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THE CUBA REVIEW 



FINE PEN PICTURES OF CUBA'S UNRIVALLED SCENERY 



THE STORY OF THE SOUTH COAST. ITS HARBORS AND CITIES 



"On the South coast of Oriente Province, 

 steaming north, a tall tower marks the point 

 of the Holy Cross — the Santa Cruz light. It 

 is not one of our wise lighthouses of to-day, 

 but one of those stately, lonely towers of 

 stone, smooth and unrelieved to the very top, 

 such as we had in our childhood books, telling 

 of shipwrecks and deeds of heroism. It was 

 built there a century ago by the Spanish and 

 has the dignity of an hidalgo as it marks the 

 end of the Cuban archipelago of reefs and 

 keys and the beginning of the solid chain of 

 sierras that climb above 8,000 feet and runs 

 in grandeur on beyond Santiago to dwindle 

 away toward Guantanamo. 



The same Spanish dignity was in the old 

 gentleman in black clothing and Panama hat 

 came forth from a cottage near the lighthouse 

 to pilot the ship to Manzanillo. He and a 

 beautiful dnrk-eyed boy handled the frail sail- 

 boat with an easy skill, so different from the 

 rugged violence used by the Norsemen of 

 the steamer's crew. The pilot boat was 

 trussed up to the steamer's side and in the 

 purple twilight the vessel drove farther and 

 farther among the unhghted keys till with a 

 shrug and a regret the Spaniard ordered the 

 anchor down for the night. 



And what a night. A limped, purple night, 

 above, below, around, with the moon a pale 

 green yellow and the steamer's light a ruddy 

 orange, giving value to the heavenly lilac. 

 Till midnight a sailor lay on a coil of rope and 

 played the mandolin — not loudly, but just 

 tinkling the strings, and yet one would have 

 wagered that in such perfect silence the music 

 must have gone on and on until it reached 

 some sympathetic ear. 



When the sun set the next day, we slipped 

 into a tiny cleft in the hills, passed a quick 

 flashing light, and anchored before a broad 

 and beautiful necklace of lights that was 

 Santiago de Cuba. 



In the morning the ship lay in the most 

 wonderful mist-filled bowl, which God seemed 

 to have formed out of mountains, for a perfect 

 harbor. The city of white and pink and yel- 

 low and blue stucco rises up the slope of the 

 high hill against a background of sierras, over 

 which, in the morning light, clouds were pour- 

 ing in a mighty cataract. The sun, quickly 

 at work with his color magic, threw dashes 

 of pure pigment among the vapor depths, and 

 soon the resplendent city was mirroring her 

 terraced heights in the harbor basin, on whose 

 surface little sailboats were skimming, and 

 where sundry hulking and reposeful steamers 

 lay at anchor. For once we must go ashore 

 here, for Santiago is not a place that can be 

 passed by unnoticed — not more than could 

 a radiantly beautiful woman. Havana, once 

 the typical Spanish city of America, is now 

 losing much of its exotic character, just as 

 New Orleans has lost most of hers, and so now 

 the palm rest with Santiago, as yet unblem- 



ished by the Anglo-Saxon admixture, and true 

 to type, just as the inhabitants are true to the 

 Spanish customs. Not, either, is the place 

 one of decayed grandeur, and picturesque re- 

 mains, but is one of prosperity and joy, with 

 a brilliant present and a radiant future. The 

 bubonic plague has done for Santiago what it 

 is doing for New Orleans — rendering it a city 

 scrupulously clean and wholesome, and its 

 streets, climbing and descending and crossing 

 the hills, are such a color delight as is not to 

 be found equaled, unless it be by Panama 

 City, Panama's churches are more beautiful, 

 but even her bright streets are drab and dull 

 beside those of Santiago de Cuba. The mar- 

 ket alone is worth pages. High on its terrace, 

 it overlooks the city and harbor, and at its 

 quaint and shaded halfway station is a yard 

 where stand the panniered packmules driven 

 in from the mountains with the many fruits 

 of the earth. 



I will not tell of the romantic barred win- 

 dows with which every house is adorned in 

 every charming fantasy of grill work. The 

 pleasiu"e would lead one too far astray. Nor 

 will I attempt to describe the floral luxury of 

 the city and the exquisite effect of the palms 

 among the tiled roofs. 



The narrow "callejones" running down pre- 

 cipitous hillsides, where more conventional 

 streets are impossible, show vistas to delight 

 an artist's soul, and from point to point some 

 thoroughfare will emerge upon a terrace, 

 whence the view embraces the entire circle of 

 mountains and the splendid harbor, where 

 Admiral Cervera's fleet awaited the fateful 

 hour when it would make its truly noble dash 

 toward liberty or death. 



All this we leave quickly behind and glide 

 again upon the Caribbean to dream and paint 

 sky pictures all the way to the Isle of Pines. 

 There all is bustle and business, while Ameri- 

 cans with strong nasal accents, load many 

 thousand crates of perfect grapefruit upon the 

 vessel and tell how 98% of the island is owned 

 by Americans. Only the commander of the 

 port, a handsome, aloof and somewhat sad 

 Spaniard, is there to prove that this island is 

 still Cuban territory. Yes, there is one other 

 evidence: a primitive bark has brought fruit 

 from some distant point, and the sailors 

 grouped beside the mast have all the appear- 

 ance of some early painting of the fishermen 

 of Galilee, while the one standing at the helm 

 has the silhouette of the Saviour. I called 

 the resemblance to the notice of one of the 

 inhabitants. "Strange," he said, "the man 

 at the helm is named Jesus of Mary." 



At one o'clock in the morning with that 

 full round moon the only object disturbing the 

 immensity of the purple heaven, we steamed 

 away from the Isle of Pines, rounded the 

 Cuban point, and headed northward toward 

 New Orleans. — Robert B. Mayfield in the 

 New Orleans Picayune. 



