But, doing that, he does his tradesmen too."
I am aware my English version is tame and insipid, though, perhaps, not quite as much so as a translation I once met with of the sentence with which it was said Timoleon, Duc de Brissac, used to apostrophize himself before the looking-glass every morning. The original runs thus:— "Timoleon, Duc de Brissac, Dieu t'a fait gentilhomme, le roi t'a fait duc, fais toi la barbe, pour faire quelque chose." The translation was charmingly ridiculous, and ran thus:—"Timoleon, Duke of Brissac, Providence made you a gentleman; the king gave you a dukedom; shave yourself by way of doing something."—But I wander terribly. Reader, you must excuse me.
I one day asked an intelligent friend, long resident in the island, whether any of the governors had ever done any good to the island, or whether they were all satisfied by filling their pockets with handsome bribes. He told me that the first governor-general who had rendered real service to the people was Tacon. On his arrival, the whole place was so infested with rogues and villains that neither property nor even life was secure after dusk. Gambling, drunkenness, and vice of every kind rode rampant. He gave all evil-doers one week's warning, at the expiration of which all who could not give a satisfactory account of themselves were to be severely punished. Long accustomed to idle threats, they treated his warning with utter indifference; but they soon found their mistake, to their cost. Inflexible in purpose, iron-handed in rule, unswerving in justice, he treated nobles, clergy, and commoners alike, and, before the fortnight was concluded, twelve hundred were in banishment or in durance vile. Their accomplices in guilt stood aghast at this new order of things, and, foreseeing their fate, either bolted, reformed, or fell victims to it, and Havana became as quiet and orderly as a church-parade. Shops, stores, and houses sprung up in every direction. A magnificent opera-house was built outside the town, on the Grand Paseo, and named after the governor-general; nothing can exceed the lightness, airiness, and taste of the interior. I never saw its equal in any building of a similar nature, and it is in every respect most perfectly adapted to this lovely climate.
The next governor-general who seems to have left any permanent mark of usefulness is Valdes, whom I suppose I may be allowed to call their modern Lycurgus. It was during his rule that the laws were weeded and improved, and eventually produced in a clear and simple form. The patience he must have exhibited in this laborious occupation is evidenced by the minuteness of the details entered into, descending, as we have seen, even to the pants of bathers and the bibs of the infant nigger, but, by some unaccountable omission, giving no instructions as to the tuckers of their mammas. If Tacon was feared and respected, Valdes was beloved; and each appears to have fairly earned the reputation he obtained. Valdes was succeeded by O'Donnell, whose rule was inaugurated in negro blood. Frightful hurricanes soon followed, and were probably sent in mercy to purify the island from the pollutions of suffering and slaughter. During the rule of his successor, Roncali, the rebel Lopez appears on the stage. The American campaign in Mexico had stirred up a military ardour which extended to the rowdies, and a piratical expedition was undertaken, with Lopez at the head. He had acquired a name for courage in the Spanish army, and was much liked by many of them, partly from indulging in the unofficer-like practice of gambling and drinking with officers and men. His first attempt at a landing was ludicrously hopeless, and he was very glad to re-embark with a whole skin; but he was not the man to allow one failure to dishearten him, for, independent of his courage, he had a feeling of revenge to gratify.[[AA]] Having recruited his forces, he landed the following year, 1851, with a stronger and better-equipped force of American piratical brigands, and succeeded in stirring up a few Cubans to rebellion. He maintained himself for a few days, struggling with a courage worthy of a better cause. The pirates were defeated; Lopez was made prisoner, and died by the garotte, at Havana, on the 1st of September. Others also of the band paid the penalty of the law; and the ruffian crew, who escaped to the United States, now constitute a kind of nucleus for the "Lone Star," "Filibustero," and other such pests of the community to gather round, being ready at any moment to start on a buccaneering expedition, if they can only find another Lopez ass enough to lead them.
Concha became governor-general just before Lopez' last expedition, and the order for his execution was a most painful task for poor Concha, who had been for many years an intimate friend of his. Concha appears to have left an excellent name behind him. I always heard him called "the honest governor." He introduced a great many reforms into the civil code, and established a great many schools and scientific and literary societies. During my stay in the island, his successor, Cañedo, was the governor-general. Whenever I made inquiries about him, the most favourable answer I could get was, a chuck-up of the head, a slight "p'tt" with the lips, and an expression of the eyes indicating the sight of a most unpleasant object. The three combined required no dictionary of the Academy to interpret.[[AB]]
The future of this rich and lovely island, who can predict? It is talked of by its powerful neighbours as "the sick man." Filibustero vultures hover above it as though it were already a putrid corpse inviting their descent; young America points to it with the absorbing index of "manifest destiny;" gold is offered for it; Ostend conferences are held about it; the most sober senators cry respecting it—"Patience, when the pear is ripe, it must drop into our lap." Old Spain—torn by faction, and ruined by corruption—supports its tottering treasury from it. Thus, plundered by friends, coveted by neighbours, and assailed by pirates, it lies like a helpless anatomical subject, with the ocean for a dissecting-table, on one side whereof stands a mother sucking its blood, and on the other "Lone Stars" gashing its limbs, while in the background, a young and vigorous republic is seen anxiously waiting for the whole carcass. If I ask, "Where shall vitality be sought?" Echo answers "Where?" If I ask, "Where shall I look for hope?" the very breath of the question extinguishes the flickering taper. Who, then, can shadow forth the fate that is reserved for this tropical gem of the ocean, where all around is so dark and louring?... A low voice, borne on a western breeze, whispers in my ear—"I guess I can."
Cuba, farewell!
[Note: The subsequent squabbles between the Cuban authorities and the United States have taken place long since my departure, and are too complicated to enter into without more accurate information than I possess.]
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