The Sugar Estate: Canto I Poem by Juan Francisco Manzano

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
You're not accustomed to these roads of ours;
Our ways, indeed, are not so smooth as yours,
But still they serve for us, we make them do,
We are not fond of anything that's new.
You seem fatigued-you'll find your room prepared,
I quite regret you have so badly fared;
But since I can't prevail on you to stay,
And spend with us another lonely day,
You may depend you shall be called at four,
And find your horses saddled at the door!