{ 61} Note 1, page 61. “_Pit of Popoi_.” Where the breadfruit was stored for preservation.
{ 62a} Note 2, page 62. “_Ruby-red_.” The priest’s eyes were probably red from the abuse of kava. His beard (_ib._) is said to be worth an estate; for the beards of old men are the favourite head adornment of the Marquesans, as the hair of women formed their most costly girdle. The former, among this generally beardless and short-lived people, fetch to-day considerable sums.
{ 62b} Note 3, page 62. “_Tikis_.” The tiki is an ugly image hewn out of wood or stone.
{ 67} Note 4, page 67. “_The one-stringed harp_.” Usually employed for serenades.
{ 69} Note 5, page 69. “_The sacred cabin of palm_.” Which, however, no woman could approach. I do not know where women were tattooed; probably in the common house, or in the bush, for a woman was a creature of small account. I must guard the reader against supposing Taheia was at all disfigured; the art of the Marquesan tattooer is extreme; and she would appear to be clothed in a web of lace, inimitably delicate, exquisite in pattern, and of a bluish hue that at once contrasts and harmonises with the warm pigment of the native skin. It would be hard to find a woman more becomingly adorned than “a well-tattooed” Marquesan.
{ 72} Note 6, page 72. “_The horror of night_.” The Polynesian fear of ghosts and of the dark has been already referred to. Their life is beleaguered by the dead.
{ 74} Note 7, page 74. “_The quiet passage of souls_.” So, I am told, the natives explain the sound of a little wind passing overhead unfelt.
{ 78} Note 8, page 78. “_The first of the victims fell_.” Without doubt, this whole scene is untrue to fact. The victims were disposed of privately and some time before. And indeed I am far from claiming the credit of any high degree of accuracy for this ballad. Even in a time of famine, it is probable that Marquesan life went far more gaily than is here represented. But the melancholy of to-day lies on the writer’s mind.
TICONDEROGA A LEGEND OF THE WEST HIGHLANDS
THIS is the tale of the man Who heard a word in the night In the land of the heathery hills, In the days of the feud and the fight. By the sides of the rainy sea, Where never a stranger came, On the awful lips of the dead, He heard the outlandish name. It sang in his sleeping ears, It hummed in his waking head: The name—Ticonderoga, The utterance of the dead.