SANTO DOMINGO
1872-1874; _aet._ 53-56
A PARABLE
"I sent a child of mine to-day;
I hope you used him well."
"Now, Lord, no visitor of yours
Has waited at my bell.
"The children of the Millionnaire
Run up and down our street;
I glory in their well-combed hair,
Their dress and trim complete.
"But yours would in a chariot come
With thoroughbreds so gay;
And little merry maids and men
To cheer him on his way."
"Stood, then, no child before your door?"
The Lord, persistent, said.
"Only a ragged beggar-boy,
With rough and frowzy head.
"The dirt was crusted on his skin,
His muddy feet were bare;
The cook gave victuals from within;
I cursed his coming there."
What sorrow, silvered with a smile,
Slides o'er the face divine?
What tenderest whisper thrills rebuke?
"The beggar-boy was mine!"
J. W. H.
We must go back a little to tell another story.
In the winter of 1870-71 the Republic of Santo Domingo sent through its
president an urgent request for annexation to the United States.
President Grant appointed a commission to visit this island republic,
to inquire into its conditions and report upon the question. Of this
commission Dr. Howe was one, the others being Messrs. Benjamin Wade and
Andrew D. White.
The commissioners sailed on the government steamer Tennessee. At parting
the Doctor said, "Remember that you cannot hear from us under a month;
so do not be frightened at our long silence."
A week later came reports of a severe storm in the Southern seas. A
large steamer had been seen struggling with wind and wave, apparently at
their mercy. Some newspaper thought it might be the Tennessee. All the
newspapers took up the cry: it probably _was_ the Tennessee; most likely
she had foundered and gone down with all on board.
Mindful of the Doctor's warning, our mother tried to disregard these
voices of terror. She went quietly about her work as usual, but none the
less the days of suspense that followed were "dark indeed and hard to
live through."[72]
[72] _Reminiscences_, p. 346.
We remember these days well, the resolute cheerfulness, the avoidance of
outward sign of anxiety, the sudden lifting of the cloud when the good
news came of the steamer's safe arrival.
The prayer of Santo Domingo was not to be answered, spite of the
favorable report of the commission: but the Doctor had been so delighted
with the island that when, a year later, he was asked to visit it in the
interests of the Samana Bay Company, he gladly accepted the commission.
This time our mother went with him, together with Maud and a party of
friends. She had been loth to go, for she had already planned her peace
crusade in England, but finding how much he desired it, she compromised
on part of the time.
They sailed from New York early in February, 1872, in the steamer Tybee.
The voyage was rough and stormy. The companion daughter of the time
remembers how the wretched little Tybee pitched and heaved; even more
vividly she recalls the way in which our mother from the first made
society out of the strangely assorted company on board. She was the
magnet, and drew them all to her: the group of conventional ladies who
had never before been at sea, the knot of naval officers going to join
their ship,--among them George W. De Long, the hero of the ill-fated
Jeannette expedition; a colonel, and a judge, the former interested in
the Samana Bay Company. She made out of this odd company and the gruff
old captain a sort of court which she ruled in a curious way. She did
not seem to compel their admiration so much as to compel each to give
his best.
The Tybee cast anchor in the harbor of Puerto Plata, and the voyagers
saw Mont Isabel towering above them, its foot in the clear beryl water
where the palms grew down to the very edge of the yellow sea sand, its
head wrapped in the clouds. The Doctor came to the stateroom, crying,
"Come up and see the great glory!"
Our mother's delight can be imagined when they sailed into the harbor of
Santo Domingo and landed near an immense and immemorial tree, where,
they were told, Columbus had landed.
The party lodged in a fine old Spanish _palacio_, built round a
courtyard. It had been originally a convent. The nuns were gone, and
their place was now taken by the gay company of American ladies, who
possibly gave the sleepy little city more new ideas than it had ever
received in so short a space of time. President Baez put the palace at
the Doctor's disposal; he was an important person to the President and
to the Dominicans, for at that time the hope of annexation had not died
out. All the party were treated with extraordinary courtesy. Not only
were they given the presidential palace to live in, but a guard of honor
was kept in the courtyard. Their horses were lodged, Spanish fashion, on
the ground floor. The trampling, the neighing, and the fleas made them
rather uncomfortable neighbors. Our mother soon found out that the only
way she could see the country, or enjoy its life, was by riding. At
first she was a little nervous, but she soon regained her courage and
her seat. This was her first riding since the days of Cora, the wicked
little mare, when she read her Bible and said her prayers before every
ride. She thus describes it:--
"In Santo Domingo, nothing is more charming than the afternoon ride. It
is, of course, the great event of the neighborhood. Our cavalcade
usually numbers four or five ladies. Sometimes we cross the river in a
flat-bottomed boat, which is pulled over by a rope stretched and made
fast at either end. We then visit the little village of Pajarita, and
trot along under the shade of heavy mango trees. Or we explore the
country on this side the river. The great thing to guard against is the
danger of rain. This we encountered one afternoon in some severity.
Suddenly one of the party cried '_Llava!_' and down came the waters. We
were somewhat heated with our ride, and the penetrating rain fell chill
upon us. A large tree gave us shelter for a few moments, but we were
soon forced to seek more effectual protection. This we found, after some
delay, in a _boio_, or hut, into which horses and riders were dragged
pell-mell. The night was closing in, the Chief at home, and presumably
anxious, the rain unabating. Which of the tropical spasms would end our
far-spent life? Would it be lockjaw, a common result of severe chill in
these regions? Would it be a burning, delirious fever with a touch of
yellow; or should we get off with croup and diphtheria?
"The rain presently stopped, and we returned to the saddle, and then, by
easy stages, to the city. On reaching home, we were advised to bathe the
chilled surfaces with rum, not the wicked New England article, but the
milder product of the country. Of all the evil consequences spoken of as
sure to follow such an exposure, fever, lockjaw, and sore throat, we
have so far not seen the earliest symptom."
It was Carnival. All the cabinet officers and their wives devoted
themselves to the entertainment of the party. The Minister of War, Señor
Curiel, a little twinkling fiery man, devoted himself especially to our
mother, and was her right hand in the many expeditions she arranged. The
Secretary of State, Señor Gautier, a grave person with more culture
than most of the Dominicans, was the Doctor's chosen friend. To return
the many attentions showered upon them, a ball in the old convent was
arranged. The Doctor once said to her, "If you were on a desert island
with nobody there but one old darkey, you would give a party." (But it
was from Cuba that he wrote, "Julia knows three words of Spanish, and is
constantly engaged in active conversation.")
To find herself at Carnival, the leader of a gay party, living in a
spacious palace, supported by the guns and the officers of an American
warship (the Narragansett, with De Long and other officers on board),
was an opportunity not to be missed. She thus describes the
entertainment:--
"_Hans Breitmann gife a barty._
"So did we. To see Santo Domingo was little, without seeing the
Dominicans also. Some diplomatic overtures were made. Would the first
families come and pass an evening with us at the _Palacio_? Yes, they
would. Which _were_ the first families? That would have been for us a
point very difficult to determine. The family of the President and those
of the heads of departments would certainly stand in that prominence.
For the necessary beaux we were referred to a society recently
established here, calling itself '_La Juventad_,' 'the young people.'
This body of philanthropists, being appealed to, consented to undertake
the management of our party. The occasion was announced as a
_bailecita_, 'little ball.' We asked them to provide such refreshments
as are customary in this place. Thirty dollars' worth of sweet cake and
a bottled ocean of weak beer formed the principal items of the bill, as
brought to us. The friends came at 5 P.M., to decorate the room with
flowers, also to arrange two tables, on one of which _las dulces_ were
arrayed, while the other was made to display a suspicious-looking group
of glasses. A band, we were told, would be indispensable. We demurred at
this, having intended to musicate upon our own grand piano. Hearing,
however, that the band could be had for the sum of twelve dollars, we
gave in on this point.
"One long room runs the whole length of one side of the palace, and
serves us at once for dining and reception room. A long corridor
encounters this room at right angles, entirely open to the weather, on
one side. These two spaces constitute all our resources for receiving
company. We lit them with Downer's best [kerosene] and ranged rows of
rocking-chairs, opposite to each other, after the manner of this
country, and also of Cuba.
"The company began to arrive at 8 P.M. The young ladies were mostly
attired in colored tarlatans, prettily trimmed with lace and flowers.
Some of them were not over fourteen years of age. All were quite
youthful in their appearance, and unaffected in their manners. The young
men, mostly employed in the various shops of the city, were well-dressed
and polite. The band was somewhat barbaric in its aspect. A violin, a
'cello, a tambourine, and a clarinet. The clarinet-player was of
uncommon size, with wild, dark eyes, which seemed to dilate as he
played....
"The dancing continued with little interruption until nearly 2 A.M. We
were told that it is often continued till daylight. From time to time an
attack was made upon the two tables. But the enjoyment of the good
things provided was quite moderate compared with the cramming of a
first-class party in Boston or New York. The guests were of many shades,
as to color, although the greater number would have passed for white
people, anywhere. Some of the handsomest among them were very dark. One
young man reminded us of Edwin Booth in "Othello."... None of these
people look like the mulattoes in the North. The features and the fibre
appear finer, and the jet-black hair often suggests an admixture of
Indian blood. The difference of social position shows itself in the
manners of these people. The cruel colorphobia has never proscribed
them. They have no artificial sense of inferiority, but take themselves
as God made them, and think that if He is content with their
complexions, mankind at large may be so.
"We were much pleased with our party, and with the simple and unaffected
gayety of our guests. It was really a party in the open air, one whole
side of our ballroom being unenclosed, save by the infrequent colonnade.
We looked from the dancers to the stars, and back again to the dancers.
It was all fairylike and dreamlike. The favorite '_dansa_' much
resembles, not a ballet, but a stage dance, such as is introduced in the
course of the drama. The beer flowed, and the couples flew. One
innovation we introduced, a Virginia reel, which the clever
clarinet-player caught and accompanied. The figures much amazed the
natives. The _dénouement_ of Mr. Leland's classic ballad was wanting. No
"'Gompany fited mit daple lecks
Till de coonshtable made em shtop';
yet we may quote further from that high source:--
"'Hans Breitmann gife a barty,
Where ish that barty now?
* * * * *
All goned afay mit der lager pier,
Afay in der Ewigkeit!'"
The Journal gives pleasant glimpses of the Santo Domingo days.
"M. Marne, a Frenchman ninety-seven years old, paid us a visit. Had been
secretary of Joseph Buonaparte in Madrid--praised him much. Talked very
copiously and not ill. Enjoys full mental and physical activity. Lives
at a small village in sight of our windows, but on the other side of the
river. Talked much of the Roi Cristophe."
The mention of this old gentleman recalls her visit to a Dominican
_padre_, himself in extreme age, who told her that he had known a
negress who lived to the age of one hundred and forty-three; he had
confessed and buried her. "She had her teeth and her hair still."
"Not to market to-day, but breakfast early--then all hands to the
cathedral to see the high mass performed--to-day in honor of the
independence of the island....
"Baez' face, cunning, pretty strong, _enjoué_, as if he must be, or
seem, a _bon enfant_.... The noise at the elevation of the Host a
perfect Babel. Music, 'Ernani,' 'Fra Diavolo,' with some similar things.
A single trumpet shrieked at some high moments. The bells rang like a
thousand tin pans. Orchestra and chorus not together and both out of
tune. The ceremony otherwise perhaps as well as usual. A priest made a
brief address in Spanish, praising the day and complimenting the
President...."
"Studied Baur, Aristophanes, and '_Etudes sur la Bible_.' Music lesson
to Maud. O'Sullivan to dine.... Baez sent word that he would visit us
between 5 and 6 P.M. We accordingly put things in the best order
possible under the circumstances. _Ung puo de tualetta_ for the ladies
seemed proper. At dinner received Baez' card with a great dish of fine
sapotes. Baez arrived. He speaks French quite tolerably, is affable, and
has an intelligent face; in fact looks like a person of marked talent.
We talked of things in the United States. He has made fourteen voyages
to Europe.... I sang '_Una Barchetta_' for him. He came with one
servant, who stayed outside--no ceremony and no escort...."
After the beauty of the place--indeed possibly before it--she valued the
opportunity that came to her of preaching. On the voyage to Santo
Domingo she had learned of a shepherdless flock of colored Protestants,
their minister dead, their "elder" disabled by lameness. Here was an
opportunity not to be lost. She engaged to hold Sunday evening services
in their church, a small wooden building with a mud floor and a mahogany
pulpit. The "Reminiscences" describe these services; the tattered
hymn-books whose leaves were turned mechanically while the congregation
(few of whom could read) sang with a will the hymns they knew by heart;
the humble, devout people with their attentive faces.
When Holy Week came, the congregation begged her to hold special
services. They wished their young people to understand that these sacred
days meant as much to them as to the surrounding Catholics. Accordingly
she and her companion "dressed the little church with flowers. It looked
charmingly. Flowers all along the railing [here follows in the Journal a
pen-and-ink sketch], flowers in the pulpit over my head. Church was
crowded. Many people outside and at the windows."
She always remembered with pleasure one feature of her Easter sermon,
her attempt to describe Dante's vision of a great cross in the heavens,
formed of star clusters, each cluster bearing the name of Christ. "The
thought," she says, "that the mighty poet of the fourteenth century
should have something to impart to these illiterate negroes was very
dear to me."
One of the party has an undying impression of this Easter service: the
shabby little chapel crowded with dark faces, and the preacher, standing
touched by a ray of sunlight, speaking to that congregation of simple
black people. In her notes she speaks of these services.
"A pastoral charge bringing me near to the hearts and sympathies of the
people. I have preached five times in the little church, including Good
Friday and Easter Monday. This service, which has not been without its
difficulties, is so much better to me in remembrance than anything else
I have done here that I must make a little break and pause before I
speak of other things.
"In this pause I remember my prayer at Puerto Plata, that I and mine
might come to this new region with a reverent and teachable spirit. That
prayer was an earnest one to me. I hope it has, as all prayers should,
accomplished its own fulfilment. I have been here among dear people. I
find all the human varieties in this society, not digested and
harmonized by noble culture, but existing and asking for the
centralizing and discriminating agencies which in civilization sort out
the different tastes, characters, and capacities, and assign to each its
task, giving devotion its wings and crime its treadmill. This little
population in a great country, a country in which Nature allows no one
to starve, has lived and so shown its right to live and maintain itself.
It has accomplished its political division from a state antipathetic to
it, having its dark face turned fixedly towards barbarism [Hayti].
"I stood in a little church in the city and island of Santo Domingo, to
preach the glad tidings of the gospel of Peace. It was a humble little
temple, with a mud floor, and plastered walls, and a roof which scarcely
kept out the rain, but it was a place full of comfort to me and to
others. The seats and spaces were all filled, for it had no aisles. The
small windows and doors were cushioned, so to speak, with human
countenances, wearing an expression of curiosity or attention. The way
to the church was lined on both sides with the simple people, who held
their service at night because the poverty of their attire made them
ashamed to hold it by day. And this crowd came together, Sunday after
Sunday, because a woman from a distant country stood in that little
church to tell them what a woman can tell about the kingdom of heaven."
Loth as she had been to go to Santo Domingo, she was far more loth to
leave it; but the time appointed for her peace crusade in London was at
hand, and she could tarry no longer. On April 5 she writes:--
"Ah! my time is nearly out. Dear Santo Domingo, how I do love you, with
your childish life, and your ancestral streets--a grandam and a babe!
To-day I read my last in Baur and Greek for some time, probably, as must
pack to-morrow. As at present advised, God grant that we may come here
again."
"_April 6._ Here to-day and gone to-morrow, literally. Mostly
packed--have left out my books for a last sweet morsel.... Did not get
that sweet morsel. Was busy all day--farewell calls from friends, little
talks, and the fear of sitting down and forgetting my preparations in my
books. In the evening the Gautiers came and I played for them to dance.
So, one last little gayety in common."
"_Sunday, April 7._ Got up at 4 A.M. Dressed and got off pretty
easily.... The parting from Maud was very hard. Oh! when the line was
drawn in, and my darling and I were fairly sundered, my old heart gave
way, and I cried bitterly....
"Henry Blackwell is a dear, comforting man, most kind and companionable.
A woman on board with a wretched baby of six months, he in a muslin
gown and nothing else, crying with cold. I got out a cotton flannel
dressing-sack, and wrapped him up in it and tended him a good deal....
"May the purpose for which I undertake this painful and solitary journey
be ever strong enough in my thoughts to render every step of it pure,
blameless and worthy. Great God, do not let me desert thee! For that is
the trouble. Thou dost not desert us. I dread unspeakably these dark
days of suffering and confusion. To go is like being hanged...."
"Captain said something about my preaching on Sunday, so I have been
laying out some points for a sermon.... But it is not very likely that
the Captain will really ask me to hold service.
"Talk with purser about Homer. He has a vivacious mind, and might easily
learn Greek, or anything else he would have a mind to."
"_Sunday._ It turned out that the Captain and passengers did wish me to
hold a little service to-day, so at 10.30 A.M. I met them in the
dining-saloon. I had a Bible, from which I read the 116th Psalm--a
prayer followed--then the missionary hymn, 'From Greenland's icy
mountains'--then my little sermon, of which I have the headings. I am so
very glad to have been able and enabled to do this.
"Began to teach the purser to read from notes with a leaf of music out
of some periodical. Copied Baur a little--talked and heard much talk."
"_April 17...._ Expect to get in to-morrow, not very late, unless
another contrary gale. Frigate birds and petrels yesterday--to-day,
whales, blackfish, and an immense number of porpoises. Revelation cannot
go beyond human consciousness.
"The Western mind has taken Christ's metaphorical illustrations
literally, and his literal moral precepts metaphorically."
"_April 18...._ Very thankful to have got through so well so far."
As at the beginning of this chapter we took a step backward, so we must
now take one forward and speak briefly of the second visit to Santo
Domingo in 1874.
The Doctor's health was failing; he had suffered from the winter's cold,
and longed for the warm sunshine of the beloved island. Would she go
with him? he asked. She should preach to her colored folks as much as
she liked.
They sailed together in the Tybee in March. After a brief visit to the
capital (where Revolution had been before them, expelling the friendly
Baez, and putting in his place a man opposed to the Samana Bay Company),
they took up their quarters at Samana, in a little hillside cottage
about a mile from the town.
Our mother writes in her Journal:--
"_March 20._ In Santo Domingo as glad as a child.... Went to Garcia's
and foolishly bargained for the gold necklace and emerald ring I fancied
the last time I was here. The necklace is for Maud."
The love of jewelry was one of the "little passions" of her whole life.
Speaking once of this as her "besetting sin," she said: "It is rather
respectable to have a besetting sin, as it shows one must have had an
ancestor from whom it was inherited!" She enjoyed a jewel as she did a
flower or a song: she loved to deck her dear ones and herself with
trinkets; a jeweller's window was a thing of delight to her, not to be
passed without the tribute of a pause and a glance at its treasures. Yet
a purchase of this kind seldom failed to bring its retributive pang the
day after.
"Was sorry to have made so foolish a use of the money. Resolve never to
do so again, unless some new light should make it seem right. God will
not have my mind occupied with such nonsense.... Have written my sermon
for to-morrow evening."
They spent two months in Samana in almost absolute retirement. The
Doctor read "Don Quixote" in Spanish, she Aristotle in Greek and Baur in
German. The former "was early and late in the saddle, and dashed up and
down the steep hillsides of Samana with all his old fearlessness." The
latter followed as she might, "in perils and dangers, in terrors often."
"I had never been a bold rider, and I must confess that I suffered
agonies of fear in following him on these expeditions. If I lagged
behind, he would cry, 'Come on! it's as bad as going to a funeral to
ride with you.' And so, I suppose, it was. I remember one day when a
great palm branch had fallen across our path. I thought that my horse
would certainly slip on it, sending me to the depths below. That very
day, while Dr. Howe took his siesta, I went to the place where this
impediment lay, and with a great effort threw it over the steep
mountain-side. The whole neighborhood of Samana is very mountainous,
and I sometimes found it impossible to obey the word of command. One day
my husband spurred his horse and made a gallant dash at a very steep
ascent, ordering me to follow him. I tried my best, but only got far
enough to find myself awkwardly at a standstill, and unable to go either
backward or forward. The Doctor was obliged to dismount and to lead my
horse down to the level ground. This, he assured me, was a severe
mortification for him."[73]
[73] _Reminiscences_, p. 362.
In spite of the permission given, she spoke only a few times in Samana.
She tells of an open-air service in which she took part. She arrived
late, and found a zealous elder holding forth and "reading" from a Bible
held upside down. At sight of her he said, "And now dat de lady hab
come, I will obdunk from de place!"
One day she spoke to the pupils of a little school kept by an English
carpenter, who studied Greek in order to understand the New Testament,
yet allowed his pupils to use the small _i_ for the personal pronoun.
The schoolhouse was perched on a hill so steep that she was thankful to
mount astride on a huge white steer furnished with a straw saddle, and
be led up by a friendly neighbor.
In these days the ill-fated Samana Bay Company, of which the Doctor and
many others had had high hopes, came to an end, and the Dominican
Government insisted that its flag should be officially withdrawn. Our
mother describes the incident:--
"To town early to be present at the taking down of the Samana Company's
flag by the commission sent on board the Dominican war schooner. I went
in the boat and found Chev in the custom-house with the commission
seated around. A good many of our people present. Chev read his protest,
which was strong and simple.... We then went out of the building; the
_employés_ of our Company marched up in their best clothes, their hats
stuck full of roses, and stood in order on either side the flagstaff.
The man ordered by the commission lowered the flag. Just before, Chev
got our people to stand in a circle around him, made a lovely little
address. The old Crusader never appeared nobler or better than on this
occasion, when his beautiful chivalry stood in the greatest contrast to
the barbarism and ingratitude which dictated this act. My mind was full
of cursing rather than blessing. Yet finding myself presently alone with
the superseded flag I laid my hand upon it and prayed that if I had
power to bless anything, my prayers might bless the good effort which
has been made here."
On April 2 she adds: "The blacks here say that the taking down of our
flag was like the crucifixion of our Lord. We are assured that they
would have offered forcible resistance, if we had authorized their so
doing."
"_May 9._ The last day of our last week in Samana.... God knows when I
shall have so much restful leisure again. My rides on horseback, too,
are ended for the present, though I may mount once more to-day or
to-morrow. All these pleasures have been mixed with pains--my fear on
horseback ... but far more than all, my anxiety about the dearest ones
at home. The affairs of the Company, too, have given me many sad
thoughts, but in spite of all this the time has been a blessed one. I
have improved in mind and body, if not in estate--have had sweet leisure
for thought and study, opportunity to preach the gospel (three times),
and most invigorating air and exercise. Over the door of the little
parlor here hangs a motto: 'God bless our Home.' I think, indeed, He has
blessed this little home, though, at first, when I looked at the motto,
I always thought of my own home."
The next day they saw the "last of beautiful Samana for the present,"
and ten days later found them in New York. Her final word on this brief
and lovely episode is given in the Journal for May 24: "My heart sinks
whenever Chev says he will never go to Samana again. 'There are my young
barbarians all at play.'"