First come the confraternities of the Precious Blood and of Our Lady of the Cobre, all very decently dressed, the blacks and the whites mixed up, on a footing of perfect equality, holding candles in their hands, without any distinction of caste or colour. Then the Children of Mary, not a few of them dressed up as Saints,--St Agnes with her lamb, St John with sheep-skin wound round his chubby limbs, St Francis as a little monk, and so forth. And lastly, the priests in their showiest vestments, and the choir boys with their incense, and the climax of the function, the Angel,--that is to say, a chariot drawn by two white oxen, whose sweeping horns are tipped with gold foil, in which, on a throne made of leaves and artificial roses, sits a little girl attired as an angel with a flaxen wig, for in tropical countries, where mortals are generally black-haired, all Celestial beings are supposed to be blondes. The angel"s wings are made of coloured bits of paper, cut in the shape of feathers, arranged with a distinct eye to artistic effect. When the angel and her chariot arrive in front of the Church the priests bring forth the statue of Our Lady of the Cobre, and place it under a gorgeous canopy, where it remains, whilst the terrestrial angel recites a _loja_ or sonnet, in honour of the Blessed Lady. Then the Benediction is given, all the motley crowd drops on its knees, and afterwards everybody hurries into the Church to hear Ma.s.s, and so the religious part of the fiesta ends. Later in the day after the mid-day siesta, we shall find the Guajiro at the c.o.c.kpit, which women are prohibited by law from attending, so that the Guajira will be discovered sitting outside the village fonda, gossiping with her cousins and friends, and sipping tamarind water, whilst her numerous progeny disport themselves in the middle of the square, where there is a sort of fair in progress. If the favourite c.o.c.k wins,--and it must surely win on this special occasion,--the Guajiro will be in the best of humours, and he and his wife will dance the Creola until the small hours, for a Cuban dances even when he is half-dead. Long before the sun rises our friends will have wended their way home, and there will be but little joy in their lives until the next fiesta comes round. But as there happen to be seventy-two of them besides fifty-two Sundays, the chintz dress with the big roses will stir up the dust between the farm and Santa-Fe on many an occasion yet, before Christmas comes round again, and everybody goes to pray before the Infante de Dios[16] in the Parish Church.
In the neighbourhood of Cienfuegos, I had the questionable pleasure of beholding a Cuban "duck hunt." In the diary of our good Boy-King, Edward VI., appears the following entry:--
"1550, June 4. Sir Robert Dudley, eldest (surviving) son to the Earl of Warwick, married Sir John Robsart"s daughter, Amy, after which marriage, there were certain gentlemen that did strive who should first take away a goose"s head which was hanged alive on two cross posts."
The cruel sport, at one time considered a courtly pastime in England, is still a favourite in Cuba. Two posts are set up, some three yards apart, and to the centre of the cross beam a live duck or goose is tied by the legs, head downwards. Then some ten or twenty men on horseback dash under the posts, and the victor is he who "takes away the goose"s head"
as he gallops through. The wretched bird"s head being well greased, it often happens that the poor creature"s sufferings are prolonged for many minutes, whilst the wild crew of hors.e.m.e.n strive to wrench it off, without losing their balance or falling from horseback. The hubbub is deafening, everybody shouts at once, and, above the din, you can hear the piercing shrieks of the half-strangled fowl. As all the horses must pa.s.s under the comparatively narrow gangway, many are thrown down, while others take fright and gallop off, frequently leaving their _caballeros_ sprawling, and perhaps badly damaged, on the ground. It is a disgusting and most cruel exhibition, and makes one feel sorry that it should have been included among the wedding festivities of so interesting and much to be pitied a heroine as Amy Robsart.
CHAPTER IX.
TRINIDAD AND SANTIAGO DE CUBA.
The next place of importance on our tour was Trinidad de Cuba, a queer little city of about 18,000 inhabitants, with funny old-fashioned houses, their windows protected by thick iron gratings, like those of a mediaeval Italian city, scrambling in somewhat disorderly fashion up and down the sides of a steepish hill called the Vija, or Watch Tower.
Trinidad is situated about ten miles inland from the sea-sh.o.r.e, and is said to be one of the oldest and quaintest towns in this part of the West Indies, having been founded by Diego Velasquez in 1513.
Historically speaking, its chief interest centres round Cortez, who started on his famous expedition to Mexico from the neighbouring bay of Casilda.
[Ill.u.s.tration: SANTIAGO.]
In a little shop in Trinidad, where ink and paper and a few old books were sold, I picked up an almost contemporary engraving of Hernando Cortez, which represents him as a fine-looking warrior, attired in a most elaborate suit of richly damascened mail, over which he wears a striped petticoat-like garment reaching below his knees. His feet are encased in plate armour. On his head he wears a splendid helmet, from which float a score of prodigiously long ostrich feathers. In his hand he bears a spear. The background is a view of a distant city, with several palm trees. The features are perfectly regular, and the ill.u.s.trious Lothario sports a sweeping moustache, and has a dare-devilry expression which the ancient and skilful limner has reproduced with apparently scrupulous fidelity. It is evidently an original portrait, and is dated 1542. It was copied, in all probability, from some contemporary oil-painting, and engraved, of course, in Europe--probably in Flanders.[17]
We had early dinner here, at the hospitable residence of a rich American planter, who has built himself a large and handsome house, just outside the town, and furnished it sumptuously. It was very pleasant to meet cultivated and intellectual women in such an out-of-the-way part of the world, and we took leave of our host and hostess--the lady an excellent botanist--regretfully, bearing away with us big baskets of luscious fruit and a bouquet of exquisite flowers.
Late in the afternoon we embarked for Santiago on board a neat little steamer which plies along the coast from Havana twice a week. We should gladly have stayed a little longer at Trinidad; but the following was Palm Sunday, and I was anxious to reach Santiago for Holy Week, although my companion, being nothing like so indefatigable a sightseer as myself, was much put out by my persistence.
The coast line between Trinidad and Santiago is extremely pretty--at least what we saw of it, for darkness soon sets in in these lat.i.tudes, there being absolutely no twilight, as in more northern regions. We were able, however, to admire the very beautiful cl.u.s.ter of "cays" which rise out of the sea in all directions, some of them large enough to be habitable, though they are left desolate, and others mere barren rocks, with a palm tree or so growing on their crests. The effect they produced in the setting sunlight was exquisite enough to excuse the enthusiastic encomiums of Christopher Columbus when he first beheld them, and mistook them for the islands mentioned by Marco Polo as being off the coast of Asia.
At last the sun went down in a glorious blaze of purple and gold; a blue darkness enveloped the enchanting scene. The night air was delightfully balmy, so we sat on deck until quite late, being joined by several American and Cuban ladies and gentlemen who were going our way. A remarkably intelligent Bostonian, Major B----, said in the course of conversation, that he felt sure Cuba would, within a few years, have pa.s.sed out of Spanish hands into those either of England or America. He had apparently great interests in the island, knew every inch of it, and a.s.sured us that its fertility and resources were incalculably great. It was, he said, in a very backward state.
"On the majority of the plantations," he continued, "there are no improved implements of husbandry--no labour-saving machines--nothing, indeed, which indicates an advanced or advancing agriculture, although the machinery for grinding the cane and making sugar is often of the best and latest pattern. With the most generous of soils, there is worse culture in Cuba than anywhere else in the civilized world, except, perhaps, in the southern parts of Italy or Spain, and in both instances from like causes--that is, from the consolidation of immense landed estates in the hands of a few, mainly absentees--and the consequent withdrawal of the sources of national wealth from general circulation.
"There are, comparatively speaking, only a small number of acres of cultivable land held by small proprietors, who work on their own soil.
The largest number of acres are owned by Spanish and Cuban grandees, some of whom have not been in the island for twenty years. They draw their revenue hence to dissipate it in a whirl of frivolity, either in Paris or Madrid. This system of acc.u.mulation in mortmain has hung for generations like a millstone around the necks of the Cuban people, and will, I am afraid, continue so to do. The abolition of slavery will, however, surely make a difference. Very soon the large estates will have to be cut up for want of sufficient hands; and the raising of cane, the grinding of it and the making of it into sugar, will become two different occupations, similar to the plan adopted in Germany, where the sugar-maker either buys the beet crop entirely from the farmer, or grinds the beets on shares of the sugar made. Then, again," remarked our new friend, "I cannot help alluding to the vast difference in characteristics,--though they spring from the same race,--between the Cubans and the Spaniards. The aggregation of men into cities for purposes of trade, though necessary, does not tend to develop their intellectual faculties. The habit of acting in ma.s.ses, or with ma.s.ses, as every urban population must do, breeds a tendency to sacrifice duty to political expediency. Principles are continually yielded to the will of others, and lose their sacredness. In a rural population there is more isolation and more individuality. This is peculiarly the case with the Cuban planters, farmers, guarijos, and labourers. An agricultural population has always been deemed the most simple-minded, and its character, whatever it may be, the most unchangeable. So here, also, the Creoles are more unsophisticated than the Spaniard, and have fewer of the vices and needs of modern society.
"After all, nations, like individuals, grow up under the influence of a vast body of experiences. Not one cause, but a mult.i.tude of causes, extending through many years, make people different from each other,--even those of the same race, as is the case here in Cuba. They may be gradually moulded, by these experiences, into absolute antagonism. The Spaniards are well aware of the fact, and do not hesitate to say so. They acknowledge that they can raise almost everything in this beautiful and fertile isle--except Spaniards. Though, year after year, there is a steady stream of immigration from the home country, it does not change the characteristics of the natives. It appears to be a law of immigration that, if not the immigrant himself, his children at all events, are sure to adopt the modes of thought of the people among whom their parents have made their home. How could it be otherwise? The children grow up with the children of the country, and it becomes their country. The most durable of all a.s.sociations--those of childhood--make the children of the immigrant as faithful and as patriotic as those of the men who have lived for generations in the country. All in vain does Spain pour her troops into this island.
Granted that by superior numbers she maintains her sway over this people,--what a barren conquest it is, when you come to think of it! The Cubans hate those who govern them, and the Spaniards never feel secure.
True, history tells us of but one way by which the national character of a people can be modified, and that is by conquest; but even conquest, without beneficial administration, producing a.s.similation, fails, as it must fail where there is an absolute rule by one antagonistic people over another, which engenders hatred, and foments a pa.s.sionate rebellion, even at the risk of martyrdom. The Spaniards are a fine race, but they utterly misunderstand the difference which has grown up between themselves and the Cubans. Although they acknowledge them their own children, they persist in treating them as inferiors, and governing them accordingly. Every attempt at improvement on the part of the Cubans is systematically stamped out by the Government.
"The abolition of slavery has not proved a blessing either to the slaves or their late owners. Like everything Spanish, it has been badly planned, and has brought ruin to thousands without benefiting the negroes.
"The island is cruelly overtaxed, to keep up a garrison fifty times more numerous than would be necessary if it were properly administered. I am quite sure Spain will eventually lose this rich possession. I a.s.sure you, and without the least prejudice, I think her quite incapable of keeping it. She has had any amount of experience, but of the wrong sort; and as to her men, her governors and commanders, however honest they may be in their own country, so soon as they land here they grow either corrupt or tyrannical."[18]
Morning found us running along some of the grandest coast scenery in the world: at this point the Macaca or Sierra Maestra Mountains rise boldly from the sea, to the height of 5000 and 6000 feet. The Ojo del Toro, one of the highest peaks of the range, is fully visible far away in the extreme distance, and towering above it you perceive the sharp peak of Turquino, the loftiest in the whole island, 6800 feet high. I was much struck by the resemblance between this coast-line and that between Nice and Monte Carlo. The colouring is almost identical, the sea as deep a blue as the Mediterranean; and the slopes of the rocky mountains are clothed with the same rich tints, shading from indigo to the palest grey. At about ten o"clock we were informed we were nearing Santiago, but it was a considerable time before the city rose in sight, long, even, after we had pa.s.sed Cabanas, the first fort.
Santiago Bay is shaped like a champagne bottle, with a narrow neck and an oblong body. It is a most difficult harbour to enter, and the town ought to be impregnable; but the fortresses, although architecturally imposing,--especially the Morro, which looks like a mediaeval castle, its walls rising straight out of the rocks,--are, I am a.s.sured, mere toys so far as modern warfare is concerned. The bay itself, on which the city is built, spreads out, once you have pa.s.sed the straits, like a glorious lake, circled by green hills, thickly covered by the most varied vegetation, with groups of tall palm-trees standing out conspicuously here and there. Presently, a turn brings you in front of the city, with its lofty cathedral towers, and its brightly painted houses, terraced up the hill to a height of about 500 feet above the level of the sea.
There is no more picturesque bay in the world than this, unless, indeed, it be that of Naples. The scene is so enchanting, so brilliant, that one is perfectly enraptured, and feels inclined to burst into open applause, as if in the presence of some grand stage effect. Everything seems to have been arranged by nature for some pageant. Nor is the illusion lost on landing, for as you climb the steep streets you are constantly attracted by some picturesque and unusual object or view. Here, for instance, facing you, as you step to earth, is a fruit stall such as you can only see in Santiago. Thousands of huge bunches of bananas, varying in colour from the deepest apple-green to the palest gold, cover its lofty walls. These green ones are unripe, and are intended for exportation. Then come countless rows of pineapples, pyramids of oranges, baskets of crocodile pears and custard apples, and enormous cl.u.s.ters of purple plums.
We put up at an hotel kept by an old Cuban, who, understanding European ways, gave us two separate though very tiny bedrooms, and made us as comfortable as possible. For luncheon he sent us up an excellent omelette, the first we had tasted since we left New York. I remember, too, we had ripe mangoes here, for the first time, and liked them only fairly well. Tropical fruit, barring bananas, oranges, and pineapples, is, to my thinking, mighty insipid. The Cuban mango, however, has its charms.
Santiago de Cuba is by far the most historical city in the country. It was founded in 1515 by Diego Velasquez, who landed here, in obedience to the commands of Diego Columbus, on his first voyage from Hayti, to take formal possession of the island. From the port of Santiago, too, Juan de Grijalva started in 1518 on his famous expedition for the conquest of Yucatan. Hitherto also came Hernando Cortez, bent on the same undertaking.
Less than a quarter of a century after these memorable visits, the place had become so peopled with new settlers that it was elevated to the dignity of a city, and, in 1527, was created a bishopric. A year later, Narvaez set forth hence on his memorable expedition for the conquest of Florida, whence "he never more returned." Later in the same year Hernando de Sotto arrived, accompanied by over a thousand armed men, to a.s.sume the command of the entire island. He brought with him his wife, Dona Isabella de Bobadilla, a lady who was famous for her beauty and her virtues. During his celebrated expeditions into the Americas, he left her here, in the responsible position of Governess of the island.
She was the only woman who ever ruled in Cuba. Her sway was beneficent and mild, but the chroniclers relate that when months and even years pa.s.sed without her receiving any letters from her husband, she "pined and languished, and fell into a lethargic state, so that her life was despaired of." Whether Dona Isabella Bobadilla died in Cuba or returned to Spain, I have never been able to ascertain. There is no mention of her having been buried in the Cathedral here, where Velasquez was certainly entombed, for in 1810 his body was found by some workmen in a stone coffin, at a distance of about twenty feet below the soil.
The rest of the history of the town is a repet.i.tion of that of Havana, a series of sieges by pirates and buccaneers. In 1662 it was attacked by Lord Windsor, and bombarded by a squadron of fifteen vessels. The English landed, destroyed the Morro Fort, blew up the Cathedral, and otherwise behaved themselves more like Pagans than Christians.
On Palm Sunday morning, we went to the Cathedral to see the great function of the blessing of the palms. The church is very large--the largest in the island--and built in the usual Hispano-American style, with a squat dome in the middle, and two rather fine towers on each side of the facade. The nave is of unusual width, and the side chapels, of which there are a great number, are full of rare marbles, and splendid mahogany woodwork. The stalls in the magnificent choir and the seats throughout the church are all made of solid deep red mahogany; the edifice otherwise presents nothing of interest, excepting the priestly vestments, very fine specimens of old Spanish needlework. We found the church packed, most of the ladies being in deep mourning, but in low-necked dresses, which, at so early an hour, produced a startling effect. It afforded us an opportunity for a most interesting study of feminine shoulders, varying in tint from the snowy white of the Creola, to the dainty olive of the mulatress, and the ebony black of the ladies who originally hailed from the Congo. The stately ceremonies, on this solemn occasion, were exactly the same as those in all other Catholic churches throughout the world. The priests, however, carried some very fine palm branches, their long fronds tipped with gold tinsel. In the afternoon there was a sermon preached by a fiery little Capuchin monk, who banged his hands on the edge of the pulpit with such force that I am sure they must have been black and blue by the time he had finished.
In the evening we went for a long drive through some of the most beautiful scenery I have ever seen. On the following day there was not much in the way of sacred pageantry. On Holy Thursday the whole town turned out in deep mourning to visit the Sepulchre in the Churches.
Meanwhile the opera house, the theatres, and all other places of public amus.e.m.e.nt were hermetically closed, and Santiago did not present a very lively appearance, but as we had plenty to see in the neighbourhood, this did not trouble us much. The Good Friday procession was well worth seeing. It was a miniature edition of the procession which takes place in Seville, and was of interminable length. All the confraternities took part in it. At intervals, life-sized groups made in carved wood, representing episodes in Our Lord"s Pa.s.sion, were carried on the shoulders of ten or a dozen negroes. Then came the image of Our Lady of Sorrows, dressed in the full Court costume of the sixteenth century, made of cloth of silver, with a mantle of the richest purple velvet.
This was followed by the Archbishop and his clergy, and the grandees of the place, wearing their decorations, officers in uniform, and gentlemen in evening dress. The effect of the procession winding through the narrow streets was extremely picturesque, and it was received on all sides with profound respect, for the people of Santiago are the most orthodox on the island, and also, by-the-way, the most intelligent and the best-looking. Their good looks are said to be due to their numerous inter-marriages with French women, daughters of emigrants from San Domingo, who made their appearance here at the end of the last century.
Many of the ladies of Santiago are quite beautiful, and would be much more so if they did not plaster their faces with cascaria powder to such an extent that many of them make themselves look like female clowns.
On Holy Sat.u.r.day morning we were awakened, very early, by the most hideous noises, firing off of pistols, squibs, and rockets. The population were busily engaged in hanging Judas Iscariot, an effigy of this archtraitor being actually suspended to a lamp-post opposite our hotel, while a vast a.s.sembly round it yelled excitedly, insulting it with an earnestness that might have been intelligible had it been Judas in the flesh instead of a sham, stuffed presentment.
Santiago was at one time quite a literary centre. Some years back one or two learned priests devoted themselves there to the study of botany and astronomy, among them being Padre Luis de Montes, who made a complete catalogue of the flora of the island. Dona Luisa Perez de Montes de Oca, a native of Santiago, has written some of the finest sonnets in contemporary Spanish literature, and Dona Gertrude Gomez de Avellanda, also born at Santiago, is another delightful poetess, whose name is well known where-ever the Spanish language is spoken. One name, however, towers, in Cuban literature, over all others--that of Jose Maria Heredia, who was born at Santiago in 1803. His father, a gentleman of considerable position and wealth, and ardent patriot, was exiled to Mexico, and carried with him his motherless child, then only three years of age. At sixteen Heredia lost his father, and returned to Havana, where, in 1823, he was admitted to the bar, and sent to practise at the Supreme Court of Puerto Principe. His open expressions of indignation at the manner in which his country was mishandled, and his well-known liberal opinions on political and social subjects, eventually roused the suspicions of the Government, and he was privately advised to leave the island with all speed, unless he wished to end his days in prison. He took the hint, abandoned Cuba for America, and settled in New York. In 1825 he published his first volume of poetry, which contained the celebrated "Exiles" Hymn," the opening lines of which are singularly appropriate to present circ.u.mstances.
"Fair land of Cuba! on thy sh.o.r.es are seen Life"s far extremes of n.o.ble and of mean, The world of sense in matchless beauty dress"d, And nameless horrors hid within thy breast.
Ordain"d of Heaven the fairest flower of earth, False to thy gifts, and reckless of thy birth, The tyrant"s clamour, and the slave"s sad cry, With the sharp lash in insolent reply,-- Such are the sounds that echo on thy plains While virtue faints, and vice unblushing reigns.
Rise, and to power a daring heart oppose!
Confront with death these worse than deathlike woes, Unfailing valour chains the flying fate, Who dares to die shall win the conqueror"s state!"
Another very remarkable poem, published a little later (1833), is the famous "Niagara," made familiar to English readers by the late Mr Cullan Bryant"s n.o.ble blank-verse translation. Never has the grandest of cataracts been more magnificently described, but, even in the presence of its overwhelming majesty, Heredia could not forget the mournful beauty of his beloved Cuba, and through the tremendous sound of its waters he thought he detected the rustling of the palms of his native forests, when tossed about by some overwhelming storm. Heredia died in Mexico in 1838. He was a man of exceeding integrity, and most generous and amiable. As a poet, he is acknowledged among the greatest who have cast honour on the tongue of Calderon and Cervantes.
Milanes is another poet who first saw light at Santiago. He was a man of humbler origin than Heredia, and of more subtle and refined genius. He died young, of consumption, but his works, which were published some years after his death, are considered cla.s.sics by the Spanish. They are perfect in form, exquisite in thought, but intensely melancholy. It has been said of Milanes that "he saw life through tears." The greatest poet Cuba has produced after Heredia, Gabriel de la Concepcion Valdes, better known by his _nom-de-plume_ of Placido, was born, not at Santiago,--although he pa.s.sed some years of his life there,--but at Matanzas. He was a mulatto by birth. Nature and fortune were against him. His origin was of the lowest; his father was a half-cast slave, and he was hideously ugly, miserably poor, and very imperfectly educated.
Yet he triumphed over every obstacle, and has left a great name in Hispano-American literature. In 1844, rumours of an intended rebellion among the slaves having reached the ears of the Captain-General at Havana, a number of negroes and even poor whites (Guajiros), suspected of sympathising with the slaves, were arrested, and some scores of them suffered death under the lash. The poet Placido, of whom the whole coloured population was intensely proud, was accused of having fermented this rebellion by his eloquence. He was forthwith arrested, and thrown into prison, and, though he protested his innocence, he was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to be shot. Fortunately for literature, some time elapsed between the pa.s.sing of the sentence and its execution, and the delay enabled him to compose his two finest poems--the sublime "Prayer to G.o.d" and the touching "Farewell to his Mother." These fine works would alone suffice to make the name of any poet in any language.
Placido met his fate on 8th June 1844, in the Great Square of Matanzas, together with nineteen other persons, accused of abetting the negro rebellion. He walked from his prison with a firm step and unbandaged eyes, and himself gave the signal to fire. Unfortunately, he was only wounded, and fell in great agony to the ground. The crowd was moved to horror and pity, but Placido silenced his many friends present, and, rising to his feet, said firmly, "Farewell, world,--ever pitiless to me." Then, pointing to his own brow, he cried, "Soldiers, fire here." In another instant he fell dead--shot through the head.
Placido addressed several graceful sonnets to the Queen Regent of Spain, Christina, mother of Isabella II., who took some interest in his fate, and openly expressed her indignation when she learnt of his tragic death. Mr William Hurlbut, in his _Pictures of Cuba_, gives an admirable study of the works of this remarkable poet. "Placido"s images," says he, "are often pathetic in their originality, as, for instance, when he compares the sudden pa.s.sing of the moon from behind the cliffs into the open starlit sky, to the advent into the ball-room of a beautiful woman, superbly dressed, and wearing a cashmere shawl. Quaintly barbaric this image seems, yet how charged it is with the sad history of gorgeous dreams and warm visions, prisoned in the poet-brain of an outcast and a Pariah."
It would be scarcely just to Havana, if I were to create an impression that Cuban literary genius was peculiar to the Eastern Province. Havana has also produced several fine poets. Ramon Zambrana, who, by-the-way, married the poetess Dona Luisa Perez de Monte de Oca, is a lyrist of the first rank. His story is quite a romance. The poems of Dona Luisa de Oca were published under a manly _nom-de-plume_. Admiring them exceedingly, Zambrana entered into a correspondence with the author, then living at Santiago. It was only after keeping up a very lively and interesting correspondence for over a year that he accidentally discovered he had been writing to a woman. A very trivial incident revealed the truth. In one of her letters the lady enclosed, by mistake, a note intended for her milliner. On this the gentleman determined to proceed to Santiago and make the acquaintance of his fair correspondent, whom he discovered to be both beautiful and wealthy. Very soon after the marriage, unfortunately, Zambrana fell ill, and died in the flower of early manhood.
Don Jose de la Luz y Caballero, who was for a long time Director of the College of San Salvador, was also the author of some excellent poetry, and of a very valuable work on Cuban folk-lore. His views were altogether too advanced to suit the Government, and he was considerably persecuted in consequence. He joined the insurrection under Cespedes, and was killed in the engagement off Bayanno in 1866. Among the minor poets of Havana may be mentioned Zequeira, Lecares, Palma, Mendira, and Pina.
In a country where the censorship weighs so heavily on the press, and on literature in general, as it does in Cuba, prose writers find little or no scope for their talent. Poetry, especially high cla.s.s poetry, does not appeal to the ma.s.ses so readily as prose, and being considered less dangerous is more leniently dealt with. Besides, it is generally published "for private circulation alone." Cuba has produced a few good local historians, among them the compiler of a work which has been of the greatest a.s.sistance to me in the historical portion of this book--_Los tres historiadores de la Isla de Cuba_--a collection of the chronicles of Herrera, Valdes, and Urietta, with copious notes and additions.
Although local journalism dates from the middle of the last century, the Cuban newspapers of the present day are of the flimsiest and most stupid description. They are even worse than those published in Constantinople, the censorship being, if anything, more childishly interfering than that of Abd"ul Hamid. Barring a few telegrams from Madrid and New York, the great political events in Europe and America are barely noticed at all.
On the other hand, you will find plenty of information concerning the life of the calendar saint of the day, of St Rosa of Lima, for instance, or of the Blessed Filomena.
Although music is universally popular in Cuba, I know of no distinguished Cuban composer, musician, or vocalist. Yradie has collected and elaborated a number of Cuban popular airs, and Bizet has immortalised the Habanera in _Carmen_, but the first ten bars of that air are the only ones he has retained without alteration, though characteristic rhythm is well preserved. The less celebrated _Paloma_, by Yradie, is, I think, more genuinely Cuban. The negro melodies of the island are absolutely barbaric, and devoid of time and tune. They have nothing in common with the charming plantation airs of the Southern States of America.
Before leaving Santiago de Cuba we drove out to the celebrated Cobre Mines, some four hours distant from the city, but unfortunately there had been some accident on the previous day, and we were unable to descend into them. The scenery along the road, from Santiago, is magnificent. We went a little beyond the mines, and visited the shrine of Nuestra Senora de la Caridad de Cobre, a famous place of pilgrimage, which, however, has lost a good deal of its picturesque interest since the erection of the brand new church, large and garish, in which the holy image is enshrined. As it was not a _fiesta_ there were very few pilgrims, and I, having seen many other like shrines in Europe, was much more interested in the enormous Caruba trees growing abundantly in the neighbourhood, which were hung with giant pods, a yard long, containing _casia_, a dark brown paste, which is made into a syrup, and said to be very beneficial in cases of sore throat. We brought back a wonderful collection of pods and giant beans of all sorts, and some beautiful ferns and flowers, which I contrived to press as soon as I reached the hotel. However, before leaving Santiago I was presented with a large alb.u.m containing a complete set of the ferns of the island. Among the commonest I noticed are our much prized gold and silver ferns, and some exquisite maiden-hairs, which, I am a.s.sured, have never been successfully transplanted. Whenever I turn over the pages of this alb.u.m with its faded fern leaves, the memories of a delightful week spent in Santiago crowd into my mind, and I seem to see, as in a vision, the exquisite bay and the kindly denizens of the old City, built by Diego Velasquez, a good four hundred years ago.
The steamer which had brought us from Cienfuegos also took us to Nuevitas. The coast scenery is marvellously fine, and full of interest on account of its a.s.sociation with Columbus, who was familiar with every yard of it. We pa.s.sed Baracoa, the oldest city in the island, with its picturesque, castle-crowned hill and its splendid mountain background.