on his head, striking it loudly with a short, thick stick, and crying out, "dulces, dulces," – "sweet meats, sweet meats." A panadero (baker) balanced on his cranium a big basket full of rolls, and carried on each arm also a palm-leaved bag full of bread. A tall negress turned a corner, holding a weighty basket, and shouting out at the top of her voice, "Naranges, dulces, naranges, dulces," "sweet oranges, sweet oranges." Soldiers, lottery-ticket venders, and an occasional negro calasero dressed in gorgeous blue jacket, fringed with gold, jack boots reaching to the hips, high silk hat and silver-plated spurs, lent variety to the scene. I soon saw the church of San Carlos, a large building of dark stone, with two lofty towers, one of which had a splendid chime of bells. The edifice within was long and high; its gigantic pillars and great marble altar looked very imposing. When the service was over I returned to my hotel, intending to visit the priests after breakfast. When the meal was despatched, eleven o'clock found me in the presence of Father Francisco de P. Barnada, Cura Vicario Parroco Ecclesiastico, and Phro Jose Saenz, one of his assistants. Being a stranger, the pastor had some slight suspicions about my orthodoxy; but these were soon dispelled when he read my letters of introduction. I could see at once that, though strict, he was a very cheerful, hospitable gentleman. His bright and pleasing features indicated the presence of a brilliant mind and a tender heart. Father Jose Saenz was the life and soul of cheerfulness and kindness. I found myself at home immediately with these excellent priests, and we chatted together very pleasantly for about an hour, on a variety of subjects. Bits of Latin, English and Spanish were our channels of expression. The quarters of the priests were simple, but comfortable, and communicated directly with the church.
On suggesting that I would like to see the famous valley of the Yumuri, Father Barnada had me introduced to an engaging and intelligent young Cuban named Signor Joaquin Mariano, who volunteered at once to accompany me on my ramble.
The most interesting though longest way to the valley is to walk along the banks of the Yumuri River from a point a little above the beautiful bridge near that part of the town called Versailles. Here the costly and grand church of St. Peter's can be seen rising, with its beautiful spires, above every other building. On our way to the valley we were at first obliged to pass objects not very inviting, such as city rubbish, luxuriant weeds, yelping dogs, grunting pigs, tanneries and dilapidated houses; but these soon yielded to grassy lanes, charmingly picturesque little dwellings perched on rocks in regular staircase position, and gardens full of exquisite fruit trees and flowers. The road is now perfectly clean and level, edged on one side by the bright, placid river, and on the other by steep rocks and quarries, in the cool nooks of which large, lovely ferns, air plants, and numerous wild flowers bloom. Here we noticed a handsome private residence, fronted by a stone wall crowned with cacti, and guarded at the rear by stupendous cliffs. Sago and date palms grew near the narrow road. We saw tremendous openings in the bare-ribbed mountains on the other edge of the stream. Pieces of rock overhead looked down like dead sea-lions and quarters of beef. Blossoms of every hue peeped out through the old black rocks beside us; millions of insects rushed pell-mell out of the crevices of the shining stone, and while we looked, the breeze from the rippling river shook millions of neighboring flowers, scattered their perfumes broadcast, and thus afforded us an exquisite treat away from the heat, dust, and noise of the city. Gazing up, we saw birds' nests in the limbs of trees, naked roots of large bushes and vines clinging like net-work to their rocky bed, and century plants growing in profusion where they could scarcely get an inch of soil. These cliffs must have been two hundred feet high, and on looking up one would imagine that the almost disjointed masses of hanging rock would fall down at any moment and crush us to pieces. Turkey buzzards, with their black bodies and pink bills, were screaming overhead on the tops of big limbs, and anxiously looking out for prey. The fair blue sky above looked down on the lines of green, wild shrubs that flourished amid beds of solid rock. Sun and candelabra flowers, big as cups and orange in hue, with stalks like the bananas or Indian corn, sprung out of the cliffs to the height of twenty feet. Morning glories, rare lichens, violets, dresinas, and century plants grew by their side, while the silky Spanish moss, suspended from a higher point, threw a veil of beauty over all. A curve in the walk brought us into the valley. On the other side of the river we saw sand-hills crowned with emerald mountains and groves of palm. The plain, as far as it could be seen, was one sheet of verdure, and the stream widening at this point into a lake, was adorned with woody islands. Birds, breezes and the echoes of the hammer's sound in the quarries supplied natural music. As far as the eye could see, the valley was surrounded by mountains. The lofty, rocky wall continued to the left, exposing to our view its beautiful cream-colored layers of granite, fringed with lichens and ferns, and surrounded by weirdly-carved roots and branches of gray stone. All before us looked charming. The narrow foot-path in the long grass, the wild flowers everywhere, the old kiln, embraced by parasites, convolvulus and jasmines, the brushwood rustling with little reptiles, the flying fish in the stream, an old negro rolling a barrow full of leaves, the Indian mounds having figures of lions and human heads carved out of the rock, the ever-royal palm with its mistletoes and berries, its blood-red tassels on the smooth, hard trunk, its long, feathery leaves, ever falling like ribbons or streamers into various situations by the force of the breeze; all, all looked beautiful. And to add to our delight the sounds of the Angelus from the tower of the church of Monserrat, at the top of the mountain at hand came down on our ears like music from heaven. The mountains around this valley of peace seemed to echo the melodies of God. The cross on the beautiful Corinthian Church, shone between the hills and the sky, reminding us of Him who died for us, and who holds all creation in His hands. All the lovely objects in this tropical vale seemed to murmur His praises. The palms reminded us of His wanderings in the desert, when a child, of His domestic life at Nazareth, and His latter years in and around Jerusalem and Galilee.
Our course now led through winding walks under waving palms, by a house in the rocks, past doves, ducks, chickens, arches, arbors, flowering thickets, wild lime, sour orange and paw-paw trees. We inhaled the most delicious fragrance at every step. On emerging from the glades into an open field, we began to climb the hill to the church of Monserrat. As we ascended, the view of the valley grew wider. Scenes, unobserved from the level, now appeared enriching the picture. We crept rather than walked up the great hill, at one time gazing upon gullies and wells, at another, admiring big beautiful berries, but ever and anon pausing to take in the view of the vale. When the summit of the Cumbre was gained, I felt well rewarded for my toil, for never before did I see a landscape so brimful of poetry and repose. There it lay extending in every direction for miles, bounded on all sides by mountains with picturesque gaps, spurs, peaks and openings; it seemed to me more like a scene in a dream than a reality, – the character of the prospect was so ethereal, a fit retreat for celestials, – lovelier than the most delightful panorama. Still, it was a reality, and not a painting of indescribably happy combinations of contrasts in color, vegetation, lights, shadows, and forms, like the garden of Eden, and far fairer than the happy valley described in Rasselas. The Yumuri River flowed through it looking like a silver thread. Billowy fields of cane, rich pastures, clumps of feathery palms and shrubs with golden flowers adorned the vale. It is like a glimpse of Paradise to see it at sunset.
I turned with regret from this feast of nature, and walked with my companion along the extensive plateau on which the church and other buildings stood. A venerable, mild-looking old gentleman approached us. He was Migael Darna, the sexton and bell-ringer of Monserrat, living like a hermit on the top of the Cumbre. A handsome little boy with dark eyes and coal-black hair accompanied him. This was his son, of whom he seemed to be very fond. At a sign from Migael we entered the church. Its interior, like the outside, was very pretty. Behind the altar and around the side walls of the sanctuary stood a miniature mountain of cork, on the top of which rested a statue of the Blessed Virgin resembling the image supposed to be made by St. Luke, which graces the monastery of Monserrat in Spain. Flowers and gifts of various kinds were attached to the cork by faithful doners. On our way to the tower, I could see from the clever manner in which young Darna played the organ, that on the hills his father had not neglected his musical education.
After gaining the top we beheld a prospect, which, for grandeur and extent, could scarcely be surpassed. The valley to the left looked even more mysteriously enchanting than before, owing to its greater distance and depth. On the right the glorious ocean burst upon us, its blue and green waters in some places as smooth as glass, in others worked up into angry billows. We saw the ships in the bay, the coral