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.