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.