Library of Congress Subject Headings, 21st edition, 1998

Languages Used:

• English

LC Subject Headings:

• Manzano, Juan Francisco, 1797-1854.
  
• Poets, Cuban -- Biography.
  
• Blacks -- Cuba -- Biography.
  
• Slaves -- Cuba -- Biography.
  
• Slaves -- Cuba -- Social conditions.
  
• Plantation life -- Cuba -- History -- 19th century.
  
• Slavery -- Cuba -- History.
  
• Slavery -- Cuba -- Poetry.
  
• Slave trade -- Cuba.
  
• Slavery -- Law and legislation -- Cuba.
  
• Slavery and the Church -- Cuba.
  

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• 2001-04-18,
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• 2001-03-04,
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  finished transcribing the text.
  
  

[Half-Title Page Image]

[Title Page Image]

POEMS
BY
A SLAVE IN THE ISLAND OF CUBA,
RECENTLY LIBERATED;
TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH,
BY
R. R. MADDEN, M. D.
WITH THE HISTORY OF THE
EARLY LIFE OF THE NEGRO POET,
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF;
TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED
TWO PIECES DESCRIPTIVE OF
CUBAN SLAVERY AND THE SLAVE-TRAFFIC,
BY R. R. M.

LONDON:
THOMAS WARD AND CO.,
27, PATERNOSTER ROW;
AND MAY BE HAD AT THE OFFICE OF THE BRITISH AND FOREIGN
ANTI-SLAVERY SOCIETY, 27, NEW BROAD STREET.
1840.

TO
JOSEPH STURGE,
THE HOWARD OF OUR DAYS,
THE FRIEND AND FAITHFUL FOLLOWER
OF
THOMAS CLARKSON,
THIS LITTLE WORK
IS DEDICATED BY HIS FRIEND,

R. R. MADDEN.

CONTENTS,

• SLAVE-TRADE MERCHANT 7
• THE SUGAR ESTATE 19
• THE LIFE OF THE NEGRO POET 45
• THE POEMS OF THE NEGRO POET 79
• ODE TO DEATH 79
• ODE TO CALUMNY 80
• ODE TO RELIGION 81
• THIRTY YEARS 84
• THE CUCUYA; OR FIRE-FLY 85
• THE CLOCK THAT GAINS 87
• THE DREAM 8
• A SPECIMEN OF IN-EDITED CUBAN POETRY 92
• APPENDIX.
  • QUESTIONS ADDRESSED TO SENOR--OF HAVANA, BY R. R. MADDEN 117
  • QUESTIONS RESPECTING THE STATE OF RELIGION IN CUBA, ADDRESSED TO SENOR--OF THE HAVANA, BY R. R. MADDEN 125
  • NECESSITY OF SEPARATING THE IRISH IN AMERICA FROM THE SIN OF SLAVERY 135
  • BARTHOLOMEW LAS CASAS 150
  • EVILS OF THE CUBAN SLAVE-TRADE 156
  • CONDITION OF SLAVES IN CUBA 161
  • LAWS FOR THE PROTECTION OF SLAVES IN CUBA 170
  • EMANCIPATION OF SLAVES IN CUBA 181
  • GLOSSARY 184

ERRATA.

        Page 28, line 12, for "valambrossa's," read valambrosa's.

        Page 40, line 9, for "brings," read bring.

        Page 48, line 13, for "drains," read drain.

        Page 115, line 1, for "take of," read take off.

        Page 129, line 27, for "300 dollars," read from 300 to 3000 dollars.

        Page 132, line 19, for "does it allow," read does it follow after.

        Page 146, line 14 of note, for "for its divines and the decrees of its councils," read divines, and decrees of councils.

        Page 150, line 1, for "conquestadors," read conquistadors.

        Page 150, line 3, for "Quintano," read Quintana.

        Page 153, line 10, for "a atros," read a otros.

PREFACE.

        A COLLECTION of Poems written by a slave recently liberated in the Island of Cuba, was presented to me in the year 1838, by a gentleman at Havana, a Creole, highly distinguished, not only in Cuba, but in Spain, for his literary attainments. Some of these pieces had fortunately found their way to the Havana, and attracted the attention of the literary people there, while the poor author was in slavery in the neighbourhood of Matanzas. The gentleman to whom I have alluded, with the assistance of a few friends, of pursuits similar to his own--(for literature, even at the Havana, has its humanizing influence,) redeemed this poor fellow from slavery, and enabled him to publish such of his Poems, as were of a publishable kind in a country like Cuba, where slavery is under the especial protection, and knowledge under the ban of the censors of the press.

        A few of those pieces which were unpublished or unpublishable in Cuba, I have endeavoured to put into English verse; and to the best of my ability, have tried to render, so as to give

the sense of the writer (sometimes purposely obscured in the original) as plainly as the spirit of the latter, and the circumstances under which these pieces were written, would admit of. I am sensible I have not done justice to these Poems, but I trust I have done enough to vindicate in some degree the character of negro intellect, at least the attempt affords me an opportunity of recording my conviction, that the blessings of education and good government are only wanting to make the natives of Africa, intellectually and morally, equal to the people of any nation on the surface of the globe.

        To form any just opinion of the merit of these pieces, it is necessary to consider the circumstances under which they were written, and how are these circumstances to be estimated by one ignorant of the nature of Cuban slavery? I had at first thought it would have been necessary to have prefixed some notice both of the trade in slaves, and the system of slavery in that island, but I found it impossible in any reasonable limits to effect this object, and the very abundance of my materials was an obstacle to the undertaking, or rather induced me to reserve these materials without abridgment for other purposes of higher interest, more likely to benefit the cause I am desirous to promote. I determined, therefore, to give a short but faithful sketch of the Cuban slave-trade merchant and planter in verse, and the presumption of the attempt is sufficiently

obvious to myself to render any apology available in a literary point of view. As portraits, however rudely sketched, of the characters I have attempted to describe, the vivid impression which the originals have made on my mind, were too strong to leave these pictures without a resemblance, which an abler artist might have better, though not perhaps more faithfully delineated. Montgomery, and Hanna Moore have given us the character of the slave-trade captains of former times, and Cowper has admirably described the general horrors of slavery itself. But though the brigands of this trade, and the evils of this system in other colonies have been frequently depicted, I am not aware that the wealthy merchants in such high repute in the Havana who carry on this trade; and the polished cavaliers, and hospitable Creoles, who are the planters of this island, have been pourtrayed except by travellers, who have judged of their humanity by the courteousness of their manners, and the amenities of slavery, by their deportment at the social board.

        The author of the Poems I have attempted to translate, is now living at the Havana, and gains his livelihood by hiring himself out as an occasional servant. His name, for obvious reasons, I think it advisable not to publish, but to leave no doubt of the authenticity of these Poems, I have deposited the

originals in the Spanish language in the hands of the secretary of the "British and Foreign Anti-slavery Society."

        He is now in his forty-second year. He was born in Cuba. His father and mother lived and died in slavery in Cuba. The former was a "pardo" negro; the latter, the offspring of an African and a mulatto union. He was about thirty-eight years of age when he obtained his liberty. The price paid for it was 800 dollars. He obtained employment as a tailor for some time after he got his freedom, subsequently, he went out to service--then tried the business of a house-painter, and was not successful--was advised to set up as a confectioner, and lost all his money in that line, and eventually, has settled down as a "chef de cuisine" in occasional service. The gentleman who was mainly instrumental in obtaining his liberation from slavery, induced him to write his history. This task he accomplished in a manner alike creditable to his talents and his integrity. It was written in two parts--the second part fell into the hands of persons connected with his former master, and I fear it is not likely to be restored to the person to whom I am indebted for the first portion of this manuscript. As far, however, as this portion goes, I have no hesitation in saying, it is the most perfect picture of Cuban slavery that ever has been given to the world, and so full and faithful in its details, that it

is difficult to imagine, that the portion which has been suppressed, can throw any greater light on the evils of this system, than the first part has done. I have given a literal translation of it, and that translation, revised by a Spaniard, will be found at the end of these poems. To prevent the inconvenience of frequent references to notes for the meaning of Spanish terms, in common use in relation to slavery and slave-trade topics, I have given a glossary of such words as most frequently occur in conversation, or in books on these subjects.

        As to the merit of the Poems, the opinion I have expressed is shared by a very distinguished Spanish scholar, and the author of them was introduced to me by him in the following terms:--"Mi querido Amigo esta carta se la entregara a v, el poeta J. F. M. de quien hable à v, y cuyos versos y exelente ingenio han llamada la atencion, aun en esta pais de todas las personas despreocupadas y buenas."

THE
SLAVE-TRADE MERCHANT;
A POEM,
DESCRIPTIVE OF
THE CUBAN SPECULATORS IN STOLEN MEN.

        "Come let us lie in wait for blood, let us lay snares for the innocent without cause. Let us swallow him up alive like hell, as one that goeth down to the pit. We shall fill our houses with spoils. Cast in thy lot with us, and let us all have one purse."--PROV. i. 11-14.

BY R. R. MADDEN, M.D.

POEMS.

THE SLAVE-TRADE MERCHANT.

                         BEHOLD, yon placid, plodding, staid old man,
                         His still and solemn features closely scan!
                         In his calm look how wisdom's light is shed,
                         How the grey hairs, become his honoured head!
                         Mark how the merchants bow, as he goes by,
                         How men on 'Change, at his approach draw nigh,
                         "Highly respected," and esteemed; 'tis said,
                         His fame to Afric's farthest shore is spread!
                         Behold, his house!--if marble speak elsewhere,
                         "Sermons in stones" are with a vengeance here,
                         Whate'er the potent will of wealth can do
                         Or pride can wish, is offered to your view.
                         Those gay saloons, this banquet hall's array,
                         This glaring pile in all its pomp survey,
                         The grandeur strikes--one must not look for taste--
                         What's gorgeous, cannot always be quite chaste.

                         Behold, his heart! it is not all that's fair
                         And smooth without, that's staunch and sound elsewhere.
                         E'en in the calmest breast, the lust of gold
                         May have its firmest seat and fastest hold,
                         May fix its fatal canker in the core,
                         Reach every feeling, taint it more and more;
                         Nor leave one spot of soundness where it falls,
                         Nor spark of pity where its lust enthralls.
                         Behold, his conscience! oh, what deep repose,
                         It slumbers on in one long deadly doze:
                         Why do you wonder that it thus does sleep;
                         That crime should prosper, or that guilt so deep,
                         So long unfelt should seem unscathed, in fine,
                         Should know no shame, and fear no law divine.

                         Is there a curse like that which shrines offence,
                         Which hardens crime and sears the moral sense,
                         And leaves the culprit in his guilt unshamed,
                         And takes him hence unchanged and unreclaimed.
                         Behold, the peace that's owned by him who feels
                         He does no wrong, or outrage when he deals
                         In human flesh; or yet supplies the gold
                         To stir the strife, whose victims you behold.

                         The Cuban merchant prosecutes his trade
                         Without a qualm, or a reproach being made;

                         Sits at his desk, and with composure sends
                         A formal order to his Gold-coast friends
                         For some five hundred "bultos" of effects,
                         And bids them ship "the goods" as he directs.
                         That human cargo, to its full amount,
                         Is duly bought and shipped on his account;
                         Stowed to the best advantage in the hold,
                         And limb to limb in chains, as you behold;
                         On every breast, the well-known brand, J. G.
                         In letters bold, engraved on flesh you see.
                         The slaves by times are in their fetters used
                         To dance and sing, and forcibly amused,
                         To make the negroes merry when they pine,
                         Or seem to brood o'er some concealed design.
                         And when the voyage to its close draws near,
                         No pains are spared to make the slaves appear
                         In fit condition for the market stall;
                         Their limbs are greased, their heads are shaved, and all
                         These naked wretches, wasted as they are,
                         And marked with many a recent wound and scar,
                         Are landed boldly on the coast, and soon
                         Are penned, like cattle, in the barricone.
                         Tricked out for sale and huddled in a mass,
                         Exposed to ev'ry broker who may pass,
                         Rudely examined, roused with the "courbash,"
                         And walked, and run, and startled with the lash,
                         Or ranged in line are sold by parcel there;
                         Spectres of men! the pictures of despair.

                         Their owner comes, "the royal merchant" deigns
                         To view his chattels, and to count his gains.
                         To him, what boots it, how these slaves were made,
                         What wrongs the poor have suffered by his trade.
                         To him, what boots it, if the sale is good,
                         How many perished in the fray of blood!
                         How many peaceful hamlets were attacked,
                         And poor defenceless villages were sacked!
                         How many wretched beings in each town
                         Maimed at the onslaught, or in flight cut down!
                         How many infants from the breast were torn,
                         And frenzied mothers dragged away forlorn!
                         To him, what boots it, how the ship is crammed;
                         How many hundreds in the hold are jammed!
                         How small the space! what piteous cries below!
                         What frightful tumult in that den of woe!
                         Or how the hatches when the gale comes on,
                         Are battened down, and ev'ry hope seems gone;
                         What struggling hands in vain are lifted there,
                         Or how the lips are parched that move in prayer,
                         Or mutter imprecations wild and dread,
                         On all around, the dying and the dead:
                         What cares the merchant for that crowded hold,
                         The voyage pays, if half the slaves are sold!

                         What does it matter to that proud senor,
                         How many sick have sunk to rise no more;

                         How many children in the waving throng,
                         Crushed in the crowd, or trampled by the strong!
                         What boots it, in that dungeon of despair,
                         How many beings gasp and pant for air!
                         How many creatures draw infected breath,
                         And drag out life, aye, in the midst of death!
                         Yet to look down, my God, one instant there,
                         The shrieks and groans of that live mass to hear;
                         To breathe that horrid atmosphere, and dwell
                         But for one moment in that human hell!
                         It matters little, if he sell the sound,
                         How many sick, that might not sell, were drowned;
                         How many wretched creatures pined away,
                         Or wasted bodies made their "plash" per day?

                         They're only negroes:--true, they count not here,
                         Perhaps, their cries and groans may count elsewhere,
                         And one on high may say for these and all,
                         A price was paid, and it redeemed from thrall.
                         If the proud "merchants who are princes" here,
                         Believe his word, or his commandments fear,
                         How can they dare to advocate this trade,
                         Or call the sacred scriptures to its aid.
                         How can they have the boldness to lay claim,
                         And boast their title to the christian name;
                         Or yet pretend to walk in reason's light,
                         And wage eternal war with human right.

                         The pen does all the business of the sword,
                         On Congo's shore, the Cuban merchant's word
                         Serves to send forth a thousand brigands bold,
                         "To make a prey," and fill another hold;
                         To ravage distant nations at his ease,
                         By written order, just as he may please:
                         "Set snares and traps to catch" his fellow-men,
                         And "lie in wait" to link their fetters, then,
                         Send forth his agents to foment the strife
                         Of hostile tribes--and when their feuds are rife,
                         To waste a province to provide a prey,
                         Yet dare to make humanity his plea.

                         Is there no sacred minister of peace
                         To raise his voice, and bid these horrors cease?
                         No holy priest in all this ruthless clime,
                         To warn these men, or to denounce their crime?
                         No new Las Casas to be found once more,
                         To leave his country for this blood-stained shore;
                         And tell the titled felon of his deeds,
                         With all the freedom the occasion needs?
                         Alas! no voice is raised in Cuba--save
                         To plead for bondage, and revile the slave,
                         Basely to pander to oppression's aim,
                         And desecrate religion's sacred name.
                         Yet in this moral Golgotha, where round
                         The grave of mercy none but foes are found,

                         Some lone and weary pilgrim may have come,
                         And caused a voice to echo from this tomb.
                         From him, perhaps, the proud oppressors e'en
                         May hear the crimes, they still would strive to screen,
                         And find a corner of the veil they cast
                         O'er Cuban bondage has been raised--at last,
                         And some, perhaps, at length aroused may think,
                         With all their gold they stand on ruin's brink,
                         And learn, at last, to ask of their own breasts,
                         Why have they used their fellow-men like beasts;
                         Why should it be that each should thus "depise
                         His brother" man, and scoff "the stranger's cries?"
                         "Have they not all one Father who's above?
                         Hath not one God created them in love?
                         Are they not all in God's own image made,
                         Or were the words of life to be Obeyed?"
                         Or held unworthy of the Lord on high,
                         "He that shall steal and sell a man shall die?"

                         Perhaps, fanatics only in their zeal,
                         May think that others, thus should speak or feel,
                         And none but zealots dream, that negroes' rights
                         Were God's own gifts, as well, as those of whites.
                         Perhaps, the Cuban merchant too, may think
                         In guilt's great chain, he's but the farthest link.
                         Forsooth, he sees not all the ills take place,
                         Nor goes in person to the human chase;

                         He does not hunt the negro down himself,
                         Of course, he only furnishes the pelf.
                         He does not watch the blazing huts beset,
                         Nor slips the horde at rapine's yell, nor yet
                         Selects the captives from the wretched band,
                         Nor spears the aged with his own right hand.
                         The orphan's cries, the wretched mother's groans,
                         He does not hear; nor sees the human bones
                         Strewed o'er the desert bleaching in the sun,
                         Memorials sad, of former murders done.
                         He does not brand the captives for the mart,
                         Nor stow the cargo--'tis the captain's part;
                         To him the middle passage only seems
                         A trip of pleasure that with profit teems;
                         Some sixty deaths or so, on board his ship,
                         Are bagatelles in such a gainful trip;
                         Nay, fifty thousand dollars he can boast,
                         The smallest cargo yields him from the coast.

                         He need not leave his counting-house, 'tis true,
                         Nor bid Havana and its joys adieu,
                         To start the hunt on Afric's burning shore,
                         And drench its soil with streams of human gore;
                         He need not part with friends and comrades here
                         To sever nature's dearest ties elsewhere;
                         Nor risk the loss of friendship with the host
                         Of foreign traders, when he sweeps the coast.

                         But this most grave and "excellent Senor,"
                         Is cap in hand with the official corps,
                         Receives the homage due to wealth that's gained,
                         No matter how, or where it be obtained.
                         His friends are too indulgent to proclaim
                         What deeds are coupled with his wide-spread fame.
                         'Tis true, he merely purchases the prey,
                         And kills by proxy only in the fray;
                         His agents simply snare the victims first,
                         They make the war, and he defrays the cost.

                         Such is the merchant in his trade of blood;
                         The Indian savage in his fiercest mood
                         Is not more cruel, merciless in strife,
                         Ruthless in war, and reckless of man's life!
                         To human suffering, sympathy, and shame,
                         His heart is closed, and wealth is all his aim.
                         Behold, him now in social circles shine,
                         Polite and courteous, bland--almost benign,
                         Calm as the grave, yet affable to all,
                         His well-taught smile has nothing to appal;
                         It plays like sunbeams on a marble tomb,
                         Or coldly glancing o'er the death-like gloom,
                         Creeps o'er his features, as the crisping air,
                         On Lake Asphaltes steals, and stagnates there.

                         Serene as summer how the Euxine looks
                         Before the gale its slumb'ring rage provokes.
                         Who would imagine, while the calm is there,
                         What deadly work its depths might still declare?
                         Or think, beneath such gently swelling waves
                         Thousands of human beings find their graves,
                         But who can ponder here, and reconcile
                         The scowl of murder, with its merchant's smile!

                         Behold, his friends! observe the kindred traits,
                         They must resemble, for one draught pourtrays
                         The tribe of Cuban traders, linked in crime
                         Of ev'ry grade in guilt, of every clime.
                         Stealers of men, and shedders of man's gore;
                         The more they grasp, the rage for gain the more,
                         Contagious guilt within their circle reigns,
                         And all in contact with it shows its stains.
                         Behold, the land! regard its fertile fields,
                         Look on the victims of the wealth it yields;
                         Ask of these creatures how they came to be
                         Dragged from their homes, and sold in slavery?
                         And when you hear "the cry" of men "go up."
                         "Robbed of their hire," and made to drink the cup
                         Of grief, whose bitter anguish is above
                         All human woe, the wretched can approve,
                         Think on their wrongs, and venture to reply,
                         "Shall not the land yet tremble" for this cry!

                         God of all light and truth, in mercy cause
                         The men who rule these lands to fear thy laws.
                         O'erthrow oppression, stalled in guilty state;
                         Raise the poor stranger, spoiled and desolate.
                         Reprove the despot, and redeem the slave;
                         For help there's none, but thine that here can save.
                         Thou who can'st "loose the fettered in due time,"
                         Break down this bondage, yet forgive its crime;
                         Let truth and justice, fraught with mercy still,
                         Prevail at last o'er every tyrant's will.

R. R. M.

THE SUGAR ESTATE;
A POEM,
ILLUSTRATIVE OF
LIFE AND DEATH IN CUBAN SLAVERY.

                         "Happy the bonds that hold you,
                         Sure they be sweeter far than liberty;
                         There is no blessedness but in such bondage;
                         Happy! thrice happy chains! such links are heavenly.

"BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

BY R. R. MADDEN.

THE SUGAR ESTATE.

CANTO I.

                         No more of rapine and its wasted plains,
                         Its stolen victims and unhallowed gains,
                         Its Christian merchants, and the brigands bold
                         Who wage their wars and do their work for gold.
                         No more of horrors sick'ning to the heart,
                         Commercial murders and the crowded mart;
                         The living cargoes and the constant trace
                         Of pain and anguish in each shrunken face!
                         Far from the city and its tainted breath,
                         Its moral plague and atmosphere of death;
                         The grave of freedom, honesty, and truth,
                         The haunt of folly and its shoals for youth.
                         Its empty churches and its crowded jails,
                         Its grasping dealers and its human sales,
                         Its gambling nobles and its spendthrift crowd,
                         Profuse, rapacious, indolent, and proud.

                         Far from the shade of its impending fate,
                         The cry of vengeance or the curse of hate,
                         From all the futile pleasures of the town,
                         The proud Havana's infamous renown:
                         Its fell pursuits, its routes and revels gay,
                         Its ruthless deeds and never-failing play;
                         Its walks and gardens, and its "barracones,"
                         Its Tacon's glories and its "bozals" groans,
                         Its invoiced negroes and its pleasures' lures,
                         Its bills of lading and its light amours,
                         Its daily press, its amatory strains,
                         Its puling sonnets and its clanking chains.
                         Far from the deadly influence whose sway
                         Degrades the tyrant and the victim,--nay,
                         Curdles the milk of human kindness, e'en
                         In woman's breast, and crisps the smoothest mien.
                         Far from those ladies, foreigners, and all
                         Whose wretched negroes tremble at their call,
                         Their morning strife, the evening calm of theirs,
                         Their angry gestures and their gala airs,
                         Their home-spent passions and their smiling lips,
                         Their out-door meekness and their in-door whips,
                         Their tender glances and their love-sick sighs,
                         Their female scourgings and their household cries.

                         Far from the foreign merchants who compete
                         In style and gaudy splendour with the great;

                         Who feast the ladies of the slave-trade clique,
                         And give such charming soirées once a week;
                         Where shares and ventures in the odious trade,
                         A common subject of discourse is made:
                         Where dealers talk jocosely of their plans,
                         And playful fair ones, tap them with their fans.
                         And say they're naughty when they speak in sport,
                         Of swearing certain captors out of court,
                         Or when their mirth is in the highest mood,
                         They jest of murder, and the joke seems good.

                         Far from a spot where men of ev'ry clime,
                         By easy stages led from crime to crime,
                         Descend at last to guilt's extreme degree,
                         And steep their hands in that of slavery.
                         Where men are found to advocate its cause,
                         And laugh to scorn their country's outraged laws:
                         Where the unmasked Republican contends
                         For slave-trade interests and their guilt defends;
                         Brawls about freedom, grasps its glaive and brand,
                         And sides with bondage in a foreign land.

                         Far from the agents who protect this trade,
                         Who sell their seals and signatures to aid
                         Their Spanish friends, their slavers to ensure,
                         Deceive the cruisers and their shares secure.

                         Far from official dabblers in the mart,
                         By small degrees grown ossified at heart,
                         Who chop and change their slave or two at first,
                         And soon would deal in hundreds if they durst;
                         And seem to think their pound of flesh is quite
                         Their own, to keep or sell by legal right.
                         Far from these planters, strangers, or Creoles,
                         Friends of the traffic of congenial souls;
                         Nobles with titles at the market rates,
                         Brokers in bills and bankrupts with estates;
                         Settlers from old Virginia and its farms;
                         Sharpers in exile, safe from law's alarms.

                         Far from the seat of government where he
                         Who rules the land, but reigns where none are free;
                         Goes thro' the solemn mockery of state,
                         Prohibits crime and gravely tells its fate,
                         While the offender pays his half doubloon,
                         For each "bozal," and calls the bribe a boon
                         For public works, a voluntary gift,
                         The worthy ruler can't refuse to lift.
                         Tho' when the guilt is dragged before his eyes,
                         His injured honour "lifts its head and lies."

                         Now for the country and the peaceful plains,
                         Where rural pleasure and contentment reigns,

                         Those happy plains where man's productive toil
                         Finds sweet requital in a fertile soil;
                         Where healthful labour's cheerful aspect glows,
                         And evening brings to nature sweet repose
                         Where grateful peasants love their masters kind,
                         And peace and plenty bless the simple mind.
                         Oh! thou most lovely of the fair Antilles,
                         How oft I've wished, to see thy verdant hills,
                         Thy beauteous meads, thy woods with fragrance rife,
                         Teeming at once with loveliness and life,
                         Thy blooming gardens, those delightful glades,
                         And far-famed vales, whose verdure never fades,
                         Thy justly prized San Marco's smiling plain,
                         And Guines' waving fields of ripening cane.

                         How oft I've said in weariness of mind,
                         When shall I leave this heartless town behind?
                         When shall my trammelled spirit walk abroad,
                         And range those fields unknown to strife and fraud?
                         When shall I look on nature's face serene,
                         And feast my eyes, on one vast view of green.
                         When shall I roam by Almendares stream,
                         Of Cuba's nymphs and Naiades haply dream,
                         By sweet Cohima's lovely banks, or those
                         Of Grandé's river, stray at evening's close?
                         When shall I hear the songs of birds once more,
                         And hail the time when harvest yields its store?

                         Behold the country! all my hopes are crowned!
                         Here peace and joy are surely to be found;
                         Here nature riots in luxuriance wild,
                         And smiles on earth, as on her wayward child,
                         And loves to sport in ev'ry shape that's strange,
                         And e'en uncouth, and here exults in change.
                         The giant ceiba rears its bulk on high,
                         The rustling cocoa here confronts the sky,
                         The lofty cedar and caoba spread
                         Their noble branches o'er the torrents bed;
                         The light bamboo's umbrageous beauty vies
                         With Valambrossa's shades in Cuban eyes,
                         Citron and lime, and orange ever near,
                         Cluster together, interweaving here
                         Their leaves, and blending their congenial hues
                         And fragrant odours, fresh with morning dews!

                         The straggling date, the waving palm behold,
                         The shady mango and its fruit of gold,
                         The broad-leafed plantain and the sheltered walk,
                         The sweet banana and its crowded stalk,
                         The choice anona and sapota rare,
                         The gorgeous shaddock and the guava fair.
                         But high o'er all the brave palmetto reigns,
                         The royal palm--the pride of Cuban plains,
                         Its swelling column with Ionian grace
                         Soaring aloft and tap'ring from its base;

                         Where is the park, forsooth, can boast of trees
                         To form a noble avenue like these!
                         The Theban temple and the solemn line
                         Of granite sphynxes leading to its shrine,
                         Like ghosts of former sights and scenes now rise,
                         And seem as if, to flit before my eyes;
                         But here the noble avenue doth lead
                         To no such sacred edifice indeed,
                         The vista strikes--no sculptured walls surprise--
                         A planter's house is all that meets one's eyes.
                         The owner comes, a cavalier 'tis plain,
                         In mien and manner, grave, austere, and vain;
                         A youthful noble--proud and passion swayed,
                         And poor, perhaps--if all he owed was paid:
                         His slender frame and haggard looks display,
                         The graven signs of premature decay.
                         Time, less than pleasure, may, perhaps, have done
                         The work of havoc which these lines make known,
                         And left this gay and thoughtless cavalier
                         A wreck of man, ere age had yet drawn near.

                         The solemn farce of Spanish etiquette,
                         In town or country no one must forget;
                         The Condè comes, he halts at distance due,
                         Draws himself up and takes his guest in view,
                         Bow number one--advancing to the door,
                         Bow number two--as formal as before,

                         Bow number three--an effort at a smile,
                         And greeting then in true Castillan style;
                         "Sir, you are welcome to my house and lands,
                         Whate'er I own, is quite at your command,
                         My whole estate at your disposal--lies,"
                         (And echo dwells upon that word and dies)
                         "Regard these slaves, I pray, sir, as your own,
                         No hesitation--compliment, there's none;
                         I'm highly flattered that you like this hall,
                         You must accept it, furniture, and all.
                         You find me here quite in a rustic way--
                         I love the country--and can truly say
                         I envy none--my time is wholly spent
                         In making those poor negroes here, content.
                         You see them yonder in that field of cane,
                         They have no cause, believe me, to complain;
                         They want for nothing, have no wish on earth,
                         Except for work--of which there's no great dearth,
                         I only wish the poor, but, fared elsewhere,
                         One-half so well, as all our slaves do here.
                         Observe--the field is not so very far--
                         How full of mirth and glee our negroes are!
                         How well they look! how pleased to work! you see
                         What happy creatures even slaves can be!
                         We spare no pains indeed to make them so,
                         It is, no doubt, our interest so to do,
                         Besides, you know, humanity itself
                         Has claims upon us, quite apart from pelf."

                         The bell for dinner gave the Condè's tongue
                         A respite here--but one that was not long;
                         His house, his style of living, and address
                         Were all in keeping--showy to excess.
                         His conversation answered to his board,
                         Garnish of words and dishes in accord,
                         Abundant sweetmeats, olios, and ragouts,
                         Fricandeaus, fritters, harricots, and stews,
                         Hock, soda-water, claret, and for guests,
                         Who need instruction, and have grateful breasts,
                         The standing topic strangers still must hear
                         At every planter's table, and must bear
                         With patience too, though one which smells of graves,
                         The old proverbial happiness of slaves.

                         'Tis not polite to contradict one's host,
                         On most occasions, 'tis but labour lost,
                         At times moreover, men's opinions here
                         Are fashioned by their entertainer's cheer.
                         The stomach has its influence we find,
                         And sometimes its dominion o'er the mind.
                         And, hence, we trav'lling gentlemen who dine
                         With Cuban planters, judge them by their wine;
                         And if they're civil, courteous, and give feasts,
                         We think their slaves are treated like their guests.

                         One might have thought so in the present case,
                         And after dinner, though not after grace--

                         I failed not duly to assure my host,
                         It gave me joy to hear a planter boast
                         Of negroes so contented with their state,
                         And so resigned to their unhappy fate.
                         'Tis highly pleasing, Senor Count, I said,
                         To find that slaves are so well clothed and fed;
                         So lightly worked--so fond of labour too,
                         So very grateful, Sir, for all you do,
                         To make them happy, and improve their lot:
                         And though, I must acknowledge, I am not
                         A friend to bondage--here I must confess,
                         By your account, it does not seem to press.
                         But still, with great respect, it seems to me,
                         A man might almost set his negroes free,
                         Without extreme injustice to the slaves,
                         Or very serious mischief to the knaves;
                         Though here, of course, they must be far too wise
                         To wish to break so good a master's ties.

                         No one, perhaps, replied the Count, can more
                         The sad, but strong necessity deplore,
                         Of buying men to cultivate our plains,
                         And holding these, our fellow-men in chains.
                         The very name of slavery, to me
                         Is vile and odious to the last degree;
                         I know it has some evils, few indeed,
                         But still enough, perhaps for slander's need.

                         Think not, I pray, I advocate this cause,
                         Or speak of such a system with applause;
                         Sir! in the abstract it must be condemned,
                         It is the practice only I defend;
                         For "quo ad" morals, nothing can be worse,
                         But "quo ad" sugar, 'tis the sole resource.

                         I always thought on principle 'twas wrong
                         To purchase negroes, when the gang was strong;
                         And prices are so ruinous of late,
                         A man who buys must mortgage his estate.
                         But while I own the system's not the best--
                         I feel for Cuba and her sons opprest;
                         Her vital interests and the vested rights,
                         In "bozal" negroes,--of the injured whites.
                         I freely grant that treaties should be kept
                         In certain cases, some I must except,
                         Where there's "a sacred privilege" at stake,
                         Or staple trade,--we cannot well forsake.
                         But treaties are like protocols at par,
                         Truces in love, or stratagems in war;
                         Compacts to drive thro',--in a coach and four,
                         Suspended state hostilities on shore.

                         But still, however, freely I object
                         On such like scores, I mean no disrespect

                         To your great nation?--nay, you need not smile,
                         I only think your government is vile,
                         And all its treaties pre-concerted feats,
                         To please a set of hypocrites and cheats!
                         A pack of wretches envious of our gains,
                         Who make such noise about our whips and chains:
                         Fools and fanatics! exaltados! knaves!
                         Rogues who would rob poor planters of their slaves!
                         Fiends in disguise! philanthropists who'd swear
                         That black is white, to bring their ends to bear;
                         Villains who talk of savages possest
                         Of human rights, by men like me opprest!
                         Of slaves entitled to redress for wrongs
                         At hands like mine:--and dare to wag their tongues
                         Against the sacred privilege and right
                         Which ev'ry law accords the skin that's white!
                         Are they not preachers of sedition, nay,
                         Do they not tamper with our slaves and say,
                         The blacks should rise and cut their masters' throats?
                         Would they not put the question to their votes,
                         In case they spared their owners' lives, how they
                         Should work the whites, while they reposed all day?
                         Scoundrels! to think, that men like me were born
                         To grind the cane, or meant to plant the corn.

                         Yes, cried the Condè, as he wiped his brow,
                         I always speak as I have spoken now,

                         Coolly and calmly on a subject, so
                         Extremely grave, and so important too.
                         I'm sure you see the only wish I have,
                         Is for the real welfare of the slave;
                         And must perceive the only dread I feel
                         Is for the negro from fanatic zeal.
                         You see how happy and content he seems,
                         His bondage here--a paradise he deems,
                         Compared with that from which he first was torn,
                         And doubtless too, in which the wretch was born;
                         Having no claim to freedom from his birth,
                         And none of course, in after life on earth,
                         His rights are vested in his master's hands,
                         And he devotes them to his fertile lands.
                         You see his title to a master's care,
                         To compensation for the wear and tear
                         Of thews and sinews, while his strength remains
                         He wants for nothing, and he sings in chains.
                         Where wants are few,--no wages are required,
                         Nor is that sort of stimulus desired,
                         Crack but the whip, it stirs the dullest drones,
                         It makes them lively and it breaks no bones.
                         In short, take all things here into account,
                         You'll find, believe me, sir, no small amount
                         Of peace, of rural happiness, and bliss,
                         On all estates administered like this.

                         There may be some plantations, to be sure,
                         Where slaves have some slight hardships to endure:
                         Where masters happen to abuse their power,
                         Or agents' tempers, are perhaps, too sour,
                         But this, of course, is very rare, you'll find,
                         In fact, we're far too lenient and too kind.
                         The humblest slave's protected by the laws,
                         A syndick's chosen to defend his cause.
                         But how the slave's to get from the estate
                         To seek that syndick, and to pass the gate
                         From which he knows full well he dare not budge,
                         However near the house of the said judge.
                         These, sir, are things the law has left in doubt,
                         And has not very clearly pointed out;
                         'Tis quite sufficient that these laws are good,
                         The framers of them, never understood
                         The laws were made to be fulfilled, of course,
                         But only meant to be supposed in force.

                         Oh, Senor Condè," I exclaimed, "'tis clear
                         The master's will is law and justice here,
                         His word is legal evidence, his skin
                         Presumptive proof of right that's sure to win.
                         His wealth has all the influence direct
                         Of truth itself and pleads with full effect.
                         His code is one that supersedes all laws,
                         Convicts the royal cedulas of flaws,

                         And makes the mill-house bench the judgment seat,
                         Where drivers lay their culprits at his feet.
                         In all the scene there's nothing to recall
                         Customs remembered only to appal;
                         Nought to remind one now of lictor's rods;
                         Of captives trembling at their master's nods.
                         Of savage tortures or of legal crimes;
                         Of heathen habits or of pagan times.
                         'Tis sweet to think we live in christian lands
                         Where slaves are merely held by silken bands:
                         And none make victims of their prisoners more
                         For mere amusement, as they did of yore.
                         We only take their lives, for lucre's sake;
                         We have no Roman holidays to make;
                         No circus toils and terrors to abash;
                         We but enliven labour with the lash.

                         'Tis good to know your system works so well;
                         That slaves and planters in such friendship dwell,
                         That negroes hug their chains devoid of fear,
                         And owners use their power like angels here.
                         'Tis well, I say, that things are thus with you,
                         When all without, looks black and threatening too.

                         I think, sir, said the Condè, you must be
                         Wearied with so much riding, and I see

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