I was sent to the negro republic by a great American newspaper, whose proprietor believed that the Haytians must some day become a part of the United States; and I bore a message to President Hyppolite -- one of those curious communications which New York journalism occasionally addresses to small nations when news is scarce; for the modern editor is seldom contented unless he feels that he is making history as well as writing it.

There was something romantic and mysterious in a mission to a people whose great grandfathers were naked savages in the African forests. A curious place to send a city-bred American newspaper man to; yet a realm full of food for the student of man. I had seen the red savage of Dakota in a silk hat, but I was presently to see the African savage wearing a general's uniform and a sword, and speaking French.

A hundred years ago the negroes of Hayti who had been carried in chains from Africa to take the place of the gentle native Indians, worked to death by the Christian discoverers of America, astonished the world by setting up an independent government of their own.

The influence of the French Revolution spread itself to the remotest parts of the French dominions. Under the leadership of Toussaint l'Ouverture, a black of unmixed blood, the people of Hayti drove the troops of Napoleon, of Spain, and of England out of the island. An army of slaves, commanded by a slave, successfully defied the conqueror of Europe. Their soil was the richest known in any part of the world. French energy and administrative genius had developed the country until its products were carried to all the great ports of Europe, and its treasury was overflowing. Splendid palaces were to be found in the cities. There was not a more prosperous place on the map. But the cruelties of France drove the slaves into rebellion, and when Toussaint, after freeing his country, had been lured away and starved to death in a dungeon by Napoleon, his successor, Dessalines, soon after had himself crowned as Emperor of Hayti. When he died the republic was founded, but the first president, Christope, proclaimed himself a king. So extraordinary was the enterprise of this savage monarch, that he was able to build a beautiful palace and a fortress with walls eighty feet high on a mountain peak five thousand feet above the sea -- a feat that amazes engineers who have seen the ruins. After the death of the king, the republic was reestablished and maintained until Soulouque, an ignorant negro soldier, was chosen as president. He, too, became an emperor, paying ten thousand dollars for a jewelled crown and a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the rest of the royal regalia. When he finally fled from the island in 1859, the republic was again restored, and it has been the Haytian form of government ever since.

The history of the black republic is a tale of conspiracy, war, treachery, massacre, cannibalism, and corruption without a parallel among the nations. And yet it was of the founder of this nation that Wendell Phillips said: --

"I would call him Napoleon, but Napoleon made his way to empire over broken oaths and through a sea of blood. This man never broke his word. I would call him Cromwell, but Cromwell was only a soldier, and the state he founded went down with him into his grave. I would call him Washington, but the great Virginian held slaves. This man risked his empire rather than permit the slave trade in the humblest village of his dominions. Fifty years hence, when Truth gets a hearing, the Muse of History will put Phocion for the Greek, and Brutus for Rome, Hampden for England, Fayette for France; choose Washington as the bright, consummate flower of our earlier civilization, and John Brown the ripe fruit of our noonday; then, dipping her pen in the sunlight, will write in the clear blue, above them all, the name of the soldier, the statesman, the martyr, Toussaint l'Ouverture."

Rome had reared her altars in the island, and the state religion was Christianity; but the voodoo priesthood, skilled in mysterious vegetable poisons, and burning with the serpent-superstitions of the African wilds, was a power among the people. The Christian knight may lay his sword upon the tomb of Christ and pray for victory, but he knows that the warrior of Islam has laid his cimeter upon the grave of Mohammed in appeal. So the solemn ritual of the Christian church in Hayti is answered by the ghastly rites of voodooism. The same people attend both houses of worship, finding nothing incongruous in this contrast of heaven and hell.

It was New Year's Eve, and the streets of Port-au-Prince, the Haytian capital, echoed the dull throbbing of drums beaten in the voodoo ceremonies. Sounds of barbaric revelry came from every direction. The wild orgies of the serpent worshippers were in full swing. Mounting a native pony, so thin that he could scarcely bear my weight, I rode about with a guide through the filthy streets of the city. It was a night of beauty, but the white moonlight that descended from the lovely tropic sky made the rows of huts and slattern houses look even more hideous than they were in the day. At almost every corner we were challenged by a barefooted negro sentry, for Port-au-Prince was under siege law. Around the palace of the president -- a modern plaster building -- was a cordon of sentries, all barefooted, and many of them swinging in hammocks while on duty. The city swarmed with soldiers and with officers covered with gold lace. Several times that night we saw officers in resplendent uniforms, but without shoes. The monotonous rub-a-dub of the voodoo drums, the ululations of the mystic singing, the incessant fanfare of military bugles, and the lazy droning of the sentries in all the streets added to the weird suggestiveness of the sullen black faces that stared at us wherever we turned. We were in the midst of negro civilization, in the capital of a nation governed by black men for a century without the interference of the white race, -- and we were within sight of Cuba. The sentries gave me my first glimpse of the Haytian character.

"Who goes there?" (in French).

"Foreigner!" answered my companion.

"White man, give me ten cents."

"Go to blazes!"

"White man, give me a cigar."

"Go to blazes!"

"Bon!"

It happened that way again and again, always in the same words and always with the same result. Sometimes the sentries were asleep in their hammocks, and, awakened by noise of our ponies' hoofs, did not even take the trouble to raise their heads when challenging us.

As I looked away from the dusky dancers twisting and swaying before the altar of the mystic serpent, I was astonished to see on a shelf on the opposite wall colored pictures of Christ and the Virgin, with lighted candles twinkling in front of them. Presently the voodoo priest trimmed the lights, and bowing low before the picture of the Virgin, drank a glass of white rum, and resumed his incantations at the voodoo shrine. Gradually the men began to dance before the negresses, the crowd grew drunker, and the scene became so foul that we withdrew. As we left, all lights were extinguished but the candles that shone upon the mild face of the Saviour. For hours we went from hut to hut, witnessing the rites of Central Africa in the capital of a nation whose state religion is Christian.

In one hut I talked with a Haytian colonel in full uniform. As I turned to leave, the colonel touched me on the shoulder.

"Give me ten cents," he said.

"Give it to him," said my guide; "he is drunk, and white men are not safe here."

Several days afterward I saw the colonel on duty at a president's palace, the haughtiest figure of them all.

The next day President Hyppolite reviewed his troops on the parade-ground before the palace. He sat on a black horse in the shade of a tree, and he was a fine figure, with his gold-embroidered blue coat, immense epaulettes, cocked hat, buff breeches, and riding boots. Blue spectacles shaded his eyes. A large silver decoration glittered on his breast. On either side of the president were grouped his principal generals, heavy-faced negroes, covered with gold braid, and wearing enormous swords. The crowd looked with hushed awe upon the military leaders. Cæsar and his legionaries were not more impressive to the multitudes of Rome. Even when the barefooted soldiers, who were compelled for that day to wear shoes, removed them and marched past the president, carrying their footgear in their hands, no one smiled. But a white man could not look at the gorgeous generals without an effort to control the muscles of his face. Sometimes it seemed as though there were as many officers as privates in the procession. Sir Spencer St. John, the former British minister to Hayti, has seriously recorded the fact that out of a Haytian military force of sixteen thousand there were fifteen hundred generals of division.

After a night in the house of an American friend -- with tiny lizards crawling on the walls of my bedroom as thick as flies, and a deadly centipede discovered under my pillow -- I went to see President Hyppolite.

The head of the black republic received me in a large room furnished in the gaudiest colors, the only striking note being the white antimacassars on the chairs and sofas. He was a strongly built man with intensely black skin, and his splendidly rounded head was covered with wool of startling whiteness. His eyes were hidden by iron-framed blue goggles. The big flat nose, the long upper lip, the square jaws, the jutting chin, even, flat teeth, and full forehead, indicated the will power that had carried a revolutionary chief into the president's chair. Hyppolite wore a general's uniform, and in spite of the terrible heat, it was buttoned to the chin. His hands were long, sinewy, and gorilla-like. The expression of his countenance was that of goodness and nobility.

The black president seemed to be unable to smile. Humor was wasted upon him. The negroes of Hayti are a sullen people. A man accustomed to the lovable laughter of negroes in the United States -- men whose ancestors came from the same tribes that peopled Hayti -- is always surprised by the smileless, saturnine aspect of the Haytian face.

Hyppolite listened to the plan for a more exclusively American policy in Hayti. His eyes were concealed behind the little blue panes, but he opened and shut his terrible hands impatiently.

"We are content to be as we are," he said in the local French patois. "We have learned to look with suspicion upon all schemes for our island coming from white men. We know that they would overrun us if we gave them the opportunity. What has your nation done for our race?"

"It has poured out blood and money, and laid waste whole states in order to make the black man the equal of the white man," I answered.

"Has it?" growled the president. "It has cheated the negro with promises that are never kept, and with laws that are never enforced. The blacks of the United States are kept in a state of inferiority from which they can never rise. You cannot name one negro governor of a state, although there are several American states in which the whites are outnumbered by the blacks. The people of Hayti won their independence from their white masters by the sword, and they will keep it by the sword. The United States tried to get us to give them the Mole St. Nicholas for a coaling station; but we are not fools. No white nation seeks a foothold in this island except as a basis for conquest."

"That is a remarkable statement," I said, "when you recall the fact that, but for the warning given by Mr. Monroe, a President of the United States, to the Holy Alliance, Hayti would have been reconquered by France."

"Ah yes! the Monroe Doctrine! always the Monroe Doctrine!" cried Hyppolite. "But the history of the world shows that no race can develop unless it develops itself; no race can be free unless the means of freedom are in its own hands; and no white people can look at a rich country inhabited by negroes without desiring to secure it for themselves. We are free, and we intend to remain free. You see a negro holding the highest office in the nation. Would that be possible if the United States or any other white government had control? No. Each race must live apart to be free. When the races mix, one race or the other must fall into a condition of inferiority."

"And the negroes of Africa?" I interrupted. "Will they, too, be able to maintain governments of their own?"

"Probably not. They are unarmed, and surrounded by powerful white nations. But that is a question for the future. The example of Hayti may yet play a part in the destiny of Africa."

Not being initiated into the shrewd mysteries of New York journalism, the president could not understand why an American newspaper should meddle with the governmental affairs of the little republic. Nor did I seek to enlighten him concerning the advantages which a sharp turn of adventurous enterprise may bring to the press in my sensation-loving country.

The American minister consulted the captain of the Atlanta, and both sent cabled messages to Washington recommending a "demonstration in force."

"What will you do if our gunboat bombards your capital?" I said to one of the black generals.

"Kill every white man in Port-au-Prince," he said with an amiable grin.

"But that will not save your city from destruction."

The general pushed his cocked hat on the back of his woolly head and spat on the ground vigorously. I could hear his teeth click.

"Two British warships once threatened to bombard the city of Les Cayes," he said, "and do you know what reply the brave Haytians made?"

"No."

"They said to the British, 'Tell us which end of the city you will begin to burn, and we will commence to burn the other end.' That was a good answer, wasn't it?"

It is impossible to convey an idea of the leering vanity and insolence in that savage face. The eyes rolled sidewise, the lids drooped cunningly, the nostrils expanded, and the thick underlip was thrust out.

"Tell that story to the captain of your gunboat," he said. "Tell him I told you -- I, I, I" -- and he slapped his breast valiantly.

"Suppose you come to the ship with me and tell him yourself," I suggested.

"It would be contrary to the etiquette of our army," he said. "A Haytian soldier is not allowed to boast."

While the captain of the Atlanta waited for orders to train his guns on Port-au-Prince and bring the black republic to terms, he found it impossible to learn the size or condition of the guns in the three harbor forts which commanded his vessel. In order not to unnecessarily arouse the passions of the population, the captain decided not to send any of his men on shore, and requested me to find out what I could about the armament of the forts.

It was a serious task, for a white man discovered in the act of gathering information for a hostile warship would have his throat cut without ceremony. I went to a drinking house just outside of the wall of the cemetery and found a Haytian colonel with whom I had become acquainted.

"You have come just in time to see a man die," he said, as I sat down at the table beside him. "He cut a man's throat, and will be shot. The army does that work in Hayti."

Then came a shining stream of bayonets, and sixteen hundred black soldiers were drawn up in a line facing the cemetery wall, with a dazzling group of mounted officers at the centre. The prisoner, a fine-looking, well-dressed negro, was led out in front of the soldiers by a white cord fastened to his right wrist, a black priest with a crucifix walking by his side.

The military commandant of Port-au-Prince, plumed and covered with gold lace, galloped out to the prisoner, unrolled the death warrant, struck a theatrical attitude and, with one hand outstretched, read the sentence. A firing squad of six soldiers advanced to within fifteen feet of the victim.

"Isn't it fine!" said the colonel, rapturously, as we watched the scene.

A bottle of rum and a glass were handed to the prisoner. He filled the glass and drank it off at a gulp. Then he received a cigar and a match. He scratched the match on his trousers, lit the cigar in a lazy, swaggering way, and puffed at it with the easy carelessness of a mere spectator. It was an old custom, for the Haytians enjoy the sight of courage in the presence of death.

On all sides rose sounds of festivity. The crowd swayed joyously in the bright sunlight. And out there on the dull red earth the condemned man stood beside his open grave, calmly smoking his cigar, with the stolid soul of old Africa in his face.

The squad fired. Not a shot hit the prisoner. The soldiers reloaded their rifles and fired again. His arm was broken, but he stood still. Another volley and he fell, yet he moved. A soldier advanced, and putting the muzzle of his rifle to the prostrate body, ended the agony. Then the crowd shrieked and danced, and was suddenly silent and sullen.

How was I to get a look at the interior of the forts? It was plain that the colonel would not help me if he suspected my purpose. There was not a man in the place who would not have cheerfully killed me, had I given a hint of my mission.

"You have plenty of soldiers for a small nation," I remarked, as the troops surged past the house.

The colonel showed the whites of his eyes, and twisted his mouth into the semblance of a smile.

"The great Napoleon made that same remark," he said.

"It's a pity you have no good guns in your harbor forts."

"Wha-a-at?"

"It seems so strange that a great military nation like Hayti" -- I kept my face straight -- "should be defenceless against a sea attack."

"Have you seen the guns in our forts?" The colonel showed his sharp white teeth.

"No; but I'll bet fifty francs that there is not a good modern rifle in place."

"I accept the bet," roared the colonel.

"How will we decide it?"

"I will show you the guns."

"When?"

"Now."

"I'm afraid you are too sharp for me, colonel. Let us wait until to-morrow."

"No, no," shouted the excited officer, jumping to his feet, "you must go now. I don't intend to let you escape from the wager."

And so I was taken into all the forts, and was permitted to examine all the guns and ammunition. Within half an hour I had made my report to the captain of the Atlanta, and that night he trained his guns on the one effective fort in Port-au-Prince.

But hardly were the preparations for a bombardment complete when a message from Washington instructed the commander of the gunboat to refrain from any hostile demonstration, and the negro generals got drunk for joy. The United States had been challenged to war and had not dared to face the nation that vanquished Napoleon.

In the generous excitement of that great moment, the American minister was privately informed that the Haytian government would gladly pay the twenty thousand dollars demanded by the United States, on condition that the Minister of Foreign Affairs was to be allowed to quietly retain six thousand dollars for himself -- the American minister to make his own arrangements for a share of the booty. The offer was declined.

Island of fairy loveliness! Palm-crested, evergreen mountains! Dreamy valleys, sparkling with sweet waters! Soil of eternal youth and riches! The palaces and plantations of the French have vanished. The knightly spirit of Toussaint l'Ouverture is dead. The stateliness of the old days has given place to a monstrous caricature of civilization. A stupid and merciless military despotism arrays its blood-stained body in the fair garment of republicanism. The most corrupt and debased government known to man flourishes in the one spot where nature seems to link heaven and earth together.

Who that has seen Hayti and the United States, shall say that the negro is dragged downward by association with his white brother? The black men of Hayti have lived for a hundred years, without outside hindrance, on a soil of surprising wealth, in a climate married to their temperament, shielded from invasion by the greatest power of the American continent, and possessed of all the knowledge that history can teach a free people. Yet they are slowly returning to the darkness and misery of primordial Africa. The black men of the United States, torn from their native soil by slave-dealers, and set in the midst of white men, have profited by every advance the republic has made, and, led by lofty-minded negroes like Booker T. Washington, are gradually emerging into the light of that serene civilization in which alone can true liberty endure.

I sharpened the pencil which jotted down these lines with a knife from the table of the negro emperor Soulouque. It has a cheap iron blade and a solid gold handle, on which is engraved an imperial crown and Soulouque's monogram. It was this sable monarch who created four negro princes and fifty-nine negro dukes, yet he ended his murderous reign by flying from his enraged subjects under the protection of the white crew of a British gunboat.