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-shore, 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.
[Illustration: 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
illustrious 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 EuropeaEuro"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 hostessaEuro"the lady an excellent
botanistaEuro"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 prettyaEuro"at
least what we saw of it, for darkness soon sets in in these latitudes,
there being absolutely no twilight, as in more northern regions. We were
able, however, to admire the very beautiful cluster 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
passed 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
assured 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 accumulation 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 masses, or with masses,
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 multitude 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 associations--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 assimilation, fails, as it
must fail where there is an absolute rule by one antagonistic people
over another, which engenders hatred, and foments a passionate
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 assure
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 passed 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 assured, mere toys so
far as modern warfare is concerned. The bay itself, on which the city is
built, spreads out, once you have passed 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
clusters 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
assume the command of the entire island. He brought with him his wife,
DoA+-a 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
passed 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 DoA+-a 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 repetition 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 faASec.ade. 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
amusement 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 Passion, 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 Saturday 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 assembly 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. DoA+-a Luisa Perez de Montes de Oca,
a native of Santiago, has written some of the finest sonnets in
contemporary Spanish literature, and DoA+-a 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 JosA(C) 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 circumstances.
"Fair land of Cuba! on thy shores are seen
Life's far extremes of noble 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 noble 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 classics 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 passed 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 passing of the sentence and its execution, and the
delay enabled him to compose his two finest poems--the sublime "Prayer
to God" 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 passing 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 DoA+-a Luisa Perez de Monte de Oca, is a lyrist of the
first rank. His story is quite a romance. The poems of DoA+-a 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 JosA(C) 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 class poetry, does
not appeal to the masses 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 assistance 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. YradiA(C) 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 YradiA(C), 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 SeA+-ora 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
album 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 assured, have never been
successfully transplanted. Whenever I turn over the pages of this album
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 association with Columbus, who was familiar with every
yard of it. We passed Baracoa, the oldest city in the island, with its
picturesque, castle-crowned hill and its splendid mountain background.
Nuevitas is said to be the place where Columbus landed, though recent
students think he really first stepped on shore at Carmello, in the
neighbourhood of Havana. It is now the port of Puerto Principe, an
important town some forty miles distant. The bay of Nuevitas is very
fine, but we miss the lofty mountains of Santiago--this country being
more or less flat, but very rich in vegetation, and beautifully green.
Nuevitas does a good trade in sponges and turtles, and is the depot for
the shipment of sugar and molasses, this being a great cane country.
Puerto Principe itself is the counterpart of any other Cuban town. They
are all exactly alike--the same narrow streets of one-storied,
brightly-painted Pompeian-looking houses, the same wide Plaza with the
same rococo church with its twin towers and flat dome, and the same
formal Almeida full of tropical plants, where the people parade of a
Sunday evening, to the strains of the local band. It is a fairly lively
place, and is reported to be a well-known centre of rebellion.[19]