CHAPTER I.
GENERAL DESCRIPTION OF HAYTI.
Standing on one of the lofty mountains of Hayti, and looking towards the interior, I was struck with the pertinence of the saying of the Admiral, who, crumpling a sheet of paper in his hand, threw it on the table before George III., saying, “Sire, Hayti looks like that.” The country appears a confused agglomeration of mountain, hill, and valley, most irregular in form; precipices, deep hollows, vales apparently without an outlet; water occasionally glistening far below; cottages scattered here and there, with groves of fruit-trees and bananas clustering round the rude dwellings. Gradually, however, the eye becomes accustomed to the scene; the mountains separate into distinct ranges, the hills are but the attendant buttresses, and the valleys assume their regular forms as the watersheds of the system, and the streams can be traced meandering gradually towards the ocean.
If you then turn towards the sea, you notice that the valleys have expanded into plains, and the rushing torrents have become broad though shallow rivers, and the mountains that bound the flat, open country push their buttresses almost into the sea. This grand variety of magnificent scenery can be well observed from a point near Kenskoff, about ten miles in the interior from the capital, as well as from the great citadel built on the summit of La Ferrière in the northern province. Before entering into particulars, however, let me give a general idea of the country.
The island of Santo Domingo is situated in the West Indies between 18° and 20° north latitude and 68° 20’ and 74° 30’ west longitude. Its greatest length is four hundred miles, its greatest breadth one hundred and thirty-five miles, and is calculated to be about the size of Ireland. Hayti occupies about a third of the island—the western portion—and, pushing two great promontories into the sea, it has a very large extent of coast-line. It is bounded on the north by the Atlantic Ocean, on the east by the republic of Santo Domingo, on the south by the Caribbean Sea, and on the west by the passage which separates it from Cuba and Jamaica.
Its most noted mountain-ranges are La Selle, which lies on the south-eastern frontier of Hayti; La Hotte, near Les Cayes; and the Black Mountains in the northern province; but throughout the whole extent of the republic the open valleys are bounded by lofty elevations. In fact, on approaching the island from any direction, it appears so mountainous that it is difficult to imagine that so many smiling, fertile plains are to be met with in every department. They are, however, numerous. The most extensive are the Cul-de-Sac, near Port-au-Prince, the plains of Gonaives, the Artibonite, Arcahaye, Port Margot, Leogâne, that of Les Cayes, and those that follow the northern coast.
Hayti has the advantage of being well watered, though this source of riches is greatly neglected. The principal river is the Artibonite, which is navigable for small craft for a short distance; the other streams have more the character of mountain torrents, full to overflowing during the rainy season, whilst during the dry they are but rivulets running over broad pebbly beds.
The lakes lying at the head of the plain of Cul-de-Sac are a marked feature in the landscape as viewed from the neighbouring hills. They are but little visited, as their shores are marshy, very unhealthy, and uninhabitable on that account, while the swarms of mosquitoes render even a temporary stay highly disagreeable. The waters of one of them are brackish, which would appear to indicate more salt deposits in the neighbourhood.
There are a few islands attached to Hayti, the principal, La Tortue, on the north, Gonaives on the west, and L’Isle-à-Vache on the south coast. Some attempts have been made to develop their natural riches, but as yet with but slight success. The first two named are famous for their mahogany trees.
The principal towns of the republic are Port-au-Prince, the capital, Cap Haïtien in the north, and Les Cayes in the south. Jacmel, Jérémie, Miragoâne, St. Marc, and Gonaives are also commercial ports.
Port-au-Prince is situated at the bottom of a deep bay, which runs so far into the western coast as almost to divide Hayti in two. It contains about 20,000 inhabitants, and was carefully laid out by the French. It possesses every natural advantage that a capital could require. Little use, however, is made of these advantages, and the place is one of the most unpleasant residences imaginable. I was one day talking to a French naval officer, and he observed, “I was here as a midshipman forty years ago.” “Do you notice any change?” I asked. “Well, it is perhaps dirtier than before.” Its dirt is its great drawback, and appears ever to have been so, as Moreau de St. Méry complained of the same thing during the last century. However, there are degrees of dirt, and he would probably be astonished to see it at the present day. The above paragraph was first written in 1867; since that it has become worse, and when I last landed (1877), I found the streets heaped up with filth.
The capital is well laid out, with lines of streets running parallel to the sea, whilst others cross at right angles, dividing the town into numerous islets or blocks. The streets are broad, but utterly neglected. Every one throws out his refuse before his door, so that heaps of manure, broken bottles, crockery, and every species of rubbish encumber the way, and render both riding and walking dangerous. Building materials are permitted occasionally to accumulate to so great an extent as completely to block up the streets and seriously impede the traffic. Mackenzie, in his notes on Hayti, remarks on the impassable state of the streets in 1826; torn up by tropical rains, they were mended with refuse (generally stable dung to fill up the holes, and a thin layer of earth thrown over), only to be again destroyed by the first storm. Ask Haytians why they do not mend their streets and roads, they answer, “Bon Dieu, gâté li; bon Dieu, paré li” (God spoilt them, and God will mend them). Then, as now, the roads were in such a state in wet weather that only a waggon with a team of oxen could get through the muddy slough.
On first entering the town, you are struck with the utter shabbiness of the buildings, mean cottages and grovelling huts by the side of the few decent-looking dwellings. Most of the houses are constructed of wood, badly built with very perishable materials, imported from the United States or our Northern colonies. The idea that originally prevailed in the construction of the private houses was admirable; before each was a broad verandah, open to all passers, so that from one end of the town to the other it was intended that there should be cool, shady walks. But the intolerable stupidity of the inhabitants has spoilt this plan; in most streets the level of the verandahs of each house is of a different height, and frequently separated by a marshy spot, the receptacle of every species of filth; so that you must either walk in the sun or perform in the shade a series of gymnastic exercises exceedingly inconvenient in a tropical climate.
On either side of the street was a paved gutter, but now, instead of aiding the drainage, it is another cause of the accumulation of filth. The stones which formerly rendered the watercourses even are either removed or displaced, and the rains collecting before the houses form fetid pools, into which the servants pour all that in other countries is carried off by the sewers. In a few of the more commercial streets, where foreigners reside, more attention is paid to cleanliness, but still Port-au-Prince may bear the palm away of being the most foul-smelling, dirty, and consequently fever-stricken city in the world.
The port is well protected, but is gradually filling up, as the rains wash into it not only the silt from the mountains, but the refuse of the city, and no effort is made to keep it open. As there is but little tide, the accumulations of every species of vegetable and animal matter render the water fetid, and when the sea-breeze blows gently over these turbid waves, an effluvia is borne into the town sickening to all but native nostrils.
The most remarkable edifice of Port-au-Prince was the palace, a long, low, wooden building of one storey, supported on brick walls: it contained several fine rooms, and two halls which might have been rendered admirable for receptions; but everything around it was shabby—the stables, the guard-houses, the untended garden, the courtyard overrun with grass and weeds, and the surrounding walls partially in ruins. This spacious presidential residence was burnt down during the revolutionary attack on Port-au-Prince in December 1869, and no attempt has been made to rebuild it.
The church is a large wooden building, an overgrown shed, disfigured by numerous wretched paintings which cover its walls; and, as an unworthy concession to local prejudice, our Saviour is occasionally represented by an ill-drawn negro.
The senate-house was the building with the most architectural pretensions, but its outer walls only remained when I last saw it, fire having destroyed the roof and the interior wood-work. There is no other edifice worthy of remark; and the private houses, with perhaps a score of exceptions, are of the commonest order.
The market-places are large and well situated, but ill-tended and dirty, and in the wet season muddy in the extreme. They are fairly supplied with provisions. I may notice that in those of Port-au-Prince very superior meat is often met with, and good supplies of vegetables, including excellent European kinds, brought from the mountain gardens near Fort Jaques.
The supply of water is very defective. During the reign of the Emperor Soulouque a luminous idea occurred to some one, that instead of repairing the old French aqueduct, iron pipes should be laid down. The Emperor had the sagacity to see the advantage of the plan, and gave orders for the work to be done. As an exception to the general rule, the idea was to a certain extent well carried out, and remains the only durable monument of a most inglorious reign. Had the iron pipes been entirely substituted for the old French work, the inhabitants would have enjoyed the benefit of pure water; but when I left in 1877, the people in the suburbs were still breaking open the old stone-work to obtain a source of supply near their dwellings; and pigs, children, and washerwomen congregated round these spots and defiled the stream.
The amount of water introduced into the town is still most inadequate; and though numerous springs, and one delightful stream, La Rivière Froide, are within easy distance of the port, no effort has been made to increase the supply. La Rivière Froide—name redolent of pleasant reminiscences in a tropical climate—could easily fill a canal, which would not only afford an inexhaustible supply for the wants of the town and shipping, but, by creating an outward current, would carry off the floating matter which pollutes the port. Since my departure a Mr. Stephens commenced some works to afford the town a constant supply of water, but these, I understand, have as yet only been partially carried out. If ever finished, they will afford to the inhabitants a great boon.
The cemetery is situated outside the town. I never entered it except when compelled to attend a funeral, and hastened to leave it as soon as possible, on account of an unpleasant odour which pervades it. It is not kept in good order, though many families carefully attend to the graves of their relatives, and there are several striking tombs. People of all religions are buried here; but it is on record that a brawling Irish priest once attempted to disinter a Protestant child. His brawling subsequently led to his banishment.
I noticed on my first arrival in Port-au-Prince two marble coffins, very handsome, lying neglected on the ground outside the palace. I was told they had been brought from abroad in order that the remains of Pétion and Boyer, two of their best Presidents, should repose in them; but for many years I saw them lying empty on the same spot, and I never heard what became of them.
The curse of Port-au-Prince is fire. Every few years immense conflagrations consume whole quarters of the town. Nothing can stop the flames but one of the few brick-houses, against which the quick-burning fire is powerless. During my residence in Port-au-Prince five awful fires devastated the town. On each occasion from two to five hundred houses were destroyed. And yet the inhabitants go on building wretched wooden match-boxes, and even elaborate houses of the most inflammable materials. Companies should be careful how they insure property in Port-au-Prince, as there are some very well-authenticated stories of frauds practised on them both by Europeans and natives.
Port-au-Prince, on my first arrival in 1863, was governed by a municipality, over which presided a very honest man, a Monsieur Rivière, one of those Protestants to whom I have referred in my chapter on religion. As a new arrival, I thought the town sufficiently neglected, but I had reason to change my opinion. It was a pattern of cleanliness to what it subsequently became. The municipality, when one exists, has for its principal duties the performance or neglect of the registration of all acts relating to the “état civil,” and to divide among its members and friends, for work never carried out, whatever funds they can collect from the city.
At the back of the capital, at a distance of about five miles, was the village of La Coupe, the summer residence of the wealthier families. As it was situated about 1200 feet above the level of the sea and was open to every breeze, it afforded a delightful change from the hot, damp town; but during the civil war of 1868 the best houses were destroyed and never reconstructed. There is a natural bath there, the most picturesque feature of the place; it is situated under lofty trees, that cast a deep shade over the spot, and during the hottest day it is charmingly cool.
Cap Haïtien is the most picturesque town in Hayti; it is beautifully situated on a most commodious harbour. As you enter it, passing Fort Picolet, you are struck by its safe position—a narrow entrance so easily defended. My first visit was in H.M.S. “Galatea,” Captain Macguire; and as we expected that we might very possibly be received by the fire of all the batteries, our own crew were at their guns, keeping them steadily trained on Fort Picolet, whose artillery was distant about a couple of hundred yards. Having slowly steamed past forts and sunken batteries, we found ourselves in front of the town, with its ruins overgrown with creepers, and in the background the rich vegetation sweeping gracefully up to the summit of the beautiful hill which overshadows Cap Haïtien.
Cap Haïtien never recovered from the effects of the fearful earthquake of 1842, when several thousands of its inhabitants perished. To this day they talk of that awful event, and never forget to relate how the country-people rushed in to plunder the place, and how none lent a helping-hand to aid their half-buried countrymen. Captain Macguire and myself used to wander about the ruins, and we could not but feel how little energy remained in a people who could leave their property in such a state. It was perhaps cheaper to build a trumpery house elsewhere.
One of those who suffered the most during that visitation wrote before the earth had ceased trembling, “Against the acts of God Almighty no one complains,” and then proceeded to relate how the dread earthquake shook down or seriously injured almost every house; how two-thirds of the inhabitants were buried beneath the fallen masonry; how the bands of blacks rushed in from mountain and plain, not to aid in saving their wretched countrymen, whose cries and groans could be heard for two or three days, but to plunder the stores replete with goods; and—what he did complain of—how the officers and men of the garrison, instead of attempting to keep order, joined in plundering the small remnants of what the rest of the inhabitants could save from the tottering ruins. What a people!
The most striking objects near Cap Haïtien are the remains of the palace of Sans Souci, and of the citadel constructed by King Christophe, called La Ferrière. It requires a visit to induce one to believe that so elaborate, and, I may add, so handsome a structure, could exist in such a place as Hayti, or that a fortification such as the citadel could ever have been constructed on the summit of a lofty mountain, five thousand feet, I believe, above the level of the sea. Some of the walls are eighty feet in height, and sixteen feet in thickness, where the heavy batteries of English guns still remain in position. All is of the most solid masonry, and covering the whole peak of the mountain.
We were really lost in amazement as we threaded gallery after gallery where heavy fifty-six and thirty-two pounders guarded every approach to what was intended to be the last asylum of Haytian independence. Years of the labour of toiling thousands were spent to prepare this citadel, which the trembling earth laid in ruins in a few minutes. What energy did this black king possess to rear so great a monument? but the reverse of the medal states that every stone in that wonderful building cost a human life.
It is a popular idea in Hayti that the superiority of the northern department, and the greater industry of its inhabitants, date from the time of Christophe, and some express a belief that his iron system was suitable to the country; but the fact is that Moreau de St. Méry, writing in the last century, insists on the superior advantages of the northern province, its greater fertility, the abundance of rain, and consequently the number of rivers, as well as the superior intelligence and industry of the inhabitants, and their greater sociability and polish. They are certainly more sociable than in the capital, and people still seek northern men to work on their estates. As for Christophe’s system, no amount of increase in produce could compensate for its brutality.
Gonaives is a poor-looking town, constantly devastated by revolutions and fires, with a few broad, unfinished streets, and some good houses among the crowds of poor-looking buildings. This neighbourhood is famous for what are called white truffles. They are dried and sent to the different parts of the republic.
St. Marc, though not so scattered as Gonaives, is a small place. It was formerly built of stone; a few specimens of this kind of building still remain. Jacmel has a very unsafe harbour, but possesses importance as one of the ports at which the royal mail steamers call, and has a large export trade in coffee. Les Cayes, Jérémie, and other smaller ports I have only seen at a distance, but I hear they are much like the other cities and towns of the republic. Mackenzie says that the city and environs of Les Cayes are described as “très riante,” and that in his time it was kept in better order than the capital. This is said still to be the case.
My last long ride in Hayti was from Cap Haïtien to Gonaives, and nestling in the hills I found some very pretty villages, planted in lovely sites, with fresh, babbling streams, and fruit groves hiding the inferior-looking houses. The place I most admired was, I think, called Plaisance. There was a freshness, a brightness, a repose about the village that made me regret it was situated so far from the capital.
Wherever you may ride in the mountains, you cannot fail to remark that there is scarcely a decent-looking house out of the towns. The whole of the country is abandoned to the small cultivators, whose inferior cottages are met with at every turn, and, as might be expected from such a population, very dirty and devoid of every comfort, rarely any furniture beyond an old chair, a rickety table, a few sleeping-mats, and some cooking utensils. There is no rule, however, without an exception, and I remember being much struck by seeing at Kenskoff, a small hamlet about ten or twelve miles direct from Port-au-Prince, a good house, where there were some chairs, tables, and bedsteads, and around this dwelling several huts, in which the wives of our host lived separately.
Now and then a peasant will build a larger house than usual; we met with one, the last we slept in on our ride to the mountain, La Selle, whose proprietor had really some ideas of comfort, and before whose dwelling coffee-plants were growing, trimmed to the height of six feet, planted separate from one another, perfectly clean, and covered with indications of an abundant crop. They had been planted there in former days by an intelligent proprietor, and the peasant had the merit of not neglecting them.
The plain of Cul-de-Sac, adjoining the north side of Port-au-Prince, was one of the richest and most cultivated during the time of the French; and as all regular cultivation depends on the amount of water, their engineers had constructed the most careful system for the storage and distribution of the supplies. Properly managed, all the large estates could receive the quantity necessary for their lands, but for many years the stone-work was neglected, and the grand barrage was becoming useless, when President Geffrard placed the affair in the hands of an able French engineer, Mons. Ricard, who efficiently restored the main work, but had not funds to complete the canals for distributing the waters. As usual in all enterprises in that country, the money voted had to pass through so many hands, that before it reached the engineer it had diminished to less than half.
The soil of the plain is most fertile, and only appears to require water to give the most promising crops of sugar-cane. There are some very extensive estates that could afford work for a large population, but the ever-increasing disturbances in the country render Capital shy of venturing there.
As might readily be supposed, the roads are greatly neglected, and during the rainy season are almost impassable. They are composed simply of the surrounding soil, with a few branches thrown into the most dangerous holes. The bridges are generally avoided; it is a saying in Hayti, that you should go round a bridge, but never cross it, and the advice is generally to be followed. For the main streams there are fords. An attempt was once made to bridge over La Grande Rivière du Cul de Sac, but the first freshet washed away all the preliminary work.
In the mountains there are only bridle-paths, though occasionally I came across the remains of old French roads and good paths. On the way to Kenskoff there is a place called L’Escalier, to escalade the steepest side of the mountain. The horses that are used to it manage well, but those from the plains find the steps awkward. On the road from Gonaives to the northern province there is a very remarkable paved way, the work so well done that it has resisted the rain during a hundred years of neglect. Some of the bridle-paths in the north are exceedingly good, and are admirably carried up the sides of hills, so as to avoid the most difficult spots.
In the range above Tourjeau I came across a very pretty grassy bridle-path, and near I found the remains of a large French country-house, evidently the residence of some great proprietor. The tradition in the neighbourhood is that there was an indigo factory adjoining, but I could scarcely imagine the site suitable. Wherever you may go in Hayti you come across signs of decadence, not only from the exceptional prosperity of the French period, but even of comparatively recent years. After the plundering and destruction of 1868 and 1869, few care to keep up or restore their devastated houses, and it is now a hand-to-mouth system.
Cul-de-Sac is a glorious plain, and in good hands would be a fountain of riches; and the same may be said of the other splendid plains that abound throughout the island. Every tropical production grows freely, so that there would be no limit to production should the country ever abandon revolutions to turn its attention to industry. About three-fourths of the surface of the plains are occupied by wood or prickly acacia, that invades every uncultivated spot.
The mountains that bound these plains and extend to the far interior present magnificent sites for pleasant residences; but no civilised being could occupy them on account of the difficulty of communication and the doubtful character of the population. Up to the time of the fall of President Geffrard it was possible; now it would be highly imprudent. In one of the most smiling valleys that I have ever seen, lying to the left whilst riding to the east of Kenskoff, a friend of mine possessed a very extensive property. The place looked so beautiful that I proposed to him a lengthened visit, to which he acceded. Delay after delay occurred, and then the civil war of 1865 prevented our leaving Port-au-Prince. In 1869 there were arrested in that valley a dozen of the worst cannibals of the Vaudoux sect, and the police declared that the whole population of that lovely garden of the country was given up to fetish worship. It was probably a knowledge of this that made my friend so long defer our proposed visit, as the residence of a white man among them might have been looked upon with an evil eye.
I have travelled in almost every quarter of the globe, and I may say that, taken as a whole, there is not a finer island than that of Santo Domingo. No country possesses greater capabilities, or a better geographical position, or more variety of soil, of climate, or of production; with magnificent scenery of every description, and hill-sides where the pleasantest of health-resorts might be established. And yet it is now the country to be most avoided, ruined as it has been by a succession of self-seeking politicians, without honesty or patriotism, content to let the people sink to the condition of an African tribe, that their own selfish passions may be gratified.
The climate of Hayti is of the ordinary tropical character, and the temperature naturally varies according to the position of the towns. Cap Haïtien, being exposed to the cooling influence of the breezes from the north, is much more agreeable as a residence than Port-au-Prince, which is situated at the bottom of a deep bay.
In summer, that is, during the months of June, July, August, and September, the heat is very oppressive. The registered degrees give one an idea of the disagreeableness of the climate. In my house at Tourjeau, near Port-au-Prince, 600 feet above the level of the sea, I have noted a registering thermometer marking 97° in the drawing-room at 2 P.M. in July, and 95° in the dining-room on the ground-floor; and in a room off a court in the town I have heard of 103°—no doubt from refraction.[2] At the Petit Séminaire the priests keep a register, and I notice that rarely is the heat marked as 95°, generally 93.2° is the maximum; but the thermometer must be kept in the coolest part of the college, and is no criterion of what is felt in ordinary rooms. The nights also are oppressively warm, and for days I have noticed the thermometer seldom marking less than 80° during the night. In August the heat is even greater than in July, rising to 97° at the Petit Séminaire, whilst in September the maximum is registered as 91.5°; and this heat continues well on into November, the maximum being the same. I have not the complete returns, but generally the heats of September are nearly equal to those of August. In what may be called winter, the thermometer rarely marks over 84°, and the nights are cool and pleasant. In fact, I have been assured of the thermometer having fallen as low as 58° during the night, but I never saw it myself below 60°. It is a curious fact that foreigners generally suffer from the heat, and get ill in consequence, whilst the natives complain of the bitter cold of the winter, and have their season of illness then.
Port-au-Prince is essentially unhealthy, and yellow fever too often decimates the crews of the ships of war that visit its harbour. In 1869, on account of the civil convulsion, French and English ships remained months in harbour. The former suffered dreadfully; the “Limier,” out of a crew of 106 men and eight officers, lost fifty-four men and four officers, whilst the “D’Estrés” and another had to mourn their captains and many of their crew. Who that ever knew him can forget and not cherish the memory of Captain De Varannes of the “D’Estrés,” one of the most sympathetic of men, a brilliant officer, and a steady upholder of the French and English alliance? De Varannes was an Imperialist, an aide-de-camp of the Empress, and thoroughly devoted to the family that had made his fortune. When the medical men announced to him that he had not above two hours to live, he asked the French agent if he had any portraits of the Imperial family; they were brought and placed at the foot of the bed where he could see them. He asked then to be left alone, and an hour after, when a friend crept in, he found poor De Varannes dead, with his eyes open, and apparently fixed on the portraits before him. I should add that both these vessels brought the fever to Port-au-Prince from Havana and Martinique.
The English ships suffered less, as our officers are not bound by the rigid rules that regulate the French commanders, who would not leave the harbour without express orders from their Admiral, though their men were dying by dozens. Captain Hunter of the “Vestal” and Captain Salmon of the “Defence” knew their duty to their crews too well to keep them in the pestilential harbour, and as soon as yellow fever appeared on board, steamed away; and the latter went five hundred miles due north till he fell in with cool weather, and thus only lost three men. A French officer told me that when the sailors on board the “Limier” saw the “Defence” steam out of harbour, they were depressed even to tears, and said, “See how the English officers are mindful of the health of their men, whilst ours let us die like flies.” Captain Hunter of the “Vestal” never had due credit given him for his devotion to his crew whilst suffering from yellow fever. He made a hospital of his cabin, and knew no rest till he had reached the cool harbours of the north.
Merchant seamen in certain years have suffered dreadfully from this scourge, both in Port-au-Prince and in the neighbouring port of Miragoâne. Two-thirds of the crews have often died, and every now and then there is a season in which few ships escape without loss.
Yellow fever rarely appears on shore, as the natives do not take it, and the foreign population is small and mostly acclimatised. The other diseases from which people suffer are ordinary tropical fevers, agues, small-pox, and the other ills to which humanity is subject; but although Port-au-Prince is the filthiest town I have ever seen, it has not yet been visited by cholera. In the spring of 1882 small-pox broke out in so virulent a form that the deaths rose to a hundred a day. This dreadful visitation continued several months, and it is calculated carried off above 5000 people in the city and its neighbourhood.
If Hayti ever becomes civilised, and if ever roads are made, there are near Port-au-Prince summer health-resorts which are perfectly European in their climate. Even La Coupe, or, as it is officially called, Pétionville, about five miles from the capital, at an altitude of 1200 feet, is from ten to twelve degrees cooler during the day, and the nights are delicious; and if you advance to Kenskoff or Furcy, you have the thermometer marking during the greatest heat of the day 75° to 77°, whilst the mornings and evenings are delightfully fresh, with the thermometer at from 57° to 68°, and the nights cold. On several occasions I passed some months at Pétionville, and found the climate most refreshing after the burning heats of the sea-coast.
The regular rainy season commences about Port-au-Prince during the month of April, and continues to the month of September, with rain again in November under the name of “les pluies de la Toussaint.” After several months of dry weather one breathes again as the easterly wind brings the welcome rain, which comes with a rush and a force that bends the tallest palm-tree till its branches almost sweep the ground. Sometimes, whilst dried up in the town, we could see for weeks the rain-clouds gathering on the Morne de l’Hôpital within a few miles, and yet not a drop would come to refresh our parched-up gardens.
During the great heats the rain is not only welcome as cooling the atmosphere, but as it comes in torrents, it rushes down the streets and sweeps clean all those that lead to the harbour, and carries before it the accumulated filth of the dry season. In very heavy rains the cross streets are flooded; and one year the water came down so heavily and suddenly that the brooks became rushing rivers. The flood surprised a priest whilst bathing, swept him down to the Champs de Mars, and threw his mangled body by the side of a house I was at that moment visiting.
That evening, as I was already wet, I rode home during the tempest, and never did I see more vivid lightning, hear louder thunder, or feel heavier rain. As we headed the hill, the water rushing down the path appeared almost knee-deep; and to add to the terror of my animal, a white horse, maddened by fear, came rushing down the hill with flowing mane and tail, and swept past us. Seen only during a flash of lightning, it was a most picturesque sight, and I had much difficulty in preventing my frightened horse joining in his wild career.
The rainy season varies in different parts of the island, particularly in the north. I am surprised to observe that the priests have found the annual fall of rain to be only 117 inches. I had thought it more. Perhaps, however, that was during an exceptionally dry year.
The great plain of Cul-de-Sac is considered healthy, although occasionally intensely warm. It is, however, freely exposed not only to the refreshing sea-breezes, but to the cooling land-winds that come down from the mountains that surround it. There is but little marsh, except near La Rivière Blanche, which runs near the mountains to the north and is lost in the sands.
On the sugar-cane plantations, where much irrigation takes place, the negro workmen suffer somewhat from fever and ague, but probably more from the copious libations of new rum, which they assert are rendered necessary by the thirsty nature of the climate.
I had often read of a clap of thunder in a clear sky, but never heard anything like the one that shook our house near Port-au-Prince. We were sitting, a large party, in our broad verandah, about eight in the evening, with a beautiful starlight night,—the stars, in fact, shining so brightly that you could almost read by their light,—when a clap of thunder, which appeared to burst just over our roof, took our breath away. It was awful in its suddenness and in its strength. No one spoke for a minute or two, when, by a common impulse, we left the house and looked up into a perfectly clear sky. At a distance, however, on the summits of the mountains, was a gathering of black clouds, which warned my friends to mount their horses, and they could scarcely have reached the town when one of the heaviest storms I have known commenced, with thunder worthy of the clap that had startled us. Though all of us were seasoned to the tropics, we had never been so impressed before.
In the wet season the rain, as a rule, comes on at regular hours and lasts a given time, though occasionally it will continue through a night and longer, though rarely does it last above twenty-four hours without a gleam of sunshine intervening.