in its streets.

Going down stairs at about eleven o'clock, I find a table set in the
front hall, at the foot of the great staircase, and there, in full view
of all who come or go, the landlord and his entire establishment, except
the slaves and coolies, are at breakfast. This is done every day. At the
cafe round the corner, the family with their white, hired servants,
breakfast and dine in the hall, through which all the customers of the
place must go to the baths, the billiard rooms, and the bowling-alleys.
Fancy the manager of the Astor or Revere, spreading a table for
breakfast and dinner in the great entry, between the office and the
front door, for himself and family and servants!

Yesterday and to-day I noticed in the streets and at work in houses, men
of an Indian complexion, with coarse black hair. I asked if they were
native Indians, or of mixed blood. No, they are the coolies! Their hair,
full grown, and the usual dress of the country which they wore, had not
suggested to me the Chinese; but the shape and expression of the eye
make it plain. These are the victims of the trade, of which we hear so
much. I am told there are 200,000 of them in Cuba, or, that so many have
been imported, and all within seven years. I have met them everywhere,
the newly-arrived, in Chinese costume, with shaved heads, but the
greater number in pantaloons and jackets and straw hats, with hair full
grown. Two of the cooks at our hotel are coolies. I must inform myself
on the subject of this strange development of the domination of capital
over labor. I am told there is a mart of coolies in the Cerro. This I
must see, if it is to be seen.

After dinner drove out to the Jesus del Monte, to deliver my letter of
introduction to the Bishop. The drive, by way of the Calzada de Jesus
del Monte, takes one through a wretched portion, I hope the most
wretched portion, of Havana, by long lines of one story wood and mud
hovels, hardly habitable even for Negroes, and interspersed with an
abundance of drinking shops. The horses, mules, asses, chickens,
children, and grown people use the same door; and the back yards
disclose heaps of rubbish. The looks of the men, the horses tied to the
door-posts, the mules with their panniers of fruits and leaves reaching
to the ground, all speak of Gil Blas, and of what we have read of humble
life in Spain. The little Negro children go stark naked, as innocent of
clothing as the puppies. But this is so all ove