396
SANTO
DOMINGO.
“ Tou' d'suite, monsieur” was his reply, smilingly given. After a few questions and some notes by his secretary, a spectacled old negro, the General bowed us out, our troubles being over, as we thought, until we heard this old hypocrite say to the guide, “Bureau of Police." Utterly overcome at this, I supported myself against a wall, and glaring upon the uniquely costumed guide, I insisted upon knowing exactly how far we had to go yet, and in what direction. If there was any more places besides the “ Bureau of Police ” to visit, I declined posi tively to go, unless they took me as a criminal to one of their prisons, where, in any event, they would have to “feed” me; but, as a free and mighty American citizen, travelling in a country at peace with my own nation, I pro-test-ed. It will hardly be believed, but that youth grinned! Yes, I repeat it—actually grinned in my face, and muttered, “ Republique (?) d'Haiti,” as he pointed to himself. By Jove ! I wish he had been, for I think then and there the glorious Republic of Haiti would have become utterly extinct, never more to be found upon the school-maps to puzzle the brain of our young (and some old) scholars as to whether it was a separate island or not from St Domingo. The “ Bureau of Police ” looked more like a horse-stable, with its dirty guardroom and rusty old muskets, and dirty, ragged negro guard. The “ chief” and his aide, coal-black negroes clad in blue denims stiff with starch, received us, asked us impertinent questions, which I cut short by poking my passport at him. He laid it on the table, leaned over it, examined it, turned it over, and then fell to studying it for some minutes, after which he looked at me and said— “ Your name?” “ You have it there before you,” I replied.