No women are employed in the manufacture except for arranging the cigars in boxes and pasting down the lids with their well-known and brilliantly printed labels. The boxes, which are made of cedar wood, form another important branch of Havanese industry. The Cubans themselves never smoke cigars: they all use cigarettes, which most of them make and roll, with a delicacy and grace peculiar to themselves. It is somewhat remarkable that although the Cubans literally live with a cigarette between their lips—they begin smoking the first thing in the morning, and continue until they go to bed—they seem absolutely impervious to any form of nicotine poisoning. May not its prevalence in European countries be the result of smoking inferior and dirty tobacco? I was much struck, when visiting the various tobacco factories in Havana, with the scrupulous cleanliness everywhere observed. The cigar makers are obliged to wash their hands constantly all through the day, and no dust or dirt is tolerated anywhere.
CHAPTER XII.
An Isle of June—A Contrast.
IT was early on a bright winter morning that our good ship "San Jacinto" steamed into the harbour of Nassau, the capital of New Providence. As I leaned over the side and looked down into the waters over which our vessel moved, I could scarcely believe my eyes. It seemed impossible that water deep enough to float the ship should be so marvellously clear. We appeared to be gliding over a sheet of sea-green crystal. Not a pebble, bit of sponge, shell, fish, crab, or coral, but was distinctly visible, as if but a few inches below the surface. It was like floating in ether, for the glint of shimmering sunlight alone proved it was fluid. But water it was, and nothing else, for, as we neared the wharf, a score or so of dusky forms splashed into the briny mirror, breaking up its glassy surface, sent a spray of diamonds into the air, and then dived into its pellucid depths in quest of coppers liberally scattered by the amused passengers. "Please, Boss, deeve (give) us a small dive," was the entreaty shouted by a good dozen or so of dusky urchins, who, on the least encouragement, jerked off their coats and shirts and plunged into the sea. Sometimes they caught the coin before it touched the bottom, at others the diver remained quite a time searching for his prize, looking, as seen from above, with his wriggling arms and legs, like a huge black spider.
When Christopher Columbus landed on the shores of "Guanahanè," on October 17th, 1492, and named the present island of New Providence San Salvador, he wrote a letter to the Spanish Sovereigns, full of his usual expressions of delighted enthusiasm. "The loveliness," says he, "of this island is like unto that of the Campaña de Cordoba. The trees are all covered with ever-verdant foliage, and perpetually laden with flowers or fruit. The plants in the ground are full of blossom. The breezes are like those of April in Castille." Due allowance made for the exaggeration of an explorer, in love with the treasure he has found, it must still be confessed that his words, all glowing as they are, scarcely overpraise the charm of the peaceful scenery which so stirred his poetic ardour. For truly the Bahamas are islands like unto that chosen by Shakespeare for the scene of the "Tempest,"—
"Full of infinite delight."
New Providence is about twenty miles long by seven in breadth, and is the most important, though by no means the biggest, of the Bahama group, which numbers over 600 islands and cays, and contains some 45,000 inhabitants, of whom 20,000 reside in Nassau and its neighbourhood.
The history of the island since its discovery by Columbus, down through the Buccaneer period, is only interesting to its government and inhabitants. However dark may be the memories of its old pirate days, it is now a remarkably respectable place, not even a murder having thrown a shadow during the past twenty-five years on its nearly untarnished reputation. It would be difficult to imagine a quieter spot. On Sundays, especially, is it peaceful, when not only all the shops, but the majority of the house-shutters also, are closed, and the tranquil air is laden with church music of the most sober and orthodox description.
The impression produced upon the tourist arriving from Cuba is very striking, for it brings the different influences of the Spanish and the Anglo-Saxon races, upon the negroes, into vivid contrast. Personal observation only can, as I have already said, give any idea of the filth of the dwellings of the lower classes of Cubans, and especially of the blacks. The coloured folk of Nassau are, generally speaking, clean and tidy. Most of the Cuban towns are more or less squalid. The city of Nassau is, if anything, too prim, and its inhabitants are models of order both in their dress and habits. A glance reveals the fact that the coloured people here have been disciplined and trained by a race which is as certainly superior to the Spanish, in all that concerns practicality and common sense, as it is inferior to it in natural artistic instinct. I never saw anything—no, not even in the Whitechapel and Drury Lane districts of London—to surpass the unutterable disorder and general abomination of the interiors of the Cuban cottages. But as you pass along the roads at Nassau, and glance into the windows of the negroes' cottages, you will almost invariably see tidy interiors worthy of the brush of a Teniers or a David Wilkie; a floor on which you could eat your dinner; walls neatly papered with framed chromos symmetrically arranged upon them; spotless curtains; shining brass lamps and cooking utensils, and a bed covered with a counterpane as white as driven snow. If you peep in at meal times you will note a clean cloth covered with orderly-arranged plates and dishes. I am speaking of the dwellings of the negroes, of those self-same coloured people who, in the same climate, only a day and a half's journey away, in Cuba, dwell, under another race and civilization, in a condition too nasty to be described here.
Straws show how the wind blows. I saw a poor coloured woman, the day after I arrived in Nassau, soundly box her little girl's ears because she appeared in public with a few fluffs of cotton sticking in her wool. The ordinary afternoon occupation of the coloured ladies in Havana is to sit in the shade of the big plantain leaves, picking something rather more animated than cotton fluffs off each other's heads. The Cuban negresses dress flaringly. They trail a yard of skirt behind them in the dust, cover their shoulders with a vivid embroidered China crape scarf, and deck their heads with a mantilla. The effect is picturesque enough, but look down at their ankles, and you will soon perceive untidy petticoats and shoeless feet. The coloured girls at Nassau are remarkably neat and clean, especially on Sundays. The influence of the Sunday school teacher, preaching, and not in the desert, the gospel of those four great evangelists, soap and water, comb and brush, is everywhere manifest, even to the detriment of the picturesque.
As you drive through Grant's Town, the negro quarter of Nassau, you see so much to gladden you that it does more real good to an invalid than many a cunningly-prepared draught. Charmingly picturesque wooden huts, thatched with palmetto, and as neat as you please, overshadowed by cocoa-nut-trees and exquisite flowering creepers, border either side of the road. On the thresholds are laughing groups of women and children of every shade of black, mahogany, and "yullar." Then, when the shades of evening grow long and deep in the thickets of the banyan-trees, coloured Pyramus courts coloured Thisbe over the garden wall, and the roads swarm with little darkies, romping, laughing, and chasing each other round and about, whilst neatly-dressed women, standing at their doors, or leaning out of their open windows, watch the return of their "men," as they boldly call their husbands. The air is still and laden with the penetrating perfume of the stephanotis, the white blossoms of which gleam like stars amidst the dark foliage, and of the crimson and pink oleander, which flowers here to great perfection. It is difficult to imagine a more peaceful scene—the cheerful sounds of greeting, the merry chatter of the negroes, the tuning of the banjoes, whilst overhead the beautiful sunset-lit clouds shed rosy tints abroad, and set forth in bold relief the tall stems of the waving palms and of the strange-named trees, whose bizarre foliage arouses wonderment, and between whose gnarled boughs we catch glimpses of the high-roofed houses of the city, of the cathedral spire, and of a sea blue as a turquoise, now shivering beneath the gentlest of breezes.