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: