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.