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With the queen city of Western Ind just disappearing
from sight, and the Castle of the Moro visible
like a gray speck against the back-ground of the blue
hills of Cuba, I retire to my state-room to collect my
thoughts, and write you a few pages of a letter.

The scenery, which is yet visible from the port by
which I sit, is beautiful exceedingly. The azure outline
of the sunny Isle reclines in majestic repose, like a
mighty lion, his form half concealed in the green bosom
of the sea. About the frowning Moro floats the smoke
of cannon, fired to salute an American ship-of-war, which
entered as we passed out.

Around us are the white sails of full thirty vessels,
ships, and brigs, and schooners, steering in all ways;
though most of them, like ourselves, are just out of
Havana, and are stretching away to the northward and
eastwardly.

You will expect me, I dare say, to give you some account
of what I saw in Havana. But the “letter writers”
have filled the papers with everything, until Havana is
now as well known to Americans as New York. If I
spoke of my brief visit, (for it lasted but a day,) I should
write of pure, soft skies of mingled gold and green—of

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delightful breezes—of tall cocoa and palm trees like
kings and queens of the vegetable kingdom, standing
gloriously upon hill tops and upon the crests of cliffs, and
waving their superb feathers in the passing breeze—of a
great castle, gray and old, and dreadfully frowning,
hanging from a rock like a giant's eyebrow, with cannon
beneath, flashing like eyes—and long lines of open-mouthed
guns belching forth fire and blue smoke—of
dark visaged soldiers, dressed very much in red, and
fierce with terrific moustaches—of police-boats, boarding
us, filled with blue-coated, black-eyed Spanish officers, as
polite as French dancing-masters in bodily gesticulations,
but looking very dislikable and disliking out of
their eyes—of narrow streets—of half-clad Guinea
negroes crowding the pier—of guards and military display—
of huge-wheeled volantes and gaudily-harnessed
mules and postillions, with boots a yard high—of small-sized
Spanish generals—of thin-visaged Spanish colonels—
and of great pomp, and show, and trumpets, and guns,
and cigar smoke, and cigar shops, everywhere—&c., &c.

The ladies rode out three on a seat, in open, odd-looking
carriages (volantes), wore no bonnets, but had
their hair superbly dressed, while they were richly attired,
as if for a ball. I did not see the “Paseo” outside
of the city, where everybody rides and walks—the
“Battery” of Havana—as we had no time; but I had
pointed out to me the fortified hill “Antares,” on which
the devoted Crittenden—who will yet be remembered as
the Pulaski of Cuba—with his fifty companions in arms
met his dreadful fate. Oh! what a fearful responsibility
in taking away the life of a man which God gave! God,
on one side, giving; man—little, insignificant man, on

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the other side, taking away! To destroy what we cannot
replace is a weighty matter. To destroy, when we know
not what we destroy, is the act of madness and folly.
Who knows what he does when he kills a man? Who
knows what life is? I think all killing, whether by the
assassin or by the law, equally dreadful. Why kill a
man to punish him? It is no punishment to the dead.
I do hope that the day is not far distant when humanity
will rise superior to this relic of barbarism, “execution
of wrong-doers,” and that they may be permitted to
live in confinement until they die “by the visitation of
God.”

The city of Havana has a very interesting aspect to a
Yankee eye. It is so foreign, and unlike any thing we
have in the United States. One must certainly go from
home to see the world—but at Havana, one not only sees
the world, but more, too!

The warlike appearance of the entrance to the harbor
reminds me of a pair of bull-dogs, crouching and showing
their teeth at all corners. What a grand sight a warship
is, with its rows of cannon looking so meaningly
forth from the yawning port-holes, her tall black masts,
and yards, and lofty battle-walls of oak! One passed
us two hours ago, and seemed to move as if she were the
very empress of the sea. Over her quarter-deck floated
the red flag of England, with its double-cross—a fearful-looking
ensign when I recalled its associations. Once,
to American eyes, that flag was the flag of the foe—and
hateful and detested. Against it, Paul Jones the brave
hurled his iron shot—and the gallant Preble, and Perry,
and Hull, and Bainbridge, fought against and conquered
it. As the insignia of conquerors, it waved above the

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trees of Boston Common, floated above the Battery in
New York, flashed in the morning sun above the tower
of the old State House in Philadelphia, and even cast its
dread shadow down upon the dome of the Capitol at
Washington. I could not but watch it with interest;
but when I glanced above our own decks, and beheld the
brilliant stars and stripes waving in the upper air in folds
of beauty, I thought, too, of its glories, and my heart
bounded with pride, and I could not help mentally apostrophizing
the red flag of Great Britain in this fashion:—
“Thou hast hitherto ruled the wave, Britannia, but
the day is near when these starry belts shall float, not
only over the seas of the globe, but over its broad continents,
and the sceptres of the nations shall do homage
thereto.”

Oh! who can predict the glory of our mighty empire
of republics, Mr. —? Adelante! adelante! onward
and forward for ever is its destiny, if its rulers fear God,
and the people are virtuous and true to themselves. It
is said by some one, that history always revolves in circles;
at each vast revolution of centuries bringing back
again the same or like scenes, events, circumstances, and
issues. No doubt this is true, and that the mighty circles
of American history will bring round its “decay and
fall of the American Republics” in the course of time.
Southey has said finely, but I hope not truly, that “the
Republics of the United States are splendid fragments
out of which future kingdoms and empires are to be
created.”

Speaking of the destiny of my country, forces upon
my mind the recollection of Clay, Calhoun, and Webster!
Living, they formed a large portion of our glory

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and honor as a nation before the nations. Dead, we
have fallen before the nations, just so far as their great
names, and deeds, and splendid fame raised us. Alas!
for my native land! Who can wield the helm of state,
or fill the Senate with wisdom needed, surpassing that
which Rome or Greece ever knew? Who shall be Webster?
who shall be Clay? who shall be Calhoun?—in the
next Senate, and the Senates after? Far down the defiles
of time the voice of inquiry shall pass, ere echo answers,
“Behold him here!”

Has it ever occurred to you, sir, that these three
mighty men—these three intellectual “Sons of Anak”—
represented, personally, mentally, and in all things national,
the three great divisions of the Union? New
England and the North were embodied in Webster! the
West was personified and incarnate in Clay! the South
in Calhoun! Thus, the North, South, and West, were
personated by an intellectual incarnation of its own peculiar
character in these three men. Each showed the
characteristics of the division of the Union from which
he sprung. The South could never have produced Webster—
nor the North, Calhoun—nor the West, either of
them—nor either of these, Clay. This idea is worth
reflecting upon, and would be a good theme for some
eloquent pen.

But I am making a long letter; and as evening is
coming on, and as every body is exclaiming about the
Bahama Islands being in sight, I must stop, and go to
see these pearls in the belt of old Neptune.

p613-404

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