“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: