With respect to the ameliorations which have already been effected in Paris, one may say that wonders have been accomplished, particularly in regard to cleansing and paving the streets, and in all possible cases opening and widening every available spot of ground, whereby a freer air could be admitted.  I cannot conceive how people formerly could exist in such dirty holes emitting horrible odours, of which there still remain too many specimens, wherein even the physical appearance of persons one would imagine certainly must be affected, yet I have often remarked in the midst of the narrowest and most unsightly looking streets of Paris, numbers of persons with fresh colours and having a most healthy appearance; it is true that there are now open spaces in all quarters, from which a person cannot live more than about two hundred yards, the Boulevards encircling Paris, and the Seine running through it with its large wide quays, afford a free current of air all through the heart of the city, then there are such a number of spacious markets, of places, or, as we call them, squares, and of large gardens, which all afford ample breathing room; whereas in London that is not the case, in many parts, such as the city end of Holborn, Cheapside, Cornhill, Leadenhall street, Whitechapel, etc., where you must go a long way to get any thing like fresh air.  That part of Paris termed La Cite, was the worst in that respect, but such numbers of houses have been swept away round Notre-Dame, that they have now formed delightful promenades with trees and gravelled walks.

The French are extremely fond of anything in the shape of a garden, and you come upon them sometimes where you would least expect to find them at the backs of houses, in the very narrow nasty little streets to which I have alluded, but if they have no space of ground in which they can raise a bit of something green, they will avail themselves of their balconies, their terraces, their roofs, parapets, and I have often seen a sort of frame-work projecting from their windows, containing flowers and plants.  They evince the same partiality for animals, to whom they are extremely kind, and in several parts of Paris there are hospitals for dogs and cats, where they are attended with the utmost care.  I was much amused the first time I heard of such an establishment; I went with a lady to pay a visit to a friend, and after the usual enquiries, the question of how is Bijou was added, in a most anxious manner:  the answer was given with a sigh.  “Oh! my dear, he is at the hospital,” and then continued the lady in a somewhat less doleful tone, “but fortunately he is going on very well, and in another week we hope he will be able to come out.”  I thought all the while that they must be alluding to a servant of the family, who had been sent to the hospital, when the lady I had accompanied exclaimed, “Poor dear little creature.”  This somewhat puzzled me, and whilst I was pondering on what it could all mean, the other lady observed, “It is such a nice affectionate animal,” and at last I found out it was a dog which excited so much sympathy.