Behold me safely seated in the scribbling department of that establishment, rejoicing in the fact that I am the sole occupant of the apartment. From the perfect quiet which reigns in the operating room, I conclude that the clerks are not very busy, and that they are prepared to 'wire' any number of words which I may present to them. I have no dread of competition, at least for the present; for even if my rival correspondents should have received news by the same steamer which brought me, I know from experience, that some hours must necessarily elapse before it can be in a condition for telegraphing.

With a triumphant smile, I seize a quire of printed telegraph forms, and proceed to copy in 'a clear, bold hand' from my notes.

Now to astonish the Trigger, and all whom my abundant information may concern!

I have scarcely finished my first instalment of news, when a telegraph messenger taps me on the shoulder and staggers me with the information, that in consequence of a serious interruption in the line of communication with Havana, the operations of the telegraph are for the present suspended!

Then I learn for the first time that a great revolution has broken out in Spain, and that, despite the precautions of the governor of our town, the revolutionary mania has seized the natives of Cuba, many of whom have already risen in arms not many leagues from Santiago! Among other achievements, the rebellious party have cut the telegraph wires and intercepted the land mails.

There are no railways in direct communication with Havana, and the postal service is effected by means of mounted carriers. Thus the speediest ways for conveying news to Havana are cut off, and there is no other resource but the tardy steamer. I accordingly return without delay to the 'Pajaro del Oceano,' which is to sail for Havana in three hours' time, and finding my good friend Don Fernandez on board, I secretly hand him my big budget of news, begging him by all the saints in the calendar to deliver the same into the hands of the Havana agent.

I am afraid to think what effect this further delay will have upon the New York Trigger! Still it may be some consolation for the enterprising proprietor of that newspaper if he find that his contemporaries are suffering from the same complaint.



CHAPTER XXIV.

A STATE OF SIEGE IN CUBA.

A Cuban Newspaper Office—Local Intelligence—The Cuban Revolution—Spanish Volunteers—A Recruit—With Bimba—- 'Los Insurrectos'—At a Fire—Cuban Firemen.

'We are in a state of siege!' says my friend, Don Javier, editor of a Cuban periodical called El Sufragio Universal.

'Y bien, amigo mio; how does the situation affect you?'

'Malisisimamente!' returns Don Javier, offering me a seat at his editorial table. 'The maldito censor,' he whispers, 'has suppressed four columns of to-day's paper; and there remains little in the way of information, besides the feuilleton, some advertisements, and a long sonnet addressed to 'Lola' on the occasion of her saint's day, by an amorous Pollo-poet.

The weather is sultry and oppressive. The huge doors and windows of El Sufragio Universal office are thrown wide open. Everybody is dressed in a coat of white drill, a pair of white trousers, is without waistcoat, cravat, or shirt-collar, wears a broad-brimmed Panama, and smokes a long damp cigar.

The sub-editor—a lean, coffee-coloured person, with inky sleeves—is seated at a separate table making up columns for to-morrow's 'tirada,' or impression. Before him is a pile of important news from Puerto Rico and San Domingo, besides a voluminous budget from that indefatigable correspondent, Mr. Archibald Cannie, of Jamaica. More than half of this interesting news has been already marked out by the censor's red pencil, and the bewildered sub looks high and low for material wherewith to replenish the censorial gaps. Small, half-naked negroes, begrimed with ink—veritable printer's devils—appear and crave for 'copy,' but in vain.

'Give out the foreign blocks,' says the editor, in the tone of a commander.

The foreign blocks are stereotyped columns, supplied by American quacks and other advertisers to every newspaper proprietor throughout the West Indies. On account of their extreme length and picturesque embellishments, these advertisements are used only in cases of emergency.

While the foreign blocks are being dispensed, the 'localista,' or general reporter, enters in breathless haste. He has brought several fragments of local information. Four runaway negroes have been captured by the police. Two English sailors have died of yellow fever in the Casa de Salud. A coolie has stabbed another coolie at the copper mines, and has escaped justice by leaping into an adjacent pit. A gigantic cayman, or shark, has been caught in the harbour. The localista has also some items of news about the Cuban insurrection. The rebels have increased in numbers. They have occupied all the districts which surround our town, destroyed the aqueduct, cut the telegraph wire, and intercepted the land mails to Havana. There is now no communication with the capital, save by sea. Troops have again been dispatched to the interior, but their efforts have proved ineffectual. Upon their appearance, the rebels vanish into the woods and thickets, and there exhaust the patience and the energy of the military.

The sub-editor notes everything down, taking care to eschew that which is likely to prove offensive to the sensitive ears of the authorities. The material is then given out for printing purposes; for his worship the censor will read nothing until it has been previously set up in type. As many hours will elapse before the proof sheets are returned with censorial corrections, Don Javier proposes a saunter through the town.

On the way, Don Javier entertains me with an account of the revolution.

'The first grito de independencia,' says he, 'took place on October the tenth (1868), at La Demajagua—an ingenio, or sugar estate, belonging to Don Carlos Manuel Cespedes, a wealthy Cuban planter and a distinguished advocate. One hundred and forty-seven men, armed with forty-five fowling-pieces, four rifles and a few pistols and machetes, constituted the rebellious band which, under Senor Cespedes' leadership, had ventured to raise the standard of independence. Two days after, their numbers were increased to 4,000.

'When our governor was first told that a party of Cubans had risen in open revolt, not many leagues from our town, he publicly proclaimed that the rebellious band consisted of a small crowd of "descamisados," or ragged vagrants, and runaway negroes, whom a dozen policemen could easily disperse. In spite of this pretended indifference, he nevertheless thought fit to communicate with the Captain-General of Havana. That mighty functionary thought more seriously of the outbreak; he was perfectly aware of the heavy taxes which had been imposed upon the inhabitants of our island; of the state of ruin into which many of our leading planters had been thrown by these taxes; and conscious also of the oppression and despotism which had been exercised over our colony during the reign of the lately dethroned Queen of Spain, he doubtless calculated that the revolutionary mania inaugurated in the Mother Country would naturally be imitated in the Loyal and Ever-faithful Isle. But whatever may have been his speculations, certain it is that as soon as he heard of the rebellious movement, he telegraphed to our governor, commanding him to dispatch to the scene of the outbreak as many troops as could be safely spared from the garrison at Santiago. Meanwhile, he himself dispatched a battalion of tried warriors from the capital.

'Before our apathetic governor had had time to obey the orders of his chief, an encounter had already taken place at Yara, in the district of Manzanillo, between some of the rebels and a column of the Crown regiment who were quartered at the town of Bayamo.

'Our governor was now alive to the gravity of the situation, and in due course began to take what he called "active measures." Following the example set by the governor of Manzanillo, he declared our town in a state of siege; and you will now have an opportunity of judging for yourself what a siege in Cuba is like.'

The usual military precautions against assault on an unfortified place have been taken. The entrances to the streets have been barricaded with huge hogsheads containing sand and stones; small cannon stand in the plaza and principal thoroughfares. At every corner that we turn, we are accosted by a sentry, who challenges us three times over: 'Who goes there?' 'Spain.' 'What kind of people?' 'Inoffensive.' And so forth. The theatre, the bull-ring, the promenade, are all closed for the season. The masquerading and carnival amusements are at an end. Payments have been suspended, and provisions have become scarce and dear. The people whom we meet have grown low-spirited, and the sunny streets look gloomy and deserted. We glance in at the warehouses and manufactories, and find everybody within attired in military costume; for many of the inhabitants have enrolled themselves as volunteers for the pleasure of wearing a uniform at their own expense, and of sporting a rifle provided by the government. The names of those who object to play at soldiers have been noted down, and their proceedings are narrowly watched.

The Plaza de Armas is crowded with volunteers; their uniform consists of a blue and white striped blouse, white drill trousers, and a Panama hat, to the band of which is attached a vermilion-coloured cockade embellished with silver lace. The majority of these amateur warriors are Catalan shopkeepers, and clerks from Spanish warehouses.

Don Javier tells me that these gentlemen, together with the Havana volunteers, represent a very formidable army; and that in the event of affairs taking a more serious turn, the volunteers would take an active part in the hostilities.

'The Catalan shopkeepers,' says Don Javier, 'are even more interested than Spain in preserving our colony under its present administration.'

'Under a more just and humane government, together with the abolition of slavery, these traders would be considerable losers; for most of them are large slave-owners, and enjoy certain mercantile privileges, which would be denied them under a new policy.'

I remind Don Javier that these said Catalans are after all Spaniards born, and that, whatever their private object may be, for patriotic reasons it seems only natural that they should desire to maintain order in the Spanish colony.

'No muy! not a bit of it,' says my friend; 'they are not prompted by any feeling of patriotism. They have been too long estranged from their home at Barcelona, and love Cuba and her rich resources too much, to make that a consideration. I have heard them say that they would take up arms against their own government, rather than that Cuba should enjoy the privileges to which I have alluded.'

While we are conversing, a couple of volunteers approach and salute us.

One of them is my friend Bimba, who tells me that he has enlisted, partly for the 'fun' of wearing a uniform, and partly to ensure himself against arrest.

'Well, Don Javier,' says he,'are you not one of us yet? And you too, Don Gualterio, surely you will help to protect our town?'

I plead, as an excuse, my nationality.

'Que caramba!' exclaims Bimba; 'why, your countryman, the clerk in B—— 's warehouse, is a volunteer; and so are the S—— 's from the German house in the Calle de la Marina.'

Don Javier observes that our numerous duties prevent us from joining the corps.

'Car! Que duties y duties?' says Bimba; 'business is slack with all of us now. You, Don Javier, will have an easy time of it, notwithstanding your trade of news-disseminator; for you know, only "official" accounts of the war are fit for publication in your paper! As for you, amigo Gualterio, there will be no more triumphal arches wanted for the present; and no more "monos" (portraits) of defunct people, till the revolution is over, and then I have no doubt there will be more than enough to occupy you and your partner Nicasio! The theatre, too, is closed until further notice, so there will be no more theatricals.'

Leaving Don Javier to chat with the other volunteer, I withdraw with Bimba to a quiet corner of the square and converse with him in private.

Bimba is one of the favoured few who is aware of my connection with an American newspaper, because, for obvious reasons, I have always been careful to preserve my incognito. Now, more than ever, it behoves me to adopt this precaution.

As a blind to the authorities and in order to facilitate my journalistic operations, Bimba suggests that I should join the volunteers. He tells me that our governor has signified his intention to make another sally with the troops, and that he has invited some of the volunteers to accompany the expedition. Enrolled as a volunteer, my friend says that it will not be difficult to obtain permission to follow with others in the rear of the Spanish regulars, and that by so doing I shall be able to 'report progress.'

Our mutual friend Tunicu has not yet enlisted, I find.

'That gentleman is otherwise engaged,' says Bimba; 'his leisure moments are occupied at the house of his uncle Don Benigno, in the enjoyment of the society of his little mulatto-lady, who is, as you know, Don Benigno's adopted daughter.'

'What! the pretty Ermina?' I exclaim; 'why, she is a mere child!'

'She was a child five years ago, when you and your partner were the Don's guests,' says Bimba. 'Now Ermina is a grown woman of fifteen tropical summers.'

'There is some mystery connected with that young lady,' I observe; 'and I have never yet been able to fathom it. Can you enlighten me?'

'Not much,' returns Bimba; 'I strongly suspect—but let us not talk scandal in these warlike times. I only know that Ermina is a remarkably white mulatto of the octoroon class; that she has been educated like a lady; and that she is the bosom companion of Don Benigno's daughters.'

My curiosity being aroused, I resolve to probe Tunicu on the subject of his affaire de coeur, at our next meeting.

Meanwhile I adopt friend Bimba's suggestion and enroll myself in his corps, and, with others, obtain permission to accompany the troops on their expedition.

Some days, however, elapse before our feeble-minded governor can make up his mind to the sally. A couple of Spanish frigates lie at anchor in the harbour, in readiness to bombard the town if the rebels should effect an entrance and stir up the inhabitants, their countrymen, to revolt. The garrison has been considerably augmented by the arrival of fresh troops from Puerto Rico and Spain, who are quartered indiscriminately in the jail, the hospitals, and churches, to expire there by the score of yellow fever, vomito negro, and dysentery. Meanwhile the besiegers make no attempt at assault, but occasionally challenge the troops to sally from their stronghold by firing their sporting rifles within earshot of the town.

Several foreign vessels of war are stationed in the bay ready, if necessary, to assist the foreign residents of the town. Among these vessels are the American war steamer 'Penobscot' and H.B.M.'s steam-ship the 'Eclipse;' the latter having been summoned from Port Royal, Jamaica, by the English vice-consul of Santiago.

One day a great panic is raised, with cries of' Los insurrectos! Los insurrectos!' followed by a charge of mounted military through the streets. It is reported that the insurgents are coming; so everybody hastens home, and much slamming of doors and barring of windows is heard. But the alarm proves a false one; and, with the exception of a few arrests made by the police, just to keep up appearances, no further damage results.

One memorable night, shortly after the inhabitants have retired, the terrible cry of 'fire!' is heard throughout the town, and a report spreads that the insurgents have at last effected an entrance, and set fire to several houses.

Sure enough, from the roof of our studio, Nicasio and I witness what, at our distance, seems to be the burning of Santiago de Cuba! The sky is black with smoke, and from the centre of the town broad flames mount high into the air. Verily, part of Santiago is in flames, but the cause of the conflagration is—as we afterwards find—in no way connected with the insurrection.

A 'panaderia' (baker's shop) and a linen-draper's warehouse, called 'El Globo,' owned by Catalans, have both caught fire by accident. Under ordinary circumstances, the disaster would not have created any other alarm than that which usually accompanies such a rare event as a fire in Cuba. But having connected its origin with the pending revolution, the town is thrown into a state of extreme panic, and until the truth is made manifest, the greatest confusion prevails. Mounted guards and policemen—armed to the teeth—charge through the streets in all directions, and the volunteers turn out en masse and congregate in large numbers before the scene of the conflagration in the Plaza de Dolores.

Even the foreign consuls share for the moment in the popular apprehension. Their national flags are seen to flutter over their respective consulates, and a few well-armed marines from the 'Penobscot' and 'Eclipse' war-steamers are despatched by the captains of these vessels for the protection of the American and English residents. Passing the British consulate on our way to the Plaza de Dolores, we observed a couple of British tars—their cutlasses shouldered and with revolvers in their belts—on guard at the open doors.

Meanwhile the black 'bomberos,' or firemen of the town, are at their work. But they are ill-provided with the machinery for extinguishing a great fire. Only one engine is available, and their water is supplied in buckets and by means of a long hose which communicates with the court-yard of an opposite house.

The gallant captain of the British war-steamer offers to provide the firemen with an engine and men from his vessel; but the bomberos are able to dispense with this assistance, as their plan of operations consists chiefly in cutting off all communication with the fire, by destroying the surrounding houses.

If any proof were wanting to show that the despised, but free and well-paid negro, is not devoid of ability and energy, these black and brown bomberos would surely provide ample testimony. A better conducted, better disciplined body of men than the coloured firemen of Cuba it has never been my fortune to meet anywhere. Steady, earnest of purpose, and perfectly free from excitement, they work like veritable negroes, and they prove as serviceable as the whitest of their bombero brethren.

In less than four hours the safety of the surrounding habitations is ensured, and the fire, being now confined to the doomed buildings, is left to burn itself out.



CHAPTER XXV.

CUBAN WARFARE.

Spanish Soldiers—A Sally—Prisoners of War—'Los Voluntarios'—A triumphant Return—Danger!—Cuban Emigrants.

Our vacillating governor having at last consented to another chase after the rebels, under the leadership of a certain Spanish colonel, a body of volunteers—myself among the number—join the troops on the appointed day and march with them from town.

The Spanish troops muster some five hundred strong. Their hand weapons are of the old-fashioned calibre, and they carry small field guns on the backs of mules. Every man is smoking either a cigarette or a cigar as he tramps along. His uniform is of dark blue cotton, or other light material suitable to the tropical heat. He carries little else besides his gun, his tobacco, and a tin-pot for making coffee; for the country through which he is passing abounds naturally in nearly every kind of provender.

The besiegers have altogether disappeared from the neighbouring country, and for the first few miles our march is easy and uninterrupted. But soon the passes grow narrower, until our progress is effected in single file. Occasionally we halt to refresh ourselves, for the weather is intensely hot, and the sun blazes upon our backs. To ensure ourselves against brain fever, we gather a few cool plantain leaves and place them in layers in the crowns of our Panamas. Our way is incessantly intercepted by fallen trees and brushwood; but we can see nothing of the enemy, and hear little besides the singing of birds and the ripple of hidden water. Many of our party would gladly abandon the quest after human game, and make use of their weapons in a hunt after wild pig, or small deer, which animals abound in this part of the country.

'Alto!' We have waded at last through the intricate forest, and halt in an open plain. It is evening, and as we are weary with our wanderings, we encamp here all night. A moon is shining bright enough for us to read the smallest print; but we are disinclined to be studious, and smoke our cigarettes and sip our hot coffee. Men are dispatched to a neighbouring plantation in quest of bananas, pumpkins, Indian corn, sugar-cane, pine-apples, pomegranates, cocoa-nuts, and mangoes, and with this princely fare we take our suppers. Then sleep overtakes us.

Early next morning we are called to arms by the sound of firing, which seems to reach us from a hill in the distance. The noise is as if a thousand sportsmen were out for a battue. Our commander assures us that the enemy is near at hand, and soon crowds of mounted men appear on the hill before us. With the aid of our field-glasses, we watch their movements, and can distinguish their dresses of white canvas, their sporting guns, and primitive spears. A body of them surrounds a thatched hut, over the roof of which droops a white banner with a strange device, consisting of a silver star on a square of republican red. The enemy appears to be very numerous, and as he marches along the ridge of the hill, his line seems interminable. All our opponents are mounted on horses, or mules with strange saddles and equipments.

'Adelante!' We advance to meet the foe. Some hours elapse before we can reach the thatched hut, as our course is exceedingly circuitous. We find the hut occupied by a decrepit, half-naked negro, but our birds have flown. The negro, who tells us he is a hermit, and that his name is San Benito, can give us no information as to the whereabouts of the enemy, so we make him a prisoner of war. The opposing forces have left nothing but their patriotic banner behind them. This trophy our commander possesses himself of, and bears off in triumph. Then we scour the country in companies of fifty; but we meet with nothing more formidable, than a barricade of felled trees and piled stones. Once we capture a strange weapon, made out of the trunk of a very hard tree, scooped and trimmed into the form of a cannon, and bound with strong iron hoops. Upon another occasion we discharge our rifles into a thicket whence sounds of firing proceed, and we make two more prisoners of war, in the shape of a couple of runaway negroes.

Though we have had no encounter with the enemy, our 'losses' are not inconsiderable; many of the soldiers having been attacked by those terrible and invincible foes—fever and dysentery. In this manner at least two-thirds of our force is put hors de combat. Our colonel is in despair. As for the volunteers, their disappointment at the unsuccessful issue is very great.

At length our colonel, disgusted with the result of the campaign, orders a retreat. The troops willingly obey, and are preparing for their march back, when twenty of the volunteers come to the front and propose making one effort to storm the enemy's impregnable fortress. Finding our colonel opposed to such a wild enterprise, these gentlemen, reckless of the consequences, plunge headlong into an adjacent thicket, and thence presently the sound of fire-arms proceeds. For upwards of an hour we await the return of these mad adventurers, and during the interval the firing is incessant. Finally the 'besiegers' are seen to emerge from a distant part of the thicket. When we join them, we find that more than half their number are wounded, and the rest bear between them no less than three prisoners of war! For the first time I have the pleasure of standing before veritable rebels! Two of the prisoners are whites and are seriously maimed; the third is a mulatto youth of not more than sixteen years. They are all attired in brown holland blouses, white trousers, buff-coloured shoes and straw hats. The white men have been disarmed, but the mulatto lad has still a revolver and machete-sword in his belt.

The volunteers are elated beyond measure by their formidable(?) captures, and endeavour to persuade their chief to make another attempt with the troops. But the colonel will not hear of it, and commands the men instantly to retreat. The volunteers obey this time, in spite of their protestations, but before doing so, a horrible scene is enacted.

The mulatto lad, who is only slightly wounded, is bound hand and foot with strong cords, and consigned to the care of the soldiers, but the other two unfortunates, who lie groaning in agony on the ground, are brutally seized by some of the volunteers, who, after maltreating them in a shocking manner, stab them to death with the points of their bayonets!

Sickening at the fearful spectacle, I gladly follow the colonel and his men, who are unanimous in their indignation at the outrage.

A two days' march brings us to the confines of the town again; but before we proceed to enter, the governor, accompanied by a staff of officers and a band of music, comes out to meet us. A cart, driven by oxen, is procured, and upon it are placed the captured cannon and rebel banner, the former of which is as much as possible concealed by Spanish flags and flowers. A procession is then formed, and in this way we pass through the streets, followed by the military band, which plays a hymn of victory in commemoration of our triumphant return. The houses become suddenly decorated with banners, blankets, and pieces of drugget suspended from the windows, and the inhabitants welcome us with loud cheers and 'vivas.'

Immediately upon quitting the ranks, I repair to the office of El Sufragio Universal, for the purpose of reporting to Don Javier the result of our expedition. Strange to relate, that gentleman has already perused a glowing account of our glorious campaign in El Redactor, the government organ in Cuba. The editor hands me a copy of that periodical, and there, sure enough, is a thrilling description of what we might have achieved, if we had had the good fortune to encounter the enemy in the open field!

But the editor has some strange news for my private ear. He tells me that a fillibustering expedition from the United States has landed with arms, ammunition, and a thousand American fillibusters, in the Bay of Nipe, not many leagues from our town. With this reinforcement it is confidently expected that the rebels will make an attempt to attack the Spanish troops in their stronghold. Don Javier, who is a Cuban to the bone, is sanguine of his countrymen's success. With a few more such expeditions, he is sure that the colony will soon be rid of its Spanish rulers. Then the editor gives me some extraordinary information about myself. It appears that during my absence, El Redactor has made the wonderful discovery that I am one of the agents of an American newspaper; has referred in its leading articles to the 'scandalous and untruthful reports' published by its American contemporary, and has insinuated that henceforth the climate of Cuba will be found by many degrees too warm for me.

But this is not the worst news which the Cuban editor has to impart. The cholera, he says, has been raging in many parts of the town, and innumerable families have in consequence of this disaster and the continued arrests, fled from Santiago. The majority of them had embarked in the first steamer announced to leave the island, which happened to be the 'Caravelle,' bound for Jamaica; others had taken refuge at their estates in the country, while numbers of young Cubans, who had been threatened with arrest, had made their escape and joined the insurgent army.

On my way from Don Javier's office, I meet Bimba, and from him I learn further particulars respecting this wholesale flight of Cubans. He tells me that, among the departures are Don Benigno and his family, who fled to his country estate. That Don Severiano and his family have set sail for Europe, taking with them my creole lady-love, who had been for this purpose released from the convent. My friend says that their destination is Paris. So au revoir, Cachita mia; we may meet again! Quien sabe?

Bimba then discloses the wonderful intelligence, that among the passengers by the French steamer bound for Jamaica was my companion Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldu; and he hands me a letter which my partner had entrusted to his care. The contents of this document only confirms what I have already heard. The cholera, the recent arrests, the fact that Nicasio is the close friend of the formidable agent of the New York Trigger, have combined to induce him to abandon the island before my return. He urges me to follow his example without delay and embark in the first steamer which leaves the island. He himself will remain in Jamaica till he hears from me, and if I am unable to join him there, we shall—si Dios quiere—meet again in that part of Europe where for many years we have dwelt together and practised, under more favourable auspices, 'the divine art of Apelles.'

The first steamer announced to leave Santiago is the 'Pelayo,' and as this vessel will sail for Havana in four hours' time, I prepare for my journey to the Cuban capital. Bimba and those of my friends who still remain in this disturbed part of the Ever-faithful Isle, accompany me on board. Foremost is the editor of El Sufragio Universal, who, after wishing me a 'bon voyage' and a hearty 'vaya usted con Dios,' secretly hands me a bundle of papers, containing, among other matters, the 'leavings' of the censor for the past fortnight, which Don Javier hopes will be acceptable to the proprietors of the New York Trigger.

I had almost forgotten Tunicu! 'What has become of him?' I ask.

Bimba tells me that Tunicu has disappeared no one knows whither.

'Eloped with his mulatto lady?' I suggest.

'No muy!' says Bimba; 'la Ermina accompanied Don Benigno to his estate. You will probably hear of them again.'



CHAPTER XXVI.

HAVANA CIGARETTES.

Cigars—The Etiquette of Smoking—A Cigarette Manufactory—The Courteous Proprietor—The Visitors' Book—Cigarette Rolling.

That the characteristics of Cuba, and the ways of the people, are better observed in the Santiago end of the island than they are in Havana, is apparent to me after my arrival in the latter city. Here I am reminded in many respects of a fashionable European town—indeed, by reason of its modern innovations, the Cuban capital has been styled the 'Paris of the tropics.' Compared with Santiago, Havana offers few attractions to the traveller in quest of 'Cosas de Cuba,' besides its tobacco; and to this subject I accordingly devote my attention.

I am in the Louvre. Not the French palace of that name, but a fashionable cafe in the heart of Havana. The interior of the Cafe del Louvre is tastefully decorated; the walls are concealed behind huge mirrors, the floor is of marble, and countless tables crowded with Habaneros and foreigners from all parts of Las Americas, are distributed about the saloon. At one end is a long 'mostrador' or counter, where fancy chocolate, confectionary, and tobacco in all its branches are sold. Here you have your pick of brands, from the gigantic and costly Ramas cigar to the 'tamano pequeno' cigarette. But do not suppose that because you are at the birthplace of your choice Havanas, you will get those articles at a cost comparatively next to nothing. I, who from infancy upwards have cherished this fiction, am lamentably disappointed when I discover what exorbitant prices are demanded for the best brands. The cedar boxes, with their precious contents, set like gems in the midst of tinfoil and fancy-cut paper, look inviting; but I seek in vain for a cigar at the ridiculously cheap rate I have prepared myself to pay. I try Brevas, and ask for a penn'orth of the best, but am horrified when I am told that a single specimen of that brand costs five-pence! The Intimidads alarm me; the Bravas unman me; and as for the Cabanas, the Partagas, the Henry Clays, and the Upmanns, I am filled with awe at the bare mention of their value per pound. A real Ramas, I am informed, is worth eighteen-pence English, while superior Upmanns are not to be had under ten sovereigns a hundred. In despair of finding anything within my means at the Louvre counter, I purchase a 'medio's' worth of cigarettes—a medio, or two-pence half-penny being the smallest coin current in Cuba—order a cup of cafe noir, and sally forth in quest of cheaper smokeables.

Crossing the square where the Tacon theatre and circus stand, I wander through the narrow, ill-paved streets of the Cuban capital. At the corner of every hotel, under archways and arcades, I meet with tables laid out like fruit-stalls, bearing bundles of cigars and cigarettes. Here, at least, I expect to find something to smoke at a fabulously low rate. Yes; here are cigars at two, three, and five for a silver two-pence; but those I invest in do not satisfy me; they are damp, new, badly rolled, won't draw, and have all kinds of odd shapes. Some are curved like Turkish scimetars, others are square and flat, as if they had been mangled or sat upon, while a few are undecided in form like horse-radish. The vendor assures me that all his cigars are born of 'tabaco legitimo,' of 'calidad superior,' grown on the low sandy soil of the famous Vuelta Abajo district; but I know what a very small area that tract of land comprises, and I will no more believe in the abundance of its resources than I will in those of Champagne and Oporto.

In my peregrinations, I gaze fondly into the interior of wholesale cigar warehouses, but dare not enter and demand the price of half of one of those countless cedar-boxes, which I see piled up to the very ceiling in walls fifty boxes thick. At last I founder on the Plaza de Santa Isabel, a spacious square, laid out with pretty gardens and tropical trees. Here is the grand hotel where the Special Correspondent to the New York Trigger wields his mighty pen. To him and to other acquaintances I apply for information on the subject of tobacco. My foreign friends assure me you cannot get a good cigar in Havana at any price, as all the best are exported to Europe and the United States; unless you prefer German tobacco, of which great quantities are imported into Havana. The natives have quite a different account to give. They declare that the best cigars never leave the country but are easily obtained if you know where to seek them; and they refer me to the warehouses. Every one whom I consult graciously offers me a few specimens from his own particular cigar-case; and as in Cuba it is considered an offence to refuse a man's tobacco, I am soon in possession of a goodly stock, which I calculate will last me for the next eight and forty hours at least.

A singular etiquette is observed all over Cuba with respect to smoking, which a rough Britisher does not always appreciate. An utter stranger is at liberty to stop you in the middle of the street to beg the favour of your 'candela,' or light from your cigar. If you are polite, you will immediately hand him your weed, with the ashes carefully shaken off, and the lighted end conveniently pointed in his direction. Part of your fire having been successfully transferred to his cigar, the stranger is bound to return your property, presenting it, by a dexterous turn of the wrist, with the mouth end towards you; an operation which requires no little practice, as it is accompanied with a downward jerk to express deep obligation. If, after this, you are inclined to abandon your cigar for a fresh one, you may not do so in the stranger's presence, but wait till he has disappeared. There is a sort of smoking freemasonry, too, between Cubans all over the world. A Cuban recognises a compatriot anywhere, by the manner in which he screws up his cigarette, holds it, and offers or accepts a light.

Advised by a friend who is a great smoker, I give up my cigar investigations, and devote my attention to the humbler cigarette. With this object in view, I ramble down the narrow 'calles' or streets of St. Ignacio, del Obispo, and de Cuba. At every twelfth house which I pass is a small shop where only the article I seek is sold. In the first-mentioned calle is the 'deposito' of the far-famed Cabanas cigarette; in the second, the Gallito and Honradez stores. I visit the latter, which holds the highest reputation, and take an inventory of the stock. I am shown an endless variety of cigarettes at comparatively insignificant prices; a packet of twenty-six of those mostly in vogue costing only a silver medio, or two-pence half-penny English. There are innumerable sizes, from the smallest named Acacias, to the biggest, or tamano mayor, called Grandifloras. The floor of the shop is sanded with burnt cigarette ends, looking like exhausted cartridges, and the pavement without is peppered with their fragments. Every man or responsible child whom I pass has a little tube of smoking paper between his lips, and glancing in at an open restaurant, I observe a group of feeders, each of whom has a cigarette stuck behind his ear like a pen.

At last I pause before the imposing factory of Louis Susini and Son, situated in a little plaza in the Calle de Cuba. It is here that the best cigarettes, popularly known as Honradez, are manufactured. The exterior of the building, with its marble columns reminding one of a Genoese palace, is worthy of attention. Above the grand entrance is the Honradez figure of Justice, bearing the famous motto: 'Los hechos me justificaran' (my deeds will justify me). But there is much to be seen within; and as a party of half a dozen ladies and gentlemen are about to enter, I join them and unite with them in begging permission of the proprietor to inspect the works. One of the firm soon appears, and after a polite greeting, kindly appoints an assistant to show us over the manufactory. We are told that everything in connection with cigarette making, except the actual growing of the tobacco, takes place within these extensive premises, and are forewarned that a long afternoon is necessary to see everything to our satisfaction.

Before we begin, we are politely requested to affix our signatures in a ledger provided for visitors to the establishment; and having obeyed, copies of our autographs are made on slips of paper, and, by a mechanical contrivance in the wall, these are dispatched for some mysterious purpose to the regions above. At the suggestion of the cicerone, we follow our names; not by the same means, however, but by winding staircases and intricate passages. Before starting, we peep into the engine-room to glance at the steam power which works the machinery required in the different departments. The first ascent brings us to spacious store-rooms, where loose cigarettes, and those already packed in bundles, are kept. The walls are literally papered with cigarettes in wheels, which look like complicated fireworks. As we move from one wheel to another, we are invited to help ourselves to, and test, the different qualities, which some of us accordingly do in wine-tasting fashion; taking a couple of whiffs from each sample and flinging the rest in the dust. Further on, we come to a small apartment where the operation of sorting the labels for enveloping each packet of twenty cigarettes, takes place. The labels are fresh from the printers; a workman is standing before a round movable table, and as this revolves, he drops them into little boxes belonging to their respective patterns. Each label is stamped with the Honradez figure of Justice, accompanied either by a charade, a comic verse, a piece of dance music on a small scale, an illuminated coat of arms, or a monogram pattern for Berlin wool-work. Some are adorned with artistic designs of a superior order, such as coloured landscapes, groups of figures, or photographs of eminent persons.

Another ascent, and we are in the stationery department. It seems odd to examine large sheets and thick reams of paper, which we have been accustomed to see only in the form of cigarette books or tubes of small dimensions. A wonderful variety of rice and other paper is before us. There are two or three qualities of white, and endless shades of brown and yellow. Some are lightly tinted as the complexion of a half-caste; others are quadroon-hued, or of a yellow-brown mulatto-colour. We are shown medicated and scented papers. The first of these, called pectoral paper, is recommended by the faculty to persons with weak chests; the last, when ignited, gives out an agreeable perfume.

Yet another floor, and we are introduced into a long chamber with rows of long tables, at which a hundred Chinese workmen are engaged in counting the already twisted cigarettes into bundles of twenty-six, and enveloping them in their ornamental labels or covers. To accomplish this operation with necessary speed, much practice and dexterity in the handling is required. The coolies—a thousand of whom are employed on the establishment—are, however, great adepts at the art, and patient and plodding as beasts of burthen. But among the celestials there is one master-hand who distinguishes himself above all the others by his superior skill. Piles of loose cigarettes and gummed labels are before him. Into the former he digs his dexterous fingers, and he knows by the feel alone whether he has the prescribed twenty-six within his grasp. By a peculiar shake he humours the handful into its tubular form, and with another movement wraps it lightly in a paper cover, which he leaves open at one end and neatly tucks in at the other. He is so rapid in his work, that we can scarcely follow him with our eyes, and the whole performance, from beginning to end, looks to us like a conjuring trick. Our guide tells us how many thousands of packets per day are in this way completed by these useful coolies.

'Arriba!' Another flight leads to the 'picadura' department, where tobacco leaves are prepared for cigarette making. The aspect on all sides reminds us of a room in a Manchester factory. We wade carefully through a maze of busy machinery. There are huge contrivances for pressing tobacco into solid cakes hard as brickbats; ingenious apparatus for chopping these cakes into various sized grains of 'picadura' or tobacco cuttings; horizontal and vertical tramways for forwarding the latter to their respective compartments. Near us is a winnowing chamber for separating particles of dust from the newly cut picadura. We enter by a spring door which closes after us with a bang, and everybody is immediately seized with a violent fit of sneezing. Particles of escaping tobacco dust float in the air and tickle our olfactories. We are actually standing within a huge snuff-box! After inhaling a wholesale pinch of this powder, which leaves us sneezing for the next quarter of an hour, we clamber to the heights of the establishment, and find ourselves in the printing and paper cutting departments. Here artists are engaged in preparing lithographic stones and wood blocks with various picturesque designs for cigarette labels. Gilders are illuminating labels, and cutters are shaping paper into their cigarette and label sizes. Further on are printing offices, where all the letterpress and lithography required in the establishment is accomplished. This is far from an insignificant item in the manufactory, for, besides the pictorial and letterpress covers, there are the Honradez advertisements to print; circulars, pamphlets, together with dedicatory dance music, and an occasional local newspaper. We linger lovingly about this interesting department, and, before we leave, the foreman of the printing office presents each lady member of our party with a piece of Cuban dance music, upon the cover of which is printed a few words of dedication, accompanied by the lady's own name in full. Whilst wondering at the magic by which this mark of attention has been quietly accomplished, we descend to the ground floor, and are again met by the courteous proprietor, who presents each gentleman visitor with a newly-made packet of cigarettes upon which, lo! and behold! are our names. It is pleasing to see one's name in print, and when it is witnessed on an ordinary Havana cigarette packet, the charm is greatly augmented.

Before taking leave of our civil host, we are invited to comment upon what we have seen, in the visitors' book, and you may be sure that our observations are not unfavourable to the courteous proprietor and his interesting exhibition. Susini & Son have published a thick pamphlet containing a list of names and remarks of distinguished visitors to his establishment. It is a curious work in its way, for the epigrammatic effusions are varied, amusing, and composed in at least half a dozen languages. Some of the authors have chosen a poetic style of commentary, while others content themselves with matter-of-fact prose. A well-known signature is here and there recognisable among these cosmopolitan productions. A famous Italian opera star has rhymed in her native lingo; a popular French acrobat—possibly one of a company of strolling equestrians—has immortalised himself in Parisian heroics. M. Pianatowsky, the Polish fiddler, has scrawled something incomprehensible in Russian or Arabic—no matter which; while Mein Herr Van Trinkenfeld comes out strong in double Dutch. Need I add that the immortal Smith of London is in great force in the book, or that his Queen's English is worthy of his world-wide reputation?

We are in the act of quitting the Honradez establishment, when it suddenly occurs to one of us that, after all that has been said and seen, we have failed to watch a cigarette in actual process of manufacture. What! have we presided at a performance of 'Hamlet' with the hero omitted; or are the component parts of cigarettes planted in the ground to sprout out ready-made like radishes?

I return and ask for information on this subject.

'Perdonen, ustedes,' says our hospitable friend, 'I had forgotten to tell you that our cigarrillos are rolled by the presidiarios.'

What's a 'presidiario'? A 'presidiario' is a convict, and convicts in Cuba are sentenced to eternal cigarette-making in lieu of oakum-picking. The government contract with the manufacturers for this purpose, and—voila tout!

Anxious to 'sit out' the whole cigarette performance to the very last act, I ask and obtain permission to visit the town jail. In one of the stone apartments of this well-regulated building are groups of convicts dressed in white blouses and loose trousers of coarse canvas. Amongst them are Africans, Congos, mulattoes of many shades, Chinese—Chow-chows as they are called—and sun-burnt whites, who are principally insubordinate Spanish soldiers and sailors. Each has a heavy chain dangling from his waist and attached to his ankle, wears a broad-brimmed straw hat of his own manufacture, and incessantly smokes. Before him is a wooden box filled with picadura and small squares of tissue paper. Great nicety is required to roll a cigarette after the approved fashion; the strength or mildness of the tobacco being in a great measure influenced by the way the grains are more or less compressed. A smoker of course finds a tightly-twisted cigarette more difficult to draw than a loosely twisted one.

The presidiario does not seem to object to his hard labour, but doubtless prefers it to other kinds of perpetual rolling on a wheel. He employs no sticky element to secure the edges of his cigarette, but tucks the ends neatly in, by means of a pointed thimble which he wears on his forefinger.

Ponder well over this, ye Havana cigarette smokers! and when next you indulge in a whiff from your favourite luxury, remember that a pickpocket has had his hand on your picadura!



CHAPTER XXVII.

A MULATTO GIRL.

An Obscure Birth—Bondage—A Bad Master—A Good God-Father—A Cuban Christening—Anomaly of Slavery—A White Lover—Rivals—An Important Event.

My contemplated departure for New York is for many days postponed by the unexpected meeting with Don Benigno's family, who, under extraordinary circumstances presently to be related, have recently arrived in the Havana.

My old friends are also bound for the great American city; but at present they are full of preparations for the approaching marriage between Don Benigno's eldest daughter, Paquita and the young Spanish officer, Don Manuel. The latter has lately received a military appointment in the Cuban capital, and as he contemplates residing there with his future bride, Don Benigno is anxious that the wedding shall take place with as little delay as possible.

Before that event, and before Don Benigno and the rest of his family leave with me for New York, I am made acquainted with the fact, that another marriage will be shortly celebrated in the Don's family, and that the betrothed lady is no other than Don Benigno's adopted daughter, the fair Ermina!

Don Benigno tells me that for certain reasons this wedding will not take place in the Ever-faithful Isle. What those reasons are, and how my curiosity respecting the past of the pretty mulatto girl is at last gratified, will appear in the following brief narrative, which, as the matter contained in it was chiefly derived from the young lady herself, I propose to repeat as nearly as possible in her own words.

* * * * *

I was bought and paid for before I was born.

My own mother bargained for, and finally secured me, for the sum of twenty-five dollars. A kind of speculative interest was attached to my nativity. Had my sale not been effected previous to my appearance in the world, I should have become the property of my mother's master, who, in accordance with the laws of serfdom, might then dispose of me, if he pleased, at a rate far exceeding my mother's slender savings; and, if nature had destined me for a healthy boy instead of a girl, my value would have been still greater.

My mother was a slave belonging to a wealthy coffee-planter. Of my father I know little, save that he was a white man, and that being a professed gambler and deeply in debt, he disappeared from Cuba shortly before I was ushered into the world. His flight concerned no one more than my mother, for he had promised to purchase her liberty for a thousand dollars, which was the price demanded by her owner.

There was no world to censure my parent for the trouble she had brought upon herself, because, in a slave-country, little importance is attached to such a common occurrence as the birth of a mulatto. My mother's master would have exhibited a similar indifference, if, indeed, he would not have rejoiced at the event—for it added a few dollars to his exchequer—were it not for the fact that Don Vicente had a secret motive for great displeasure. His slave was a mulatto, belonging to the fair class known as quadroons. My mother was a comely specimen of her race, and Don Vicente, being well aware of this, had his own reasons for qualifying her conduct as an act of disobedience. This act he determined should receive punishment, and accordingly, when his human property was convalescent, she was removed, with her infant, to one of Don Vicente's estates, and there cruelly flogged!

You may be sure that this severe treatment did not increase my mother's affection for Don Vicente, and, in spite of his dreadful threat to employ his slave as a common coffee-picker—which, for a mulatto, accustomed to the luxuries of town life, is worse than sending her to the galleys—my mother remained true to herself.

Finding menaces of no avail, and afraid of disturbing his domestic tranquillity, Don Vicente abandoned his purpose and advertised his human property for hire at so much per month. In its way, this was a sore trial for my dear parent, for although she heartily loathed her master, she was greatly attached to his family, at whose hands she had known only kindness and humanity. Her new master might prove to be as bad as, or even worse than, her owner, and such a prospect was far from pleasant. She was, however, agreeably disappointed.

Don Benigno responded to the advertisement, and would have purchased my mother outright, but the times were critical, and the worthy gentleman could not afford the exorbitant price demanded for her. He, however, agreed to hire my parent, who was forthwith removed, with her free-born child, to her new habitation.

Don Benigno was of course the kindest of masters; in proof of which, his first act, after procuring my mother's temporary release, was to interest himself in her child's baptism. For this purpose, he ordered that every formality connected with this ceremony should be rigidly observed. He himself officiated as godfather, and, in accordance with custom, invited my mother's relatives and friends to be present at the festivities, which were to be held at a small farm on one of his estates. As is usual on such occasions, my generous godfather sent a 'baptismal token' to every guest. The nearest relatives received an 'escudo de oro,' or two-dollar piece. The next of kin were presented with pesetas, while the friends were favoured with silver medios. Each token was pierced with a 'lucky' hole, to which was attached a piece of coloured ribbon, with my name and the date of my birth printed in gold letters on either side. The ceremony of christening being over, Don Benigno gave a grand banquet and a ball, at his farm-house, to which all the farmers and white country people in the neighbourhood were invited.

My kind godfather was in the habit of investing a 'doblon' of four dollars every month in the Havana lottery; and he promised that if he should succeed in drawing a prize, he would devote part of the amount to the purchase of my mother. But no such good fortune ever happened to the worthy gentleman, although, upon more than one occasion, he expended a whole 'onza' in tickets.

Nothing worthy of note transpired during the early years of my childhood. My health was all that could be desired after my teething—an operation whose successful issue, it was confidently believed, was due to the bone necklace which I wore from my birth, and which the good people of my country consider acts as a charm against the evils imminent to infancy.

Don Benigno's children—who were somewhat older than myself—were my closest companions. We were, indeed, more like sisters together, than young mistresses and maid. As for my dear godfather and Dona Mercedes—they treated me as a pet child.

Before I had turned fourteen, I was already a grown woman, and, as far as outward appearance, as white as it is possible for my caste to be. With the exception of my lips, which are, as you observe, somewhat prononce, and the whites of my eyes, which are slightly tinged with yellow, there is no perceptible difference between me and those creoles whose origin is less doubtful than my own.

Despite, however, my personal attractions, I was fully conscious of the nice distinction between white and white about which the people of my country are so jealously exacting; and my dark origin always formed a barrier between me and my thoroughbred sisters. Whenever Don Benigno, or his family, addressed me as 'Mulatica,' 'Chinita,' or 'Negrita,' I sometimes thought of the literal meaning of those endearing epithets!

Tunicu, as you know, was always a frequent visitor at Don Benigno's tertulia, but at the period to which I now refer, he used to pass some hours with us during the daytime. I think Tunicu always admired me more than he did Don Benigno's daughters, and now that I was a grown woman, he often gave expression to his sentiments. I was by no means insensible to Tunicu's attentions, for he was a handsome young gentleman, with a dark brown moustache and imperial to match. His complexion, too, was several shades darker than my own, though this, of course, did not detract from the purity of his descent, which was apparent in the clear white of his eyeballs, the transparent pink of his finger nails, and other signs peculiar to offspring of white parents.

Our admiration for one another gradually developed itself into something more serious, until one day Tunicu gave me to understand that he loved me truly. I think he was sincere, at least I chose to believe so, and, besides, he gave daily proof of his preference for me to the whitest ladies of his acquaintance.

Notwithstanding this, the wide gulf of origin which existed between Tunicu and me could not be concealed, and was continually made manifest. My white lover was passionately fond of dancing, and frequently attended at the balls given at the Philharmonic, where I dared not be seen, save in the capacity of spectator. Crowds of coloured people were permitted, like myself, to watch the dancing from a distance, but none were allowed to trespass upon the hallowed threshold. The same stern rule separated me and my lover at the Retreta in the public square. I might stand, with others of my class, on the broad terrace of the cathedral and watch the promenaders, or listen to the military band; but I dared not be seen with the unsullied gentlefolks below. Occasionally, Tunicu would desert his white companions, and ascending the broad steps of the cathedral, pass the rest of the evening in my society. On these occasions I should have felt supremely happy, but for the painful thought that Tunicu was sacrificing his position for my sake. The white ladies, who visited at Don Benigno's, though sometimes deigning to notice me, out of compliment to their host, secretly hated and despised me; and if they did not actually scandalise me behind my back, they never forgot to remind those around them of my parentage, and of the unquestionable difference which existed between us.

Then there was my mother, whose cruel fate was ever a dark cloud in my happiest moments with my lover. Thanks to her, I was a free-born woman, while she, alas! still endured a state of bondage. I often wished that I might be enabled to turn to profitable account the education which I had received through Don Benigno's bounty, and in this manner earn enough to pay for my parent's liberty; but, unfortunately, there are no governesses in Cuba, and what white lady of respectability would care to send her child to my school, supposing that I had been able to set up such an establishment?

Sometimes I indulged in the wild hope that Tunicu might one day take me to a foreign country, where my past would be ignored, and where we might be married without regard to the opinion of the world. But my lover, though always full of projects and promises, had never once alluded to the subject of matrimony. People broadly hinted that my Tunicu was a libertine, like some of his companions and that he had no intention of making me his wife; but we were both favoured with rivals whose interest it was to speak in these terms. My rivals were the white ladies, who were jealous of Tunicu's attentions to me, and who never forgot to openly express their indignation at the relationship which they knew to exist between me and my lover. Tunicu's rivals were even more numerous; some of them would show their regard for me by serenading under my window with a band of music, upon such occasions as my saint's day, or during the fiestas. I dared not exhibit an indifference to these attentions, without transgressing certain social laws of the country; besides, I found that Tunicu himself did not disapprove of them—he never explained why, but I suppose he considered these little attentions as a sort of acknowledgment of his good taste, or, perhaps, they afforded a proof to him of my constancy.

The boldest of my admirers was a young half-caste called Frasquito, whose mulatto-father was a wealthy tobacco trader and held a high position among the Cuban merchants.

Frasquito was an occasional visitor at Don Benigno's, for, being an accomplished musician, he was a great acquisition when a dance was given at our residence. Once he composed a Cuban danza, and dedicated it to me, calling it after my name: 'La Bella Ermina.'

Frasquito was perfectly aware of my relations with Tunicu, but he must have regarded them with the same levity as others did; for, one day, happening to be alone with my admirer, he, to my great confusion and surprise, made me an offer of marriage; assuring me that his father had already approved of his choice, and promising that if I would accept him for a husband, he would, previous to the marriage ceremony, procure my beloved mother's liberty.

I fear that my reply was unsatisfactory to both of us. I could not tell him with truth that I was betrothed to another, because, though that other had long appropriated my heart, he had never openly asked my hand. It was equally difficult to show why I did not avail myself of this opportunity for effecting my mother's emancipation; and Frasquito knew too well that I would make any personal sacrifice to release my beloved parent from bondage.

I, however, told Frasquito that his offer had so taken me by surprise, that he must give me time to consider of it, and that in the meanwhile he must never allude to the subject.

Tunicu, to whom alone I confided what had passed between me and my admirer, scouted the notion of my alliance with the 'son of a nigger,' as he expressed it; but strange to tell, he did not seem angry at the fact of matrimony having been proposed by another.

'You are too fair and too refined,' said he, 'for the son of a black man. When you marry, you must be wedded to somebody having better antecedents than that, Ermina mia.'

I felt the truth of his remark, and now began to consider my late offer in the light of an insult. The mulatto's pretensions to my hand must surely, I thought, have been induced by his knowledge of my birth, for he would not have ventured to make such a proposal to a white woman; and perfectly aware of my secret attachment, he seemed to have implied that I was incapable of commanding the true love of a white man. Impressed with these reflections, I resolved to test the truth of the mulatto's inuendos, and, for the first time, I broached to Tunicu the subject nearest my heart.

'Do you think, mi amor,' said I to my lover, 'that I shall ever marry as well as you could desire?'

Tunicu paused, before replying to my question, and then observed—turning his gaze from me as he spoke:—

'Why should not mi Ermina marry well? She is young, beautiful, accomplished—'

—'and the daughter of a slave!' I added; my eyes moistening as I uttered the terrible words.

For a few moments my lover remained silent and pensive Then recovering himself, he began to converse in his old, confident, assuring manner, gratifying my imagination with pictures of events which were never to happen, and promising things impossible to be realised. At least nothing ever did happen as Tunicu had predicted, while one event shortly transpired which in his wildest dreams had never occurred to him.

That event was the Cuban insurrection, which, as you know, has already affected the lives of hundreds of my unhappy countrymen and countrywomen; but in what manner it would concern our future destinies, neither Tunicu nor I could possibly foretell.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

A MULATTO GIRL (continued).

The Slave Trade—Ermina and her Lover—Panics—'Los Insurrectos' v. 'Los Voluntaries'—A Wounded Patriot—Spanish Law and Cuban Law—The 'Mambis'—A Promise—An Alarm—All's Well that Ends Well.

You already know how, during the early stages of the Cuban revolution, the inhabitants of Santiago were called upon to enroll themselves as volunteers; that those who evaded the order were regarded with suspicion, in many cases arrested, and occasionally shot after a mock trial; that others who preferred to abandon the town, were punished for their want of loyalty to their rulers, who confiscated their property. My good benefactor, Don Benigno, was too old to enlist and even more disinclined to fight against his countrymen, the rebels; so when the cholera broke out, he made this a pretext for escaping the vigilance of the authorities, and fled with his family and belongings to a farm on his sugar estate. My mother would have accompanied us, but for a circumstance which obliged her to remain in the town. Her rightful owner, Don Vicente, had in one day lost half his fortune; the rebels having encamped at his principal estate and utterly despoiled it. Four hundred negroes employed on this estate had joined the revolutionists, and as each slave was valued, on the average, at five hundred dollars, the loss which Don Vicente sustained may be easily estimated. To provide against fresh losses, Don Vicente determined to sell all that still remained to him, and embark with his family for a more peaceful country. He hoped to realise a large amount from the sale of his town slaves, and as my mother represented no insignificant item in this valuable property, she was, of course, included in the list of vendibles. I was in despair!

'Tunicu, del alma!' said I to my lover, 'if you are as devoted to me as you profess to be, buy—borrow—beg my beloved parent; but don't let her fall into strange hands!' My dread lest she should become the property of an utter stranger, drove me to this appeal.

Tunicu was equal to the occasion, as he always was; whether with the same disappointing result in view, I could not tell.

'Ermina de mi corazon!' he replied, 'I am not in a position to buy your mother. Don Benigno has already borrowed her and must now return her. To beg her is out of the question. But I think I have a more practical plan. It may not agree with the laws of this country, and it must be attended with great personal risk; but I will try it.'

I looked inquiringly.

'I am aware, 'continued Tunicu, with one of his pleasant smiles, 'that in the course of true love it rarely happens that in order to prove his affection for his mistress, the lover must first elope with his lady-love's mother; but circumstances create strange situations, and under the present circumstances, I see no other alternative than to run away with your parent.'

Conscious of the great risk attending such an enterprise, and of the terrible consequences which would inevitably result from an untimely discovery, I begged that Tunicu would reveal to me his plan of operations. But to this he objected.

'No,' said he, 'I have found of late that my outspoken projects have exhausted themselves in words, so you must allow me, for this once, to keep my own counsel.'

My lover's unusual reply somehow inspired me with greater confidence than anything he had ever uttered: so, woman though I was, I determined to restrain my curiosity.

'Whatever your plan may be, dearest Tunicu,' said I, 'I agree to it blindly.'

'Then,' said he, 'you will also agree to our temporary separation. You will accompany my uncle to the farm?'

To this I also, though reluctantly, acceded.

So my mother was returned to Don Vicente, with whose family she was to reside until a purchaser was found. Tunicu remained in town; while I and Don Benigno's family were conveyed in a covered cart drawn by oxen to the farm-house.

We arrived opportunely. The town which we had left was, as you know, already in a state of siege, and shortly after our departure, Count Valmaseda's dreadful manifesto, announcing that every man, woman, and child who should be discovered in certain districts of the country were to be shot like dogs, was published. We dared not now venture beyond the limits of the farm-grounds, for the report of fire-arms was continually heard in the neighbouring woods. Don Benigno was in daily fear lest the volunteers should visit our retreat, for he was well acquainted with the details of their past iniquities.

Early one morning we were awakened by a negro, who hastened to the farm-house, shouting as he came: 'Los Insurrectos! Los Insurrectos!'

'The insurgents are coming!' was the signal of alarm usually adopted by non-combatants, because the insurgents, and not the volunteers, were said to be the scarecrows of our island.

It was, however, 'Los Voluntaries' and not 'Los Insurrectos' this time, for a party of volunteers were visible on a distant eminence.

Our black sentinel, however, still persisted in shouting, 'Los Insurrectos!' The same cry was echoed by other negroes, who, with their faces tinged with the pale green of a black's fear, came running towards us with the information that three insurgents were riding within a mile of our habitation. The statement proved correct, for presently three horsemen arrived at the farm. All three were armed with revolvers, and short swords called 'machetes,' and they were attired in brown holland blouses, buff-coloured shoes, and Panama hats.

One of these men appeared to be suffering great bodily pain, but his face was so besmeared with dirt and blood, that we could scarcely tell whether he was a mulatto or a white man. The poor fellow had been seriously wounded, and groaned in agony as Don Benigno's slaves assisted him to dismount.

After he had been placed upon a catre in one of our apartments and revived with a draught of aguardiente, the invalid smiled mournfully around him, and then, to our unspeakable astonishment, inquired whether we did not recognise in him Don Benigno's nephew!

I will not describe the scene which followed this disclosure, but I will endeavour to repeat to you what Tunicu had now to reveal. His first words caused me great happiness; though the strange tone in which they were uttered seemed scarcely to correspond with the good news conveyed in them.

'Your mother,' said he, glancing in my direction, 'is free!'

He now told us how, in spite of his efforts to steal my dear parent, Don Vicente had succeeded in selling her to a brutal slave-trader, who contemplated employing her as a common labourer at a coffee plantation, and how, being aware of this, my lover determined to save her from such a terrible fate.

Parties of young Cubans were then secretly planning expeditions into the heart of the country, where their compatriots in arms were concealed, and this being known to my lover, he lost no time in enrolling himself among them. A party of these young men were on the eve of departing on their rebellious or patriotic mission, and as my mother's new master had already started for his plantation with his recent purchases and half-a-dozen armed negroes, Tunicu persuaded his companions to help him to rescue my parent. Well armed, well acquainted with the roads of their intricate country, and mounted on fast trotting horses, the little band of warriors followed in the track of the slave-owner, and, after some hours of hard riding, they succeeded in overtaking him. They then demanded, in the name of 'Cuban justice,' every slave in his possession, declaring, that now the Cuban people had risen in defence of their rights and for the abolition of slavery, they were no longer amenable to Spanish law.

'We are all Cubans,' said they, 'and well armed, as you see; and we intend to fight for both causes whenever an opportunity presents itself.'

Hostile measures were, however, quite unnecessary in this instance. The eloquence of my brave countrymen sufficed to create a mutiny among the trader's black body-guard, who with one accord came over to the enemy. In short, the slaves were all released, and their late owner, after vowing to be avenged, rode off to the nearest garrison for the purpose of reporting to the authorities what had happened, and, if possible, obtain redress for the wrongs he had sustained. In the meantime the victorious party hastened to join their brethren in arms, some of whom were encamped in one of the strong fortifications which nature so generously provides in our well-wooded mountains. But they had scarcely reached this part of the country, when a battalion of volunteers, guided by the slave-trader, went in pursuit of them.

Tunicu then described an encounter which afterwards took place between the latter and the patriots. He said that for upwards of an hour shots were exchanged, but with no advantage to either side; till the slave-trader (doubtless acquainted with the roads of this intricate country) suddenly discovered an opening in the forest. Through this opening he, followed by a number of the volunteers, entered, and, sheltered by the surrounding foliage and trees, took deadly aim at those of their enemies who were exposed to their view. Many of my countrymen fell in this cruel slaughter, and amongst them were two of the recently captured slaves. Horrible to relate, one of these slaves was my mother. Seeing her fall, Tunicu boldly advanced towards the spot whence the firing proceeded, and there beheld the slave-trader who, he had no doubt, was my parent's assassin. Without a moment's hesitation, Tunicu shot this man dead with his revolver. A dozen rifles were levelled at the daring fellow as he hastened to return to his companions, and unfortunately a bullet lodged in his side.

My warlike countrymen now retreated to a safe part of the forest, and here they remained, till the patience and the ammunition of their assailants were exhausted.

As soon as my lover was sufficiently recovered from his wound, he was escorted by two of his companions to Don Benigno's farm, where they duly arrived.

How shall I describe the agony which Tunicu's narrative caused me! My mother was indeed free, and by the hand of her own master; but alas! how dearly was her liberty purchased! I consoled myself with the reflection that my dear parent had been saved from a fate such as was in store for her had she been recaptured by her owner. Our anxiety was now devoted to my lover, who had suffered considerably from his long ride to the farm. We were able to attend the invalid unmolested; though news reached us that the insurrection was spreading in all directions, and we were in constant fear that it would reach too near our retreat.

I was happier with my lover during his recovery, than I had ever been. The perils which he had undergone for my sake seemed to have toned down his volatile nature, and although his habit of promising had not wholly deserted him, I had reason to be grateful for at least one sweet promise which he made me!

'Ermina de mi alma!' said he, one evening that we were alone together, 'my uncle contemplates leaving with you all for North America, there to remain till the revolution is over. I cannot accompany you, but we shall meet there, and if, after your intercourse with the white society of that country—where you will be treated as an equal—your feelings with regard to me are unchanged, we will be married, and I will endeavour to make your life happier than it has hitherto been.'

'Not happier than it is now,' said I.

* * * * *

'Los Insurrectos!—Los Insurrectos!'

The insurgents again? No; our swarthy sentinels were wrong this time, for presently a dozen Spanish troopers, all armed to the teeth, galloped into our court-yard. We were, of course, greatly alarmed at their appearance; for we had no doubt that they had come to apprehend my lover. We were, however, soon agreeably relieved from our anxiety on this account, by a letter which the officer in command had brought for Don Benigno. This letter came from his future son-in-law, Don Manuel, who, since the commencement of the revolution, had been quartered with his regiment at Manzanillo, not many leagues from our farm. Aware that we had left town for Don Benigno's plantation, and conscious of the danger which was now threatening every district in the eastern extremity of the island, Don Manuel proposed that we should join him without delay at Manzanillo, and thence proceed to Havana, to which the young officer was shortly to be transferred. As yet perfect tranquillity reigned at the Cuban capital; and 'here,' suggested Don Manuel, 'we might remain,' under his official protection, 'until the rebellion was suppressed.'

'The rest of her story,' says Don Benigno, breaking in at this point of it, 'is soon told. The soldiers remained with us for two or three days while we prepared for our departure, and in the meantime they discussed the merits of our fried bananas with boiled rice, our bacalao and casabe, our tasajo, our chimbombo, our ajiaco and our Catalan wine. Then, consigning my plantation to the care of my trusty major-domo, we all left for Manzanillo, under our military escort. Shortly after our arrival, Tunicu set sail for North America; for Don Manuel was of opinion that unless my nephew joined the Mambis (nickname for the rebellious party), it would not be safe for him to remain in any part of the Ever-faithful Isle. But we hope to meet him there, and, meanwhile we intend to practise those virtues of patience and amiability which have hitherto served us so well—eh, mi Ermina? My daughter's marriage will soon be celebrated, and after the nuptials some of us will, I hope—si Dios quiere—depart for the great city of New York.'



CHAPTER XXIX.

A CUBAN WEDDING.

Open Engagements—A Marriage Ceremony—A Wedding Breakfast—The Newly-Married Couple.

A number of Don Benigno's relatives and friends have, like ourselves, taken refuge in the peaceful city of Havana. Some of them purpose remaining here till affairs at Santiago are more settled, while others, like Don Benigno, intend to make New York their temporary abode.

Surrounded by his friends, the Don begins to feel at home again. Every evening he holds a tertulia at his temporary residence, as of old, and upon these occasions I recognise many familiar faces. Senor Esteban, the lawyer, Don Magin, the merchant, and Don Felipe, the sugar planter, are the Don's guests again. Doctor Francisco and his family have also arrived in Havana, en route for Europe: for even our medical friend has been in danger of arrest for having administered to some wounded 'patriots' at a village near Santiago.

Don Manuel is of course a constant visitor at Don Benigno's, but I do not envy him the term of courtship which precedes the marriage, nor is the ceremony itself very inviting.

In his capacity of lover, Don Manuel is bound to submit to many hardships. He may not meet his fiancee alone under any circumstances; her society must be enjoyed only in the presence of the numerous friends and relatives who visit her at all hours of the day and evening. Then, he is expected to return some of these visits, in company with his future bride, her mother and sister. He must also submit to certain formalities required of him by the priest who is to unite the 'promessi sposi,' and the most irksome of these is that of confession. Paquita confesses, and that is nothing new to her, but it is otherwise with the young officer. In short, until Don Manuel is actually a happy husband, his position is by no means enviable, and for my own part, I would gladly relinquish two years of married life in Cuba for half an hour's secret love-making at a certain grated window!

The wearisome ordeal at length comes to an end—the nuptial day arrives. The ceremony, such as it is, takes place very late in the night; indeed, it is early morning before Don Manuel and his male friends reach the cathedral, where the event is to be celebrated. A single bell tolls like a funeral knell as we enter a small chapel connected with the sacred edifice. It is a dreary apartment, dismally lighted with two long wax candles. Nobody is present, save Don Manuel, the male friends already mentioned, and the sacristan, who enlivens us by trying (and failing) to beautify, with false flowers and false candles, a miserable altar-piece at one extremity of the chapel. The young officer's importance as a bridegroom is not at present appreciated, either by himself or by his friends, with whom he converses upon indifferent subjects, and who, like myself, are attired in ordinary walking costume.

Presently a Quitrin, drawn by a couple of mules, with a black postilion in jack-boots, halts without. The bride, accompanied by her mother and a friend, alight, and, without taking notice of anybody in particular, pass silently into the chapel. The importance of Don Manuel's position does not reveal itself by this act, nor is it considerably improved, when the ecclesiastic, who is to marry the happy pair, emerges from a dark corner, smiles artificially around him, and exhausts the rest of his amiability with the ladies. But the priest is not so unconscious of Don Manuel as that gentleman supposes. Soon he singles the officer out from the group of males, and bids him follow the bride, and his future mother-in-law, into an adjacent chamber. But little is required of the bridegroom besides his signature to a paper, which he does not read; and when the holy man has addressed something or other to him in the Latin language, he is politely requested to withdraw. Shortly after Don Manuel's retirement, the bride and her escort issue from the mysterious chamber, and, after saluting us all round, take their departure and drive away. Don Manuel's distinguished position seems to be scarcely increased by these proceedings; but when his friends congratulate him, the lights of the chapel are extinguished, and the decorations on the miserable altar-piece are stowed away, he endeavours to realise the feelings of a married man. Don Manuel follows his friends as they lead the way to the bride's parental roof, consoling himself with newly-rolled cigarettes as he walks along.

It is nearly two A.M. before we reach the scene of the festivities, where most of the guests are already assembled. A long table has been tastefully arranged with sweetmeats, cakes, fruit, wine, and other luxuries, and some of the guests, whose appetites could not be restrained, have already inaugurated the festivities. Much confusion, uproar, and struggling after dainties peculiar to a Cuban banquet, prevail, and it is not without an effort that the young officer contrives at last to find a place near his bride. Healths are drunk and responded to incessantly, and often simultaneously; rather, as it would seem, for the excuse of drinking champagne and English bottled ale, than from motives of sentiment.

When enough cigarettes have been smoked, and enough wine and beer have been disposed of, all the company rises with one accord. The ladies throw light veils across their shoulders, the gentlemen don their panamas; and the bride and her mother, together with the bridegroom and all the guests, followed by an army of black domestics, leave Don Benigno's habitation, and marching in noisy procession along the narrow streets, arrive at the bride's future home. It is a one-storied dwelling with marble floors and white-washed walls, and is furnished with bran-new cane-bottomed chairs and other adornments belonging to a Cuban residence. The huge doors and windows of every apartment are thrown open to their widest and the interior being brilliantly lighted with gas, the view from the street is almost as complete as within the premises. Everybody crowds into the latter, and examines the arrangements of each chamber with as deep an interest as if they were wandering through an old baronial mansion with cards of invitation from its absent owner. The reception-room, the comedor or dining-room, the out-houses round the patio or court-yard, are carefully inspected by the throng, who are irrepressible even in respect to the dormitory assigned for the use of the bridegroom, and that allotted to the bride, and situated in quite a different quarter.

Everybody's curiosity being satisfied, everybody, save the newly-married pair and a few black domestics, is wished a 'muy buenas noches,' or, more correctly speaking (for the hour is 4 A.M.), a very good morning.



CHAPTER XXX.

CUBANS IN NEW YORK.

The Morro Castle again—Summer and Winter—Cuban Refugees—Filibusters—'Los Laborantes' of New York and their Work—American Sympathisers.

I am a prisoner in the Morro Castle again, and this time my fellow captives are more numerous. We occupy separate apartments. The chamber which has been allotted to me is considerably smaller than that of the fortress at Santiago. So small that the floor measures barely four feet in width, and seated in my narrow cot, my head approaches within a few inches of the ceiling. Don Benigno, his wife, his unmarried daughter, and the pretty Ermina, together with a score of Cuban families, are all imprisoned in the same stronghold, whence there is no escape. For we are encompassed on every side by a moat so deep and so wide that no engineering skill would avail to connect us with terra firma.

This is, however, not the Havana Morro, nor is it the fortress at Santiago de Cuba; but an American steamer called the 'Morro Castle' and bound for New York, where—wind and weather permitting—we shall all arrive, in little more than four days!

Although the month is January, the atmosphere is still sultry and oppressive; so much so that most of the passengers prefer to sleep on deck. But on the morning of the third day of our voyage, there is a perceptible change in the temperature. The passengers are seen to shiver and to huddle together in warm corners of the cabin. Everybody has exchanged his or her summer clothing for warmer vestments. The ladies appear no more in light muslin dresses, and without any head covering. The gentlemen have eschewed their suits of white drill and Panama hats, and have assumed heavy over-coats and flannel under-clothing. It is a 'nipping and an eager air,' closely resembling winter, and reminding everybody of the fact, that in one short hour we have tripped lightly from the perpetual summer of the tropics into the coldest season of the north. Some sea water which had been hauled up in a bucket half an hour ago was perfectly tepid, and now when the bucket is lowered and raised we are amazed to find that the contents are icy cold!

Next day the liquid in our water jugs is discovered to be in a freezing condition, and fires have been lighted in all the stoves. But our chilly Creoles derive little or no warmth from these artificial means, although they are swathed in garments ten inches deep.

Great is the joy when the 'Morro Castle' at last sails into the wide and picturesque harbour of the great American city, and when we have safely landed, satisfied the Custom-house officers, and are finally lodged in a comfortable hotel in Broadway, our happiness is complete.

Numbers of Cuban families are already encamped in the hotel which Don Benigno has selected for himself, family and friend, and at the table d'hote where we take our first American meal, the conversation is held exclusively in the Spanish language. Don Benigno is delighted to find himself among his countrymen again, and as the city is over-run with Cuban refugees, he soon meets many of his old friends. Some of them tell him that, having had their property confiscated, and being too old to take part in the revolution, they intend to remain in America, where they hope to improve their fortunes; while the more able-bodied are recruiting with a view to certain secret expeditions to Cuba.

Tunicu, who joins us shortly after our arrival, is of course overjoyed at our appearance, and welcomes some of us literally with 'open arms!' Having passed some weeks in New York, he is of course already acquainted with everybody of note in the city, and is familiar with American ways. He tells us all about the Cuban 'Laborantes' of New York, and how they are labouring in behalf of their bellicose countrymen. How juntas are held, and how the Cuban ladies take a prominent part in these meetings, and provide funds for the relief of their sick and wounded compatriots in arms. Tunicu informs us that a grand bazaar, with this object in view, is now being promoted by these energetic senoras, and when Dona Mercedes hears of this, she and her daughters are soon busy at their favourite occupation. Tunicu says that the proceeds of the bazaar will not be wholly devoted to the purpose for which it is publicly announced, but that a large amount will be set apart for the purchase of arms and accoutrements; it being whispered that another fillibustering expedition is contemplated, and that great hopes are entertained of its safe departure from America. He says that an important landing has been lately effected at Guanaja—a small town on the Cuban coast—where Manuel Quesada, the newly-appointed general of the Cuban army, has arrived with eighty well-drilled men, 2,700 muskets and necessary ammunition.

Besides the bazaar money, large amounts are raised by giving public concerts and by an occasional dramatic performance at one of the Bowery theatres, at which a stirring drama founded on the Cuban revolution is presented.

The concerts, however, prove more attractive and remunerative; especially if it is announced that a young and lovely Creole, attired as 'Liberty' and holding a Cuban flag in her hand, will sing a patriotic ballad. Equally effective are recitals from the famous Cuban poets—Heredia and Placida. When the 'Himno del Desterrado,' by the first-named author, is given, it is always received with great applause by the Cuban members of the audience and by those who understand the beautiful language in which this favourite poem is written. But nothing pleases the mixed audience of Cubans and Americans half so well as when a renowned pianist favours them with a performance on the piano of a 'Danza Criolla.' At the first strains of their patriotic melody, the Creoles present become wild with enthusiasm. The Cuban ladies wave their handkerchiefs with delight, while their brother-patriots stand on their seats, and for the moment drown their favourite music with loud and prolonged cheering, accompanied by shouts of 'Viva Cuba libre!' (Long live free Cuba!) 'Muerte a Espana!' (Death to Spain!) and other patriotic sentiments.

The American people are unanimous in their sympathy for the Cuban cause, and the sentiment is popular even with the New York shopkeepers, who already offer for sale 'Cravats a la Cespedes,' 'Insurrectionary Inkstands,' and 'Patriot Pockethandkerchiefs.'

Important meetings, too, are held at Cooper's Institute, Steinway Hall, and other public places, at each of which a great concourse of American sympathisers gathers. Many eminent orators preside at these meetings, and endeavour with all their eloquence to urge upon the Congress at Washington the necessity for immediate recognition of the rights of the Cuban belligerents. Annexation is, of course, suggested, and slavery loudly denounced.

One eloquent speaker is of opinion that the present struggle of the Cubans for independence and self-government belongs to the same category as the American Revolution in 1776; that it should excite the sympathy of all friends of popular progress, and that it deserves every kind of assistance that other nations may be able to render.

Another well-known orator, connected with the church, declares that 'the Cuban cause is just, and that the wrongs against which the Cubans have revolted are such as should arouse the indignation of mankind, inasmuch as these wrongs include taxation without representation, the forced maintenance of slavery, the exclusion of all natives of the island from public service, the denial of the right to bear arms and of all the sacred privileges of citizenship and nationality.'

A third speaker avers, among other sentiments, that, in proclaiming the abolition of slavery, the patriots of Cuba have given conclusive evidence that they share the most substantial ideas of modern democracy, and that their political principles are in unison with those which inspire and govern the profoundest thinkers and statesmen of the age. That while men of free minds in all countries must view with interest and hope the uprising in Cuba, 'we, as citizens of the Republic of North America, and near neighbours of the beautiful and productive island, recognise a special obligation towards those patriots who are toiling and fighting for its emancipation from Spanish tyranny.'

'It is the duty of our Government,' concludes another speaker, amidst loud and prolonged applause, 'to recognise the belligerent rights of the Cubans at the earliest practicable moment, and thus to show the world, that the American nation is always on the side of those who contend against despotism and oppression; and we earnestly entreat the Executive at Washington that there may be no unnecessary delay in dealing with this important subject.'

But in spite of these demonstrations of public sympathy, the mighty House of Representatives cannot be induced to join in the popular sentiment. Memorials are addressed to the American President, and persons of influence labour in behalf of the Cuban cause. Upon one occasion a party of Cuba's fairest daughters 'interview' the President's wife and secretary, but nothing comes of it except more sympathy and more able editorials in the New York papers, in which it is again suggested that a bold and decisive policy should be commenced with regard to Cuba and to American interests there, and that the shortest way to settle now and for ever all difficulty relative to that island, is to send out a powerful fleet and to recognise the independence of the people of the Pearl of the Antilles.

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