Buried with Julio Chassagne
The Weekly News.
Marksville, Louisiana
1 June 1940
Page 3
BIOGRAPHIES
BY ROSS PHARES
HIS SONGS INSPIRED A REVOLUTION.
History books have told in detail of Cuba's heroic struggle for independence, a much longer and more bitter conflict than the American Revolution; but the accounts of campaigns, generals and statesmen have overshadowed the courageous story of Leopoldo Turla, a poet who gave his life, home and fortune to the cause.
Turla came of the aristocracy. And because he wrote poetry that kept the discouraged, miserably equipped Cuban army marching, singing and fighting when there seemed no hope, his estate was confiscated, he was exiled and finally died in poverty.
Louisiana claims Leopoldo Turla among her illustrious, for it was in New Orleans that he wrote some of the best poetry and after twenty-five years stay there was buried in a New Orleans grave.
Turla was born in Havana in 1815, at the time when the mighty Spanish empire was blazing in all its splendor of wealth and power, a magnificent, dazzling period of luxury and ease and lavish entertainment. Gold from the mines of the West seemed [inexhaustible]. The rich soil, favorable climate and cheap labor made the expansive haciendas of Cuba veritable gold mines themselves. The upper class lived sumptuously, indeed, so pretentiously that the courts of many homes were inlaid with gold.
But this dreamy island of soft breezes and enchanting moonlight, eternal fruit and flowers, had its miseries. Here, where the soil hardly knows depth, where fruit and grain and stock grow almost without attention, there was starvation, and nakedness. Men worked without rest or pay, died young without medical attention...and were persecuted for complaining.
Promises gave hop of relief. And purely by faith and stamina men carried on until they broke under the strain and clamored against the system that robbed them, and then were crushed because they were weak men who spoke.
This is the world Leopoldo Turla viewed from his palatial mansion. Turla was of pure Castilian blood, an aristocrat by birth and training, but in his soul was a poet's sympathy, understanding and observation, a human strain that gave him a love for humanity, and an appreciation of its simple cravings and longings.
A book of poems in 1846 set men to thinking strange and daring thoughts. Turla wrote of a better and happier land, of a philosophy that caused poor men to dream and then smile at their own visions.
He wrote plays, and he contributed recklessly to the newspapers; and soon his phrases and verses were on the lips of Cubans from one end of the island to the other. He openly called upon his countrymen to arm themselves and fight the tyrant that suppressed them.
And then men rose by the hundreds, as if out of the very soil of the country. They were a ragged, half starved, untrained lot, without guns or ammunition. But the fight had started, and for nearly two generations it continued.
In 1850 Turla had to flee the island, a refugee now without a home, money or property. From his modest home in New Orleans he continued to compose verses that kept the cause of liberty and independence flaming in his native land.
But he never lived to see his dream of a liberated Cuba come true. He died in 1877. Many descendants of Leopoldo Turla live yet in old New Orleans.
The Times-Picayune.
21 March 1877
Page 4
DIED.
TURLA - On Tuesday, March 20, 1877, at 3 A. M., SENOR LEOPOLDO TURLA, a native of Havana, Cuba, aged 62 years, and a resident of this city for the last 25 years.
His friends and also those of his family are respectfully invited to attend his funeral, which will take place from his late residence, No. 579 St. Claude street, on Wednesday, the 21st inst., at 4 P. M.
22 March 1877
Page 4
TURLA THE POET.
Death has struck a shining mark. Leopoldo Turla, a gentleman whom we considered foremost among the Spanish-American poets of the day, died on Tuesday last, obscure and unknown, in our midst. He was gifted with genius and with a fiery eloquence, through which a thread of reflection ran, like the silken cord of Franklin, bringing the fire of the skies to earth, to bless the world and brighten it.
We knew him well, and think that a word touching his career may not be uninteresting to our readers. Turla was born in the city of Havana, and at the time of his demise was sixty-two years of age. He was early distinguished for his poetical genius and the wonderful depth and range of language which characterized his college exercises, and every one who knew him soon perceived that he was born for a lofty mission - to be the poet, the educator, the unpurchaseable advocate of truth, justice and the independence of his native country.
A poet of a very noble order, he despised inflated sentiment. False tracks and studied application of white handkerchief to the eyes he scorned. His noble thoughts were embodied in beautiful and many colored words, and his enthusiasm was mellowed by remarkable resources of scholarship and a thorough appreciation of art.
His first volume of poems which he named "Rafagas del Tropico," appeared in 1946, and showed the author to be a poet by nature. Vigor, strength and feeling were his characteristics. The deceased then devoted his attention to the drama, and wrote several plays, which were performed with great success. He afterwards became connected with the Havana press, and in 1950 was compelled to leave the island owing to the persecution of the Spanish Government. Turla was one of the followers of Gen. Narcisco Lopea, and had written numerous patriotic songs, calling the people to arms in defense of the political freedom and independence of Cuba.
After residing in Charleston, S. C., and Savannah, Ga., for one or two years, he settled in New Orleans, where he continued writing for the Cuban press. In th eland of his exile he looked at the Mississippi without shuddering; but not without recollecting the Almendares to the detriment of the other.
When he read his patriotic poems arrows of flame shot through his blood. His impassioned words fell like drops of fire on the heart of his hearers, his bold eye flashed and his lip quivered with scorn and hatred. There was a deep music in his poetry, melancholy and solemn, like the sound of the waves as it might be heard in "an old house by the sea."
Turla was of medium size, well shaped with a fine, expressive, pale face, glittering black eyes, and a resolute, firm mouth. You could not look at him for a moment without perceiving that, whatever his defects might be, he was a spirited man, who would not do a mean action, although for the freedom of his country he might not hesitate at a crime. When death struck him he had just commenced the translation into Spanish of "The Voice of the Silence," a brilliant poem by Mr. William Winter, the renowned critic of the New York Tribune, whom the deceased always admired as a genuine and inspired poet.
The Cuban bard is dead, and they who knew him and loved him will know him no more for ever; but there will be sore hearts in the land of his birth when they hear of his death. As Carlyle says, he has pitched his tent under a cypress tree; the tomb is now his inexpugnable fortress; in poverty he will no longer dye the flinty ground with his blood sorrow and oppression cannot harm him anymore!
The Weekly News.
Marksville, Louisiana
1 June 1940
Page 3
BIOGRAPHIES
BY ROSS PHARES
HIS SONGS INSPIRED A REVOLUTION.
History books have told in detail of Cuba's heroic struggle for independence, a much longer and more bitter conflict than the American Revolution; but the accounts of campaigns, generals and statesmen have overshadowed the courageous story of Leopoldo Turla, a poet who gave his life, home and fortune to the cause.
Turla came of the aristocracy. And because he wrote poetry that kept the discouraged, miserably equipped Cuban army marching, singing and fighting when there seemed no hope, his estate was confiscated, he was exiled and finally died in poverty.
Louisiana claims Leopoldo Turla among her illustrious, for it was in New Orleans that he wrote some of the best poetry and after twenty-five years stay there was buried in a New Orleans grave.
Turla was born in Havana in 1815, at the time when the mighty Spanish empire was blazing in all its splendor of wealth and power, a magnificent, dazzling period of luxury and ease and lavish entertainment. Gold from the mines of the West seemed [inexhaustible]. The rich soil, favorable climate and cheap labor made the expansive haciendas of Cuba veritable gold mines themselves. The upper class lived sumptuously, indeed, so pretentiously that the courts of many homes were inlaid with gold.
But this dreamy island of soft breezes and enchanting moonlight, eternal fruit and flowers, had its miseries. Here, where the soil hardly knows depth, where fruit and grain and stock grow almost without attention, there was starvation, and nakedness. Men worked without rest or pay, died young without medical attention...and were persecuted for complaining.
Promises gave hop of relief. And purely by faith and stamina men carried on until they broke under the strain and clamored against the system that robbed them, and then were crushed because they were weak men who spoke.
This is the world Leopoldo Turla viewed from his palatial mansion. Turla was of pure Castilian blood, an aristocrat by birth and training, but in his soul was a poet's sympathy, understanding and observation, a human strain that gave him a love for humanity, and an appreciation of its simple cravings and longings.
A book of poems in 1846 set men to thinking strange and daring thoughts. Turla wrote of a better and happier land, of a philosophy that caused poor men to dream and then smile at their own visions.
He wrote plays, and he contributed recklessly to the newspapers; and soon his phrases and verses were on the lips of Cubans from one end of the island to the other. He openly called upon his countrymen to arm themselves and fight the tyrant that suppressed them.
And then men rose by the hundreds, as if out of the very soil of the country. They were a ragged, half starved, untrained lot, without guns or ammunition. But the fight had started, and for nearly two generations it continued.
In 1850 Turla had to flee the island, a refugee now without a home, money or property. From his modest home in New Orleans he continued to compose verses that kept the cause of liberty and independence flaming in his native land.
But he never lived to see his dream of a liberated Cuba come true. He died in 1877. Many descendants of Leopoldo Turla live yet in old New Orleans.
The Times-Picayune.
21 March 1877
Page 4
DIED.
TURLA - On Tuesday, March 20, 1877, at 3 A. M., SENOR LEOPOLDO TURLA, a native of Havana, Cuba, aged 62 years, and a resident of this city for the last 25 years.
His friends and also those of his family are respectfully invited to attend his funeral, which will take place from his late residence, No. 579 St. Claude street, on Wednesday, the 21st inst., at 4 P. M.
22 March 1877
Page 4
TURLA THE POET.
Death has struck a shining mark. Leopoldo Turla, a gentleman whom we considered foremost among the Spanish-American poets of the day, died on Tuesday last, obscure and unknown, in our midst. He was gifted with genius and with a fiery eloquence, through which a thread of reflection ran, like the silken cord of Franklin, bringing the fire of the skies to earth, to bless the world and brighten it.
We knew him well, and think that a word touching his career may not be uninteresting to our readers. Turla was born in the city of Havana, and at the time of his demise was sixty-two years of age. He was early distinguished for his poetical genius and the wonderful depth and range of language which characterized his college exercises, and every one who knew him soon perceived that he was born for a lofty mission - to be the poet, the educator, the unpurchaseable advocate of truth, justice and the independence of his native country.
A poet of a very noble order, he despised inflated sentiment. False tracks and studied application of white handkerchief to the eyes he scorned. His noble thoughts were embodied in beautiful and many colored words, and his enthusiasm was mellowed by remarkable resources of scholarship and a thorough appreciation of art.
His first volume of poems which he named "Rafagas del Tropico," appeared in 1946, and showed the author to be a poet by nature. Vigor, strength and feeling were his characteristics. The deceased then devoted his attention to the drama, and wrote several plays, which were performed with great success. He afterwards became connected with the Havana press, and in 1950 was compelled to leave the island owing to the persecution of the Spanish Government. Turla was one of the followers of Gen. Narcisco Lopea, and had written numerous patriotic songs, calling the people to arms in defense of the political freedom and independence of Cuba.
After residing in Charleston, S. C., and Savannah, Ga., for one or two years, he settled in New Orleans, where he continued writing for the Cuban press. In th eland of his exile he looked at the Mississippi without shuddering; but not without recollecting the Almendares to the detriment of the other.
When he read his patriotic poems arrows of flame shot through his blood. His impassioned words fell like drops of fire on the heart of his hearers, his bold eye flashed and his lip quivered with scorn and hatred. There was a deep music in his poetry, melancholy and solemn, like the sound of the waves as it might be heard in "an old house by the sea."
Turla was of medium size, well shaped with a fine, expressive, pale face, glittering black eyes, and a resolute, firm mouth. You could not look at him for a moment without perceiving that, whatever his defects might be, he was a spirited man, who would not do a mean action, although for the freedom of his country he might not hesitate at a crime. When death struck him he had just commenced the translation into Spanish of "The Voice of the Silence," a brilliant poem by Mr. William Winter, the renowned critic of the New York Tribune, whom the deceased always admired as a genuine and inspired poet.
The Cuban bard is dead, and they who knew him and loved him will know him no more for ever; but there will be sore hearts in the land of his birth when they hear of his death. As Carlyle says, he has pitched his tent under a cypress tree; the tomb is now his inexpugnable fortress; in poverty he will no longer dye the flinty ground with his blood sorrow and oppression cannot harm him anymore!
Buried with Julio Chassagne
The Weekly News.
Marksville, Louisiana
1 June 1940
Page 3
BIOGRAPHIES
BY ROSS PHARES
HIS SONGS INSPIRED A REVOLUTION.
History books have told in detail of Cuba's heroic struggle for independence, a much longer and more bitter conflict than the American Revolution; but the accounts of campaigns, generals and statesmen have overshadowed the courageous story of Leopoldo Turla, a poet who gave his life, home and fortune to the cause.
Turla came of the aristocracy. And because he wrote poetry that kept the discouraged, miserably equipped Cuban army marching, singing and fighting when there seemed no hope, his estate was confiscated, he was exiled and finally died in poverty.
Louisiana claims Leopoldo Turla among her illustrious, for it was in New Orleans that he wrote some of the best poetry and after twenty-five years stay there was buried in a New Orleans grave.
Turla was born in Havana in 1815, at the time when the mighty Spanish empire was blazing in all its splendor of wealth and power, a magnificent, dazzling period of luxury and ease and lavish entertainment. Gold from the mines of the West seemed [inexhaustible]. The rich soil, favorable climate and cheap labor made the expansive haciendas of Cuba veritable gold mines themselves. The upper class lived sumptuously, indeed, so pretentiously that the courts of many homes were inlaid with gold.
But this dreamy island of soft breezes and enchanting moonlight, eternal fruit and flowers, had its miseries. Here, where the soil hardly knows depth, where fruit and grain and stock grow almost without attention, there was starvation, and nakedness. Men worked without rest or pay, died young without medical attention...and were persecuted for complaining.
Promises gave hop of relief. And purely by faith and stamina men carried on until they broke under the strain and clamored against the system that robbed them, and then were crushed because they were weak men who spoke.
This is the world Leopoldo Turla viewed from his palatial mansion. Turla was of pure Castilian blood, an aristocrat by birth and training, but in his soul was a poet's sympathy, understanding and observation, a human strain that gave him a love for humanity, and an appreciation of its simple cravings and longings.
A book of poems in 1846 set men to thinking strange and daring thoughts. Turla wrote of a better and happier land, of a philosophy that caused poor men to dream and then smile at their own visions.
He wrote plays, and he contributed recklessly to the newspapers; and soon his phrases and verses were on the lips of Cubans from one end of the island to the other. He openly called upon his countrymen to arm themselves and fight the tyrant that suppressed them.
And then men rose by the hundreds, as if out of the very soil of the country. They were a ragged, half starved, untrained lot, without guns or ammunition. But the fight had started, and for nearly two generations it continued.
In 1850 Turla had to flee the island, a refugee now without a home, money or property. From his modest home in New Orleans he continued to compose verses that kept the cause of liberty and independence flaming in his native land.
But he never lived to see his dream of a liberated Cuba come true. He died in 1877. Many descendants of Leopoldo Turla live yet in old New Orleans.
The Times-Picayune.
21 March 1877
Page 4
DIED.
TURLA - On Tuesday, March 20, 1877, at 3 A. M., SENOR LEOPOLDO TURLA, a native of Havana, Cuba, aged 62 years, and a resident of this city for the last 25 years.
His friends and also those of his family are respectfully invited to attend his funeral, which will take place from his late residence, No. 579 St. Claude street, on Wednesday, the 21st inst., at 4 P. M.
22 March 1877
Page 4
TURLA THE POET.
Death has struck a shining mark. Leopoldo Turla, a gentleman whom we considered foremost among the Spanish-American poets of the day, died on Tuesday last, obscure and unknown, in our midst. He was gifted with genius and with a fiery eloquence, through which a thread of reflection ran, like the silken cord of Franklin, bringing the fire of the skies to earth, to bless the world and brighten it.
We knew him well, and think that a word touching his career may not be uninteresting to our readers. Turla was born in the city of Havana, and at the time of his demise was sixty-two years of age. He was early distinguished for his poetical genius and the wonderful depth and range of language which characterized his college exercises, and every one who knew him soon perceived that he was born for a lofty mission - to be the poet, the educator, the unpurchaseable advocate of truth, justice and the independence of his native country.
A poet of a very noble order, he despised inflated sentiment. False tracks and studied application of white handkerchief to the eyes he scorned. His noble thoughts were embodied in beautiful and many colored words, and his enthusiasm was mellowed by remarkable resources of scholarship and a thorough appreciation of art.
His first volume of poems which he named "Rafagas del Tropico," appeared in 1946, and showed the author to be a poet by nature. Vigor, strength and feeling were his characteristics. The deceased then devoted his attention to the drama, and wrote several plays, which were performed with great success. He afterwards became connected with the Havana press, and in 1950 was compelled to leave the island owing to the persecution of the Spanish Government. Turla was one of the followers of Gen. Narcisco Lopea, and had written numerous patriotic songs, calling the people to arms in defense of the political freedom and independence of Cuba.
After residing in Charleston, S. C., and Savannah, Ga., for one or two years, he settled in New Orleans, where he continued writing for the Cuban press. In th eland of his exile he looked at the Mississippi without shuddering; but not without recollecting the Almendares to the detriment of the other.
When he read his patriotic poems arrows of flame shot through his blood. His impassioned words fell like drops of fire on the heart of his hearers, his bold eye flashed and his lip quivered with scorn and hatred. There was a deep music in his poetry, melancholy and solemn, like the sound of the waves as it might be heard in "an old house by the sea."
Turla was of medium size, well shaped with a fine, expressive, pale face, glittering black eyes, and a resolute, firm mouth. You could not look at him for a moment without perceiving that, whatever his defects might be, he was a spirited man, who would not do a mean action, although for the freedom of his country he might not hesitate at a crime. When death struck him he had just commenced the translation into Spanish of "The Voice of the Silence," a brilliant poem by Mr. William Winter, the renowned critic of the New York Tribune, whom the deceased always admired as a genuine and inspired poet.
The Cuban bard is dead, and they who knew him and loved him will know him no more for ever; but there will be sore hearts in the land of his birth when they hear of his death. As Carlyle says, he has pitched his tent under a cypress tree; the tomb is now his inexpugnable fortress; in poverty he will no longer dye the flinty ground with his blood sorrow and oppression cannot harm him anymore!
The Weekly News.
Marksville, Louisiana
1 June 1940
Page 3
BIOGRAPHIES
BY ROSS PHARES
HIS SONGS INSPIRED A REVOLUTION.
History books have told in detail of Cuba's heroic struggle for independence, a much longer and more bitter conflict than the American Revolution; but the accounts of campaigns, generals and statesmen have overshadowed the courageous story of Leopoldo Turla, a poet who gave his life, home and fortune to the cause.
Turla came of the aristocracy. And because he wrote poetry that kept the discouraged, miserably equipped Cuban army marching, singing and fighting when there seemed no hope, his estate was confiscated, he was exiled and finally died in poverty.
Louisiana claims Leopoldo Turla among her illustrious, for it was in New Orleans that he wrote some of the best poetry and after twenty-five years stay there was buried in a New Orleans grave.
Turla was born in Havana in 1815, at the time when the mighty Spanish empire was blazing in all its splendor of wealth and power, a magnificent, dazzling period of luxury and ease and lavish entertainment. Gold from the mines of the West seemed [inexhaustible]. The rich soil, favorable climate and cheap labor made the expansive haciendas of Cuba veritable gold mines themselves. The upper class lived sumptuously, indeed, so pretentiously that the courts of many homes were inlaid with gold.
But this dreamy island of soft breezes and enchanting moonlight, eternal fruit and flowers, had its miseries. Here, where the soil hardly knows depth, where fruit and grain and stock grow almost without attention, there was starvation, and nakedness. Men worked without rest or pay, died young without medical attention...and were persecuted for complaining.
Promises gave hop of relief. And purely by faith and stamina men carried on until they broke under the strain and clamored against the system that robbed them, and then were crushed because they were weak men who spoke.
This is the world Leopoldo Turla viewed from his palatial mansion. Turla was of pure Castilian blood, an aristocrat by birth and training, but in his soul was a poet's sympathy, understanding and observation, a human strain that gave him a love for humanity, and an appreciation of its simple cravings and longings.
A book of poems in 1846 set men to thinking strange and daring thoughts. Turla wrote of a better and happier land, of a philosophy that caused poor men to dream and then smile at their own visions.
He wrote plays, and he contributed recklessly to the newspapers; and soon his phrases and verses were on the lips of Cubans from one end of the island to the other. He openly called upon his countrymen to arm themselves and fight the tyrant that suppressed them.
And then men rose by the hundreds, as if out of the very soil of the country. They were a ragged, half starved, untrained lot, without guns or ammunition. But the fight had started, and for nearly two generations it continued.
In 1850 Turla had to flee the island, a refugee now without a home, money or property. From his modest home in New Orleans he continued to compose verses that kept the cause of liberty and independence flaming in his native land.
But he never lived to see his dream of a liberated Cuba come true. He died in 1877. Many descendants of Leopoldo Turla live yet in old New Orleans.
The Times-Picayune.
21 March 1877
Page 4
DIED.
TURLA - On Tuesday, March 20, 1877, at 3 A. M., SENOR LEOPOLDO TURLA, a native of Havana, Cuba, aged 62 years, and a resident of this city for the last 25 years.
His friends and also those of his family are respectfully invited to attend his funeral, which will take place from his late residence, No. 579 St. Claude street, on Wednesday, the 21st inst., at 4 P. M.
22 March 1877
Page 4
TURLA THE POET.
Death has struck a shining mark. Leopoldo Turla, a gentleman whom we considered foremost among the Spanish-American poets of the day, died on Tuesday last, obscure and unknown, in our midst. He was gifted with genius and with a fiery eloquence, through which a thread of reflection ran, like the silken cord of Franklin, bringing the fire of the skies to earth, to bless the world and brighten it.
We knew him well, and think that a word touching his career may not be uninteresting to our readers. Turla was born in the city of Havana, and at the time of his demise was sixty-two years of age. He was early distinguished for his poetical genius and the wonderful depth and range of language which characterized his college exercises, and every one who knew him soon perceived that he was born for a lofty mission - to be the poet, the educator, the unpurchaseable advocate of truth, justice and the independence of his native country.
A poet of a very noble order, he despised inflated sentiment. False tracks and studied application of white handkerchief to the eyes he scorned. His noble thoughts were embodied in beautiful and many colored words, and his enthusiasm was mellowed by remarkable resources of scholarship and a thorough appreciation of art.
His first volume of poems which he named "Rafagas del Tropico," appeared in 1946, and showed the author to be a poet by nature. Vigor, strength and feeling were his characteristics. The deceased then devoted his attention to the drama, and wrote several plays, which were performed with great success. He afterwards became connected with the Havana press, and in 1950 was compelled to leave the island owing to the persecution of the Spanish Government. Turla was one of the followers of Gen. Narcisco Lopea, and had written numerous patriotic songs, calling the people to arms in defense of the political freedom and independence of Cuba.
After residing in Charleston, S. C., and Savannah, Ga., for one or two years, he settled in New Orleans, where he continued writing for the Cuban press. In th eland of his exile he looked at the Mississippi without shuddering; but not without recollecting the Almendares to the detriment of the other.
When he read his patriotic poems arrows of flame shot through his blood. His impassioned words fell like drops of fire on the heart of his hearers, his bold eye flashed and his lip quivered with scorn and hatred. There was a deep music in his poetry, melancholy and solemn, like the sound of the waves as it might be heard in "an old house by the sea."
Turla was of medium size, well shaped with a fine, expressive, pale face, glittering black eyes, and a resolute, firm mouth. You could not look at him for a moment without perceiving that, whatever his defects might be, he was a spirited man, who would not do a mean action, although for the freedom of his country he might not hesitate at a crime. When death struck him he had just commenced the translation into Spanish of "The Voice of the Silence," a brilliant poem by Mr. William Winter, the renowned critic of the New York Tribune, whom the deceased always admired as a genuine and inspired poet.
The Cuban bard is dead, and they who knew him and loved him will know him no more for ever; but there will be sore hearts in the land of his birth when they hear of his death. As Carlyle says, he has pitched his tent under a cypress tree; the tomb is now his inexpugnable fortress; in poverty he will no longer dye the flinty ground with his blood sorrow and oppression cannot harm him anymore!
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