peculiar to its bays and inlets, would be simply absurd; and when we
get to the coast, I should be sorry to miss seeing some lazy old
crocodile sunning in the sand. Should it have seven heads, however, I
shall very likely catch it, and send it straight to Barnum; but if not,
why, as Banks would the Union, let the snaky thing slide.
Your “Allergater in de brake” song may do for the Southern States, with
their rhythmetical-and-stolen-from-the-African-coast slaves; but to
apply it to this country would disgrace the most idiotic “What-is-it”
ever imported. Of naturally wild quadruped animals there is not so much
as a squirrel. Birds are without number.
* * * * *
Stanley is himself again! One and a half hours’ ride, two fords of the
river, (rising,) and we are at the mouth of the famous Isabella. The
river is here, but the town of Isabella has passed away forever. The
delta is covered with mahogany timbers; two schooners stand out in the
distance awaiting to transport them to Europe; and with these
exceptions--and with these alone, unless it be the absence of the
Indians--were Columbus to arrive here again to-day, he would not find a
particle more of improvement than was found here over three centuries
and a half ago. A boat load of oarsmen coming down the river, the
captain leading in a song, and all hands joining in the chorus; a splash
is heard on the other side of the water, as if broken by a fish or
clumsy sea-turtle; but except these sounds a death-like stillness
pervades the entire valley.
To get a better view, you must cross the promontory (the northernmost
point of the island) to where Columbus first landed. From thence you see
the Haytien frontier stretching away in the dim blue distance, and the
scene is enchantment.
Over the rocks we go, led on by a Spaniard on a little bay mule, that
climbs over the cliffs with an agility creditable even for a mountain
goat. The señor’s horse falters. One misstep, and they both go to
eternity!
We are on the beach. My zeal to commemorate the landing of Columbus by
gathering a few tiny tinted shells reconciles the señor to sit in the
sun and hold my horse for a minute; but I have no doubt he had rather
see me as expert at gathering peas or picking up potatoes. “Ah! H.,”
says he, “leave off writing books and gathering shells; get married, and
come to farming.” So I will--all but the married.
But you will want to know what, after all, is the matter with the port.
It is shallow. Vessels of a hundred tons burthen cannot get within as
many rods of a harbor. In fact, the only question is, why a man of
Columbus’ sense ever stopped there at all. It is not worth the pen and
ink it would take to describe it.
CALLED AT THE FIRST HOUSE FOR DINNER.
“Come, let the fatted calf be slain,” was complied with to the very
letter, except that in this instance it happened to be a _goat_.
Nevertheless, it was worth the return of any prodigal son.
The largest “señorita” had a dress to make up. It was a piece of light
blue delaine, and to her, no doubt, was “superb.” She left off assisting
the old patriarch in dressing the goat, walked to the pitcher, took the
cocoanut dipper, and filled her mouth with water until her cheeks
swelled out like a porpoise’s. She then deliberately spirted it into her
hands; and this was her mode of washing! She then spreads out her
dry-goods, admires them a while, folds them up again, and lays them
aside.
The four, and even six year old, running about the place, were as
innocent of even a shirt as any son of Adam at his coming into the
world.
We look out into the open, slab-sided kitchen, and see old and young
sitting around on the dirt floor, enjoying a meal of fresh goat, winter
squash, and plantain stewed together.
Our dinner is over; we bid these folks good-bye, and pronounce them the
happiest set of miserably contented mortals the sun ever shone upon. Man
needs excitement; he prays for ease.
We return to Pastorisa Place to spend the Sabbath. Two or three days of
rest, and we start fresh again for Porto Cabello.
So ends the week--one at least in my life for which it was worth the
trouble to have lived.
LETTER VI.
Dominican Republic.
ON THE WAY TO PORTO CABELLO--ANTILLE-AMERICANA--EMIGRATION ORDINANCE.
“Here in my arms as happy you shall be,
As halcyon brooding on a winter sea.”
--DRYDEN.
When the saffron sunlight lingers on the fleecy edges of these mountain
clouds, there is a singular solemnity and peculiar fascination about
them which can not be likened to any thing earthly. More than any thing
else, the resemblance is that of a dark mourning-gown, lined with white
satin and trimmed with silver tassels.
This reminds me that the sign of mourning here is somewhat novel. It is
that of a spotless white kerchief worn on the head--a thing rarely seen,
however, for the reason that people in this district rarely die except
from sheer old age. There is near us an old man (black) whose entire
grey hair and bodily appearance indicate his being at least eighty. His
father died only a year ago, and for some time before the aged sire’s
death it is said that fires had to be kindled for him to sleep by, in
order to generate sufficient heat to keep his thin, chilly blood in
circulation. His age was beyond his own knowledge.
But the great object of life here seems to be that of eating. The first
thing in the morning after leaving your hammock, you are furnished with
a dish of aromatic coffee, strong and excellent as a beverage, and as
little like the ordinary stuff you get at hotels as pure rich cream is
like chalk and water. Bah! think of your dish-water slops, made of
parched peas, and supposed to be West India coffee! Oh! nation of
Barnums and egregious dupes!
Where circumstances allow it, not an hour in the day passes without
something being brought in to be eaten. “This is an alligator pear--must
be eaten with salt and pepper.” Now it is honey, pine-apple, mango,
orange, banana, and even a joint of sugar-cane--anything to be eating.
You are then expected to eat as hearty a dinner as ought to satisfy a
man for a week. Ride a mile and a half and you are asked if you are not
hungry. You reply, “No, indeed.” Cross the next stream, and “Are you not
thirsty?” is asked. Say “No, indeed” again if you like, and you will be
very lucky not to hear your admirable self inelegantly compared to some
kind of a goat.
The climate of these mountains seems to be that of perpetual spring, 88°
Fahrenheit being the warmest day we have had so far. I understand,
however, that in September the heat is much more oppressive because
there are more calms, but never so intolerable as in the changeable
latitudes. Sunstroke! You might venture the reputation of half a dozen
“speakers” (a trade which is had in the States for the picking of it up)
that such a thing as sunstroke would not be felt here until the world
has wheeled as many years backward as it has forward.
* * * * *
We are trotting along on the way to Porto Cabello. I have given you a
description of these valleys before, but passing a grove of
_rose-apples_ just now, (a fruit highly prized in the West Indies simply
for its flavor, the tree being much like that of a lime, and the fruit
hollow, something like a May-apple, lustrous as an orange, and flavored
precisely as a rose is perfumed,) I could but reflect that if another
Eve were to be placed in an earthly garden I should pray that it might
be somewhere among the hills of New England, for, doubtless, then she
would meet temptation with a masterly resistance; but if placed in such
a garden as might be made in this country,--with all the sins of the
world before her I fear she would be tempted over again a thousand
times.
Stop a moment on an elevated point of a homestead called “Crebehunda;”
behold the grand valleys stretching away between the mountain chains
until lost in the green-blue sea which the glass shows in the distance.
Dodging under branches, going sometimes head-first through the eternal
verdure which, if possible, grows even more luxuriant, in this way we
ultimately reach Porto Cabello, a place which proves to be, as
previously understood, the grandest point for a port of entry on the
whole northern coast of the island.
These old Spaniards are all the time saying to me,
“My son, you never look pert.”
“Perfectly happy, uncle,” I reply.
“Look long time away--studying.”
“Nothing, uncle--only an American.”
“Only an American? Well, what do they different from other people?”
“Lay out towns one day, and build them the next; own lands, and improve
them.”
Now, this is genuine American talk; whether it will be American practice
remains to be seen.
Porto Cabello is now used to some extent as a point of export; but the
only reason why it is not used more extensively is, that between this
and the valley there is a hill to be crossed, which could be made
respectable as a highway by six sturdy hands in as many days. The
country is ripening for immigration. Mr. James Redpath, a talented
English-American, and a most acute observer, recently traversed a
portion of the Haytien territory, and came to the conclusion that the
entire island was capable of sustaining 20,000,000 people. There is not
upon it probably one million, and of these the greater portion are in
Hayti. The Dominican territory, by far the most extensive and desirable,
does not contain much over one-fourth of a million, all told.
I say the country is ripening for immigration. The Pike’s Peak fever
will ere long be exhausted. Then there is, probably, no more promising
field for enterprise than this in the entire new world. Most any point
could be made to flourish by the opening of good roads. With Porto
Cabello this is peculiarly so. Santiago is the principal interior town.
It is the proper place for, and was the former capital. It is situated
on the river Yaque, which courses La Vega Real, (the Royal Plains,) and
contains about 12,000 inhabitants. The trade of Porto Plata is kept
alive mainly from this source; but the mountainous road between them,
over which nothing can be transported except by piecemeal on horseback,
has been well-nigh the ruin of them both. Porto Cabello is sixteen miles
west of Porto Plata. It shuns the St. Mark’s mountain, and it is fair to
suppose that, could communication once be established between this and
Santiago, and were there the least facilities here for shipping produce,
the trade of the interior would inevitably flow in this direction. As to
the shipping interest, it was that which first turned our attention
hither; for Porto Plata being an unsafe harbor for the winter, vessels
had been known to make this port for safety. There are nine feet of
water on the shallowest bar, and this once over there are two quiet
bays, in either of which a merchantman could ride without an anchor.
There will be an American settlement up this valley,--the nucleus where
I now stand, and this their port of entry. Such a settlement would meet
the encouragement of Señor Pastorisa, and, as I have reason to believe,
of the natives generally. They have no labor-saving machines, which is,
beyond all question, what the country most needs. Think of a community
like this getting on without a plow, a cotton-gin, a saw-mill, or
anything of the kind. It is, verily, astounding. There is, of
course--and it is certainly natural enough--a lingering prejudice
against white Americans. This may or may not be overcome; but the
natural question is, Are colored men in America competent to infuse the
spirit of enterprise which the country demands? _Let the common-sense
working-men answer._ My experience with your “leading”
would-be-white-imitating upstarts is conclusive.
The route--and a cheap one--is from New York to Porto Plata.
Agricultural implements are admitted duty free. I send herewith an
important communication, showing the disposition of the government
towards immigration. It is easy to see that (if carried into effect) it
will mark a new epoch in the country’s history.
But before this question is taken into the debating rooms--that is, the
pulpits--for discussion, it ought to be understood. If people read
Homer’s poetic descriptions of imaginary scenery, and come here
expecting to find them realized, they will be fully as much disappointed
as they deserve. There are times when the clouds rise slowly over the
mountain height, with a blazing sun at their backs, when the skies glow
with a splendor transcending all conception; yet it is not at all likely
they will see these mountains “go bobbing ’round,” or “nodding,” to
suit the convenience of anybody. Must mountains necessarily rest their
exalted heads against the bosom of the sky, as if holding constant
_tête-à-tête_ communion with the stars? If so, there are no mountains
here--nothing but potatoe-ridges. Nor will they be blindly dazzled by
the excessive resplendence of the sun or moon; nor will the moon make
silver out of anything upon which it may happen to shine. Moonshine is
moonshine, I suppose, the world over. American poets, however, may be
read with impunity.
“This is the land where the citron scents the gale;
Where dwells the orange in the golden vale;
Where softer zephyrs fan the azure skies;
Where myrtles grow, and prouder laurels rise.”
IMMIGRATION ORDINANCE.
The following is a translated copy of an important official paper
published in San Domingo city, June 9th, and proclaimed in Porto Plata,
June 28, 1860:
“Antonio Abad Alfare, General of Division, Vice President of the
Republic, and entrusted with the executive power, looking at the
necessity which exists for facilitating the execution of the laws
concerning immigration, defining the manner of making effective the
measures which the government may take for their observance, the council
of Ministers having heard, has come to issue the following ordinance:
“ART. 1. That there be constituted a Board of Immigration in each
capital of a province, and in the qualified ports of Samana and Puerto
Plata. These shall be composed of four members named by His Excellency,
among those most friendly to the progress of the country, of the
Governor of the provincial capital, or the Commandant-at-Arms in the
communes, who shall be the president of them. Their secretaries shall
also be of said commission.
“ART. 2. These Boards shall meet at the seat of government in the
provincial capital, and in the communes of Puerto Plata and Samana, at
the Commandant-at-Arms. For their internal ordering and the more ready
fulfilment of that which is assigned them, they shall regulate that
which they have to do according to utility, first submitting it for
approval to the Minister of the Interior.
“ART. 3. The functions of the Board are: First, to learn the easiest and
cheapest way of bringing immigrants to the country, always communicating
everything to the President through the Minister of the Interior.
Second, to employ all means leading to the result that there shall only
come as immigrants the agricultural class, or those following some
craft, profession, or useful form of labor; to get information of lands
belonging to the nation most suitable for health and fertility; to have
them prepared to furnish to farmers who may not have been able to agree
with private individuals under the terms of their contracts; to assign
them lodgings and sustenance after their arrival, during a period to be
agreed on, and to look after them with all the attention and care which
it shall be possible to display; to supply them with tools and other
articles of use which it may be decided to furnish to them, and with the
first stock of seed-corn for their sowing, taking care that everything
be of the best quality; to take care that those who agree with private
persons shall be under a contract which insures the fulfilment of that
which has been agreed with them; to attend to all things which can give
credit to this department as well within as without the Republic.
“ART. 4. The Board shall appoint agents for the furnishing of victuals
to those who shall be needy, taking care that in every thing there be
exactness, order, and good faith.
“ART. 5. All accounts of expenses which may actually be incurred must
be examined and approved by the Board, and submitted to the inspection
of the Minister of the Interior.
“ART. 6. The office of member of the Board is honorary, and without pay,
and they shall perform their functions two years. Those who perform with
zeal and patriotism their trust, will be entitled to the esteem and
consideration of their fellow-citizens.
“ART. 7. The present ordinance will be promptly executed by the
Ministers of the Interior, Police, and Agriculture.
“Given at St. Domingo City, the capital of the Republic, the 4th day of
June, 1860, and the 17th year of independence.
“A. ALFAU.
“Countersigned, the Minister Secretary of State, in the departments of
justice and education, charged with those of the interior, police, and
agriculture.
“JACINTO DE CASTRO.”
LETTER VII.
Dominican Republic.
PROPOSED AMERICAN SETTLEMENT--PICTURE OF LIFE--TOMB OF THE WESLEYAN
MISSIONARY.
“Thy promises are like Adonis’ garden--
That one day bloomed, and fruitful were the next.”
--KING HENRY VI.
I have scarcely time to inform you of an American settlement really
begun. It is near the sea, not far from Porto Plata, on a large
_commonality_ or tract of land embracing about twelve square miles, (not
twelve miles square,) having a water power running full length. The land
being in common is considered of the first importance, for by this means
a small outlay of capital--say one hundred dollars--secures to the
settler the grazing advantage of the whole tract, where not otherwise in
use. This idea was suggested by an eminent gentleman of St. Louis, and
has been the custom of early settlements in Spanish colonies for
centuries past. It will of course be subdivided whenever desired, each
man taking the part he had originally improved. The principal settlers
are from Massachusetts, one of whom, a Mr. Treadwell, (colored,) designs
establishing a manual-labor school. Another, a Mr. Locke, (white,) who
came out for his health, has actually secured a mill site, erected a
small shanty, and cleared from twelve to twenty acres of land, as
preparatory steps towards building a saw-mill. How happy will be the
effect of such enterprise on a non-progressive people you have probably
anticipated from what I have previously observed.
The manual-labor school is, without question, the only mode of infusing
a tone of morality in the country, or giving a foothold to the
Protestant religion. This has been tried. About twenty years ago a
society of Wesleyan Methodists established a mission in the town of
Porto Plata. The church still lives, and is, by foreigners,
comparatively well attended; but they have not converted a single
Catholic by preaching from that day to this. The reason is, the
Catholics will not go to hear them. Yet, for the benefits of an
education, about one hundred and fifty children were sent regularly to
school, and there, by the “infidel” teachings of the Wesleyans, they
soon learned to distrust the ceremonies of their mother church.
Unfortunately, about two years since this school was discontinued, and,
having succeeded in weaning the people from positive Catholicism without
yet embracing the Protestant religion, it seems to have left them with a
general belief in every thing, which is, as I take it, the nearest point
to a belief in nothing.
The country around Porto Plata is owned almost entirely by the Catholic
church, being leased, through the government, at reasonable rates to
such persons as desire to settle thereupon; but by establishing a school
at a distance of seven miles, as above indicated, it would be entirely
free from all such influences. An English missionary is soon to come
over from one of the neighboring islands to give the location his
personal inspection.
The sea view is divine. Along the shallow edges the rippling waves
appear brightly green--greener than the trees--while beyond this, where
the water deepens, the hue is a pearly purple--purer purple than a
grape. In fact, the earth does not contain a comparison for the tranquil
beauty of this transparent sea. Some hours ago I thought to sketch it
for you, lest it should prove, like so many other things, too fine to
last; but so it continued hour after hour, and until the sun nestled in
its very heart.
So much for the future settlement. It may be called “Excelsior,” but at
present I will call it “Crebahunda.”
* * * * *
This cool morning air nearly chills me. You take a bath and retire to
bed at night with only a thin linen sheet spread over you. In the
morning you are chilled, and resolve to sleep hereafter under more
covering; but, of course, when night comes again you do not need any
more.
Not a morning, my dear H., do I look upon these fields of living green
but that I think of you and your daily routine of office duties. I take
a seat beneath one of these forbidden-fruit trees while the land breeze
is freighting the valley with perfume, the sun just peeping over the
hills, and the white mists, beautiful as a bridal veil, slowly rising up
the mountain green; now listening to the voice of a favorite mock-bird,
and then to the softer cooings of a mourning-dove. A strange-looking
little hummy perches on the first dead limb before me. Parrots squawk,
and a dozen blackbirds chime one chorus, while other varieties chirp and
trill. The whole scene is Elysian. Then along comes a sparrow-hawk, and
choo-ee! choo-ee! choo-ee! off they all go, helter-skelter.
Of whom is this a picture? You are toiling away, arranging rude
manuscripts, at times almost discouraged, but still toiling on in your
close, hot rooms--and this for the good of your race. Well, Heaven grant
they may thank you for it, and save you from crying at last, “Choo-ee!
choo-ee!” But, ah!--even worse than that--I am afraid the sparrow-hawks
will catch you! With me, the end of every thing is that of the birds--a
melancholy aggravation. I have been entranced by these morning scenes
but a passing short while, and will soon be compelled to leave them and
take a lonely ride to the coast, thence to depart for a season. I
therefore stuff my saddle-bags with oranges and cinnamon-apples, as I
think this is wiser than weeping.
* * * * *
An absence of precisely four weeks, and we are once again in sight of
Porto Plata. “The moon is up, and yet it is not night.” Some kind of a
holiday being at hand, men, women, and children are riding to and fro up
and down the streets on donkeys, mules, and ponies of every description.
The scene is truly picturesque. I could but remark to my friend the
Protestant exhorter, the grandeur of the evening, to which he replied,
“A man that could find fault with this climate would find fault with
Paradise.” I do not believe him, however, for whether the day and night
trips along the coast have been too much for me or not, I have certainly
got the chill-fever.
* * * * *
This morning, July 7th, I visited the tomb of the Wesleyan missionary to
whose labors here I have before referred. The following inscription will
furnish the data to such of your readers as are interested in the
history of such missions:
IN MEMORY
OF THE
REV. WM. TOWER,
WHO WAS BORN AT HORNCASTLE, LINCOLNSHIRE, ENGLAND, ON
THE 12TH FEBRUARY, 1811, AND ENTERED UPON
THE MISSIONARY WORK OF EVANGELIZING
THIS ISLAND IN
1838.
HE LABORED ON THIS STATION FOURTEEN YEARS AND A HALF.
HE WAS BELOVED BY ALL WHO KNEW HIM; AND
DIED ON THE 25TH OF AUGUST,
1853,
UNIVERSALLY REGRETTED.
LETTER VIII.
Dominican Republic.
SUMMARY OF STAPLES, EXPORTS, AND PRODUCTS.
“I came across a copy of Rousseau this morning,” said an American
scholar, whom we had met before; and he added, “I should not have been
more surprised had I seen it drop out of the clear sky.”
There are but very few books in Dominicana of any kind, and no reliable
statistics. The government on the south side of the island appoints
custom-house officers on the north side, allowing them little or nothing
for their services. The consequence is, these officers pay themselves
out of the import duties, and hence few returns are accurately made.
In the essay on the “Gold Fields of St. Domingo,”[D] to which I have
previously referred, I find the following summary of staples, exports,
and products, which, while it is but little more than the reader will
have already gathered, may serve at least to confirm what has been said: