, without ever going out of fashion.
Those who know the witchery of the sex, in that most
to which Don Fernando was exposed, as he joined in the dance
with one of its most captivating descendants.
He sat beside her at the banquet! such an old world feast!
such obsolete dainties! At the head of the table the peacock,
that bird of state and ceremony, was served up in full plumage
on a golden dish. As Don Fernando cast his eyes down the
glittering board, what a vista presented itself of odd heads and
head-dresses; of formal bearded dignitaries and stately dames,
with castellated locks and towering plumes! Is it to be wondered
at that he should turn with delight from these antiquated
figures to the alcayde's daughter, all smiles and dimples, and
melting looks and melting accents? Beside, for I wish to give
him every excuse in my power, he was in a particularly excitable
mood from the novelty of the scene before him, from this realization
of all his hopes and fancies, and from frequent draughts of
the wine cup presented to him at every moment by officious pages
during the banquet.
In a word—there is no concealing the matter—before the evening
was over, Don Fernando was making love outright to the
alcayde's daughter. They had wandered together to a moon-lit
balcony of the palace, and he was charming her ear with one of
those love ditties with which, in a like balcony, he had serenaded
the beautiful Serafina.
The damsel hung her head coyly. “Ah! Señor, these are
flattering words; but you cavaliers, who roam the seas, are unsteady
as its waves. To-morrow you will be throned in state,
Adalantado of the Seven Cities; and will think no more of the
alcayde's daughter.”
Don Fernando in the intoxication of the moment called the
moon to witness his sincerity. As he raised his hand in adjuration,
the chaste moon cast a ray upon the ring that sparkled on
his finger. It caught the damsel's eye. “Signor Adalantado,”
said she archly, “I have no great faith in the moon, but give me
that ring upon your finger in pledge of the truth of what you
profess.”
The gallant Adalantado was taken by surprise; there was no
parrying this sudden appeal: before he had time to reflect, the
ring of the beautiful Serafina glittered on the finger of the
alcayde's daughter.
At this eventful moment the chamberlain approached with
lofty demeanor, and announced that the barge was waiting to bear
him back to the caravel. I forbear to relate the ceremonious
partings with the alcayde and his dignitaries, and the tender
farewell of the alcayde's daughter. He took his seat in the
barge opposite the grand chamberlain. The rowers plied their
crimson oars in the same slow and stately manner to the cadence
of the same mournful old ditty. His brain was in a whirl with
all that he had seen, and his heart now and then gave him a
twinge as he thought of his temporary infidelity to the beautiful
Serafina. The barge sallied out into the sea, but no caravel
was to be seen; doubtless she had been carried to a distance by
the current of the river. The oarsmen rowed on; their monotonous
chant had a lulling effect. A drowsy influence crept over
Don Fernando. Objects swam before his eyes. The oarsmen
assumed odd shapes as in a dream. The grand chamberlain grew
larger and larger, and taller and taller. He took off his huge
sombrero, and held it over the head of Don Fernando, like an extinguisher
himself sinking in the socket.
“Good night! Señor Adalantado of the Seven Cities!” said
the grand chamberlain.
The sombrero slowly descended—Don Fernando was extinguished!
How long he remained extinct no mortal man can tell. When
he returned to consciousness, he found himself in a strange cabin,
surrounded by strangers. He rubbed his eyes, and looked round
him wildly. Where was he?—On board of a Portuguese ship,
bound to Lisbon. How came he there?—He had been taken
senseless from a wreck drifting about the ocean.
Don Fernando was more and more confounded and perplexed.
He recalled, one by one, every thing that had happened to him
in the Island of the Seven Cities, until he had been extinguished
by the sombrero of the grand chamberlain. But what
had happened to him since? What had become of his caravel?
Was it the wreck of her on which he had been found floating?
The people about him could give no information on the
subject. He entreated them to take him to the Island of the
Seven Cities, which could not be far off. Told them all that
had befallen him there. That he had but to land to be received
as Adalantado; when he would reward them magnificently for
their services.
They regarded his words as the ravings of delirium, and in
their honest solicitude for the restoration of his reason, administered
such rough remedies that he was fain to drop the subject
and observe a cautious taciturnity.
At length they arrived in the Tagus, and anchored before
shore, and hastened to his ancestral mansion. A strange porter
opened the door, who knew nothing of him or of his family; no
people of the name had inhabited the house for many a year.
He sought the mansion of Don Ramiro. He approached the
balcony beneath which he had bidden farewell to Serafina. Did
his eyes deceive him? No! There was Serafina herself among
the flowers in the balcony. He raised his arms toward her with
an exclamation of rapture. She cast upon him a look of indignation,
and, hastily retiring, closed the casement with a slam
that testified her displeasure.
Could she have heard of his flirtation with the alcayde's
daughter? But that was mere transient gallantry. A moment's
interview would dispel every doubt of his constancy.
He rang at the door; as it was opened by the porter he
rushed up stairs; sought the well-known chamber, and threw
himself at the feet of Serafina. She started back with affright,
and took refuge in the arms of a youthful cavalier.
“What mean you, Señor,” cried the latter, “by this intrusion?”
“What right have you to ask the question?” demanded Don
Fernando fiercely.
“The right of an affianced suitor!”
Don Fernando started and turned pale. “Oh, Serafina!
Serafina!” cried he, in a tone of agony; “is this thy plighted
constancy?”
“Serafina? What mean you by Serafina, Señor? If this
be the lady you intend, her name is Maria.”
“May I not believe my senses? May I not believe my
heart?” cried Don Fernando. “Is not this Serafina Alvarez,
smiles on me from the wall?”
“Holy Virgin!” cried the young lady, casting her eyes upon
the portrait. “He is talking of my great-grandmother!”
An explanation ensued, if that could be called an explanation,
which plunged the unfortunate Fernando into tenfold perplexity.
If he might believe his eyes, he saw before him his
beloved Serafina; if he might believe his ears, it was merely her
hereditary form and features, perpetuated in the person of her
great-granddaughter.
His brain began to spin. He sought the office of the Minister
of Marine, and made a report of his expedition, and of the
Island of the Seven Cities, which he had so fortunately discovered.
Nobody knew any thing of such an expedition, or such
an island. He declared that he had undertaken the enterprise
under a formal contract with the crown, and had received a regular
commission, constituting him Adalantado. This must be
matter of record, and he insisted loudly, that the books of the
department should be consulted. The wordy strife at length
attracted the attention of an old gray-headed clerk, who sat
perched on a high stool, at a high desk, with iron-rimmed spectacles
on the top of a thin, pinched nose, copying records into an
enormous folio. He had wintered and summered in the department
for a great part of a century, until he had almost grown to
be a piece of the desk at which he sat; his memory was a mere
index of official facts and documents, and his brain was little
better than red tape and parchment. After peering down for a
time from his lofty perch, and ascertaining the matter in controversy,
he put his pen behind his ear, and descended. He remembered
an expedition of the kind in question, but then it had sailed during
the reign of Dom Ioam II., and he had been dead at least a
hundred years. To put the matter beyond dispute, however, the
archives of the Torre do Tombo, that sepulchre of old Portuguese
documents, were diligently searched, and a record was
found of a contract between the crown and one Fernando de
Ulmo, for the discovery of the Island of the Seven Cities, and
of a commission secured to him as Adalantado of the country he
might discover.
“There!” cried Don Fernando, triumphantly, “there you
have proof, before your own eyes, of what I have said. I am the
Fernando de Ulmo specified in that record. I have discovered
the Island of the Seven Cities, and am entitled to be Adalantado,
according to contract.”
The story of Don Fernando had certainly, what is pronounced
the best of historical foundation, documentary evidence; but
when a man, in the bloom of youth, talked of events that had
taken place above a century previously, as having happened to
himself, it is no wonder that he was set down for a madman.
The old clerk looked at him from above and below his spectacles,
shrugged his shoulders, stroked his chin, reascended his
lofty stool, took the pen from behind his ears, and resumed his
daily and eternal task, copying records into the fiftieth volume
of a series of gigantic folios. The other clerks winked at each
other shrewdly, and dispersed to their several places, and poor
Don Fernando, thus left to himself, flung out of the office, almost
driven wild by these repeated perplexities.
In the confusion of his mind, he instinctively repaired to the
the delusion under which the youth apparently labored, and to
convince him that the Serafina about whom he raved was really
dead, he was conducted to her tomb. There she lay, a stately
matron, cut out in alabaster; and there lay her husband beside
her; a portly cavalier, in armor; and there knelt, on each side,
the effigies of a numerous progeny, proving that she had been a
fruitful vine. Even the very monument gave evidence of the
lapse of time; the hands of her husband, folded as if in prayer,
had lost their fingers, and the face of the once lovely Serafina
was without a nose.
Don Fernando felt a transient glow of indignation at beholding
this monumental proof of the inconstancy of his mistress; but
who could expect a mistress to remain constant during a whole
century of absence? And what right had he to rail about constancy,
after what had passed between himself and the alcayde's
daughter? The unfortunate cavalier performed one pious act
of tender devotion; he had the alabaster nose of Serafina restored
by a skilful statuary, and then tore himself from the
tomb.
He could now no longer doubt the fact that, somehow or
other, he had skipped over a whole century, during the night he
had spent at the Island of the Seven Cities; and he was now as
complete a stranger in his native city, as if he had never been
there. A thousand times did he wish himself back to that wonderful
island, with its antiquated banquet halls, where he had
been so courteously received; and now that the once young and
beautiful Serafina was nothing but a great-grandmother in marble,
with generations of descendants, a thousand times would he
doubtless, like himself, was still flourishing in fresh juvenility,
and breathe a secret wish that he were seated by her side.
He would at once have set on foot another expedition, at his
own expense, to cruise in search of the sainted island, but his
means were exhausted. He endeavored to rouse others to the
enterprise, setting forth the certainty of profitable results, of
which his own experience furnished such unquestionable proof.
Alas! no one would give faith to his tale; but looked upon it as
the feverish dream of a shipwrecked man. He persisted in his
efforts; holding forth in all places and all companies, until he
became an object of jest and jeer to the light-minded, who mistook
his earnest enthusiasm for a proof of insanity; and the
very children in the streets bantered him with the title of “The
Adalantado of the Seven Cities.”
Finding all efforts in vain, in his native city of Lisbon, he
took shipping for the Canaries, as being nearer the latitude of
his former cruise, and inhabited by people given to nautical adventure.
Here he found ready listeners to his story; for the
old pilots and mariners of those parts were notorious island-hunters,
and devout believers in all the wonders of the seas.
Indeed, one and all treated his adventure as a common occurrence,
and turning to each other, with a sagacious nod of the
head, observed, “He has been at the Island of St. Brandan.”
They then went on to inform him of that great marvel and
enigma of the ocean; of its repeated appearance to the inhabitants
of their islands; and of the many but ineffectual expeditions
that had been made in search of it. They took him to a promontory
of the island of Palma, whence the shadowy St. Brandan
in the west where its mountains had been seen.
Don Fernando listened with rapt attention. He had no longer
a doubt that this mysterious and fugacious island must be
the same with that of the Seven Cities; and that some supernatural
influence connected with it had operated upon himself,
and made the events of a night occupy the space of a century.
He endeavored, but in vain, to rouse the islanders to another
attempt at discovery; they had given up the phantom island as
indeed inaccessible. Fernando, however, was not to be discouraged.
The idea wore itself deeper and deeper in his mind, until
it became the engrossing subject of his thoughts and object of
his being. Every morning he would repair to the promontory
of Palma, and sit there throughout the livelong day, in hopes
of seeing the fairy mountains of St. Brandan peering above the
horizon; every evening he returned to his home, a disappointed
man, but ready to resume his post on the following morning.
His assiduity was all in vain. He grew gray in his ineffectual
attempt: and was at length found dead at his post. His
grave is still shown in the island of Palma, and a cross is erected
on the spot where he used to sit and look out upon the sea, in
hopes of the reappearance of the phantom island.
Note.—For various particulars concerning the Island of St.
Brandan and the Island of the Seven Cities, those ancient
problems of the ocean, the curious reader is referred to articles
under those heads in the Appendix to the Life of Columbus.
| Wolfert's roost | |