National Opinion

My first night in Port au Prince was a map of misery in recollection, for, in addition to the flies and the fleas and the mosquitoes and the bugs, with a huge black spider sprawling along the wall, that, hushed in grim repose, awaited its coming prey, there was perpetual crowing of cocks, as if the demons wanted, like the Western imitation of Chanticleer, to take the sun in and make him rise before his time, intermingled with the perpetual roar of amorous donkeys, whose sentimental strains in the streets were the very reverse of those of Philomela warbling amid the leaves.

That asinine music, as I soon discovered, was a regular institution of the charming metropolis, where the long-eared lovers seemed to have it all their own way. They thronged the thoroughfares ad libitum, and enjoyed themselves as they pleased, without let or hindrance. If Paris is the hell of horses, Port au Prince is the heaven of asses.

My first resolution at break of day was to find, if possible, a villa in the country, and there pass at least my nights while sojourning in the land. My efforts were crowned with brilliant success by the discovery of a delicious little box about two miles distant, which had been constructed in colonial times by people who knew how to combine comfort and beauty. The approach to it between two long rows of palms gave indication of loveliness beyond, which was not belied by the cottage and the grounds. It was but of one story, to be sure, and had only four rooms, but that was quite room enough for my singleness of person and purpose; whilst everything was as neat as possible, as it had long been occupied by a foreigner.

Not twenty yards from the door was a great bath almost as capacious as the dwelling, shaded by umbrageous foliage and fed by a mountain stream that rushed through it with refreshing sound and look. Infinite was the pleasure of that early morning plunge, until one unlucky afternoon the demon of curiosity prompted a promenade towards the source of the waters. Malignant Fate stood by and smiled when I went out on the stroll.

I had not walked more than a mile when I came suddenly upon a multitude of women wading in the rivulet and washing the filthiest lot of clothing that ever disgusted mortal eyes. It was all over with my swims. Never could I prevail upon myself to indulge in them again. The idea of laving in water that had once been impregnated with such filth, however well it might have been purified before reaching the bath, was too much for my philosophy. Then indeed was the bliss of ignorance appreciated, and the thirst of knowledge deplored.

- M. Walsh in Lippincott's Magazine.