There are plantations and plantations in Cuba, just as there are country houses and country houses in England: some (I am speaking of the island before the present rebellion) are magnificent; others are distinctly rough and tumbledown. The first sugar plantation I had the pleasure of visiting was situated some miles from Havana, and belonged to an American gentleman. The approach to the family residence (_casa de vivienda_) was through handsome iron gates and an apparently interminable avenue of magnificent Royal palms, which, by the way, although they produced a most imposing effect, on account of the exceeding height of the vault of deep green foliage, suspended some eighty to ninety feet above our heads, afforded little or no shade, for their superb trunks are as straight as darts, and as smooth as so many greased poles at an old-fashioned English country fair. In front of the very large one-storied house was an open space, converted into a garden by our charming hostess, a Bostonian lady, devoted to floriculture. It was, I remember, conspicuous for the number of its immense bushes of flaming hibiscus, then in full and glorious bloom. Hiding modestly in the shade were some homely pale pink roses, which had been imported from New England, and which, I was assured, required the greatest possible care. Their sweetness seemed not a little overpowered by their gorgeous and sturdy rivals, whose vivid flowers were as large as the crown of my Panama hat. The drive up to the house was fenced in by perfect walls of orange trees, whose strongly scented starlike blossoms mingled with the ripe and golden fruit. On either side of the door were the finest banana plants I have ever seen, their velvety leaves being fully ten to fifteen feet in length. At the door stood our host and hostess, eager to welcome us with true American cordiality. Mr G---- insisted upon our taking a cocktail there and then, and a most refreshing and grateful beverage it proved to be, after our long and dusty drive. The hall of this _hacienda_, an enormous apartment, with a highly polished floor, served also for drawing-room and place of general meeting. It was most beautifully furnished, and at every turn the careful supervision of a woman of culture was evident. Here were immense Chinese vases full of fresh cut flowers, trailing boughs of the golden trumpet vine, huge bunches of the peacock acacia, and other specimens of brilliant tropical bloom, such as my eyes had never rested on before.