alid style than the
generality. There was a governor there, my guide informed me--an
ornamental personage, much respected. To my question whether he had any
soldiers, I was answered 'No,' the Haytians didn't like soldiers. I was
to understand, however, that they were not common blacks. They aspired
to be a commonwealth with public rights and alliances. Hayti a republic,
France a republic: France and Hayti good friends now. They had a French
bishop and French priests and a French currency. In spite of their land
laws, they were proud of their affinity with the great nation; and I
heard afterwards, though not from my Jacmel companion, that the better
part of the Haytians would welcome back the French dominion if they were
not afraid that the Yankees would disapprove.

My guide persisted in leading me outside the town, and as my time was
limited, I tried in various ways to induce him to take me back into it.
He maintained, however, that he had been told to show me whatever was
most interesting, and I found that I was to see an American
windmill-pump which had been just erected to supply Jacmel with fresh
water. It was the first that had been seen in the island, and was a
wonder of wonders. Doubtless it implied 'progress,' and would assist in
the much-needed ablution of the streets and kennels. I looked at it and
admired, and having thus done homage, I was allowed my own way.

It was market day. The Yankee cargo had been unloaded, and a great open
space in front of the cathedral was covered with stalls or else blankets
stretched on poles to keep the sun off, where hundreds of Haytian dames
were sitting or standing disposing of their wares--piles of salt fish,
piles of coloured calicoes, knives, scissors, combs, and brushes. Of
home produce there were great baskets of loaves, fruit, vegetables, and
butcher's meat on slabs. I looked inquisitively at these last; but I
acknowledge that I saw no joints of suspicious appearance. Children were
running about in thousands, not the least as if they were in fear of
being sacrificed, and babies hung upon their mothers as if natural
affection existed in Jacmel as much as in other places. I asked no
compromising questions, not wishing to be torn in pieces. Sir Spenser
St. John's book has been heard of in Hayti, and the anger about it is
considerable. The scene was interesting enough, but the smell was
unendurable. The wild African black is not filthy in his natural state.
He washes much