Their number in Paris has been reckoned to exceed seven hundred; but
they are very far from enjoying a comparative degree of reputation.
Celebrity is said to be confined to about a dozen only, which have
risen into superior consequence from various causes. Except a few
resorted to by the literati or wits of the day, or by military
officers, they are, in general, the rendezvous of the idle, and the
refuge of the needy. This is so true, that a frequenter of a
coffeehouse scarcely ever lights a fire in his own lodging during the
whole winter. No sooner has he quitted his bed, and equipped himself
for the day, than he repairs to his accustomed haunt, where he
arrives about ten o'clock in the morning, and remains till eleven at
night, the hour at which coffeehouses are shut up, according to the
regulation of the police. Not unfrequently persons of this
description make a cup of coffee, mixed with milk, with the addition
of a penny-roll, serve for dinner; and, be their merit what it may,
they are seldom so fortunate as to be consoled by the offer of a rich
man's table.
Here, no person who wishes to be respected, thinks of lounging in a
coffeehouse, because it not only shews him to be at a loss to spend
his time, which may fairly be construed into a deficiency of
education or knowledge, but also implies an absolute want of
acquaintance with what is termed good company. Certain it is that,
with the exceptions before-mentioned, a stranger must not look for
good company in a coffee-house in Paris; if he does, he will find
himself egregiously disappointed.
Having occasion to see an advertisement in an English newspaper, I
went a few evenings ago to one of the most distinguished places of
this sort in the _Palais du Tribunat_: the room was extremely
crowded. In five minutes, one of the company whom I had seen taking
out his watch on my entrance, missed it; and though many of the
by-standers afterwards said they had no doubt that a person of
gentlemanly exterior, who stood near him, had taken it, still it
would have been useless to charge that person with the fact, as the
watch had instantly gone through many hands, and the supposed
accomplices had been observed to decamp with uncommon expedition.
What diverted me not a little, was that the person suspected coolly
descanted on the imprudence of taking out a valuable watch in a crowd
of strangers; and, after declaiming the most virulent terms against
the dishonesty of mankind; he walked away very quietly.
Notwithstanding his appearance and manner were so much in his favour,
he had no sooner affected his retreat than some subalterns of the
police, not thief-takers, but _mouchards_ or spies, some of whom are
to be met with in every principal coffeehouse, cautioned the master
of the house against suffering his presence in future, as he was a
notorious adventurer.
You must not, however, imagine from this incident, that a man cannot
enter a coffeehouse in Paris, without being a sufferer from the
depredations of the nimble-fingered gentry. Such instances are not, I
believe, very frequent here; and though it is universally allowed
that this capital abounds with adventurers and pickpockets of every
description, I am of opinion that there is far less danger to be
apprehended from them than from their archetypes in London. Everyone
knows that, in our refined metropolis, a lady of fashion cannot give
a ball or a rout, without engaging Mr. Townsend, or some other Bow
street officer, to attend in her ball, in order that his presence may
operate as a check on the audacity of knavish intruders.
The principle coffeehouses here are fitted up with taste and
elegance. Large mirrors form no inconsiderable part of their
decoration. There are no partitions to divide them into boxes. The
tables are of marble; the benches and stools are covered with Utrecht
velvet. In winter, an equal degree of warmth is preserved in them by
means of a large stove in the centre, which, from its figure, is an
ornamental piece of furniture; while, in summer, the draught of air
which it maintains, contributes not a little to cool the room. In the
evening, they are lighted by _quinquets_ in a brilliant manner.
Formerly, every coffeehouse in Paris used to have its chief orator;
in those of the more remote part of the suburbs you might, I am
informed, hear a journeyman tailor or shoemaker hold forth on various
topics. With the revolution, politics were introduced; but, at the
present day, that is a subject which seems to be entirely out of the
question.
In some coffeehouses, where literati and critics assemble, authors
and their works are passed in review, and to each is assigned his
rank and estimation. When one of these happens to have been checked
in his dramatic career by an _undiscerning_ public, he becomes, in
his turn, the most merciless of critics.
In many of these places, the "busy hum" is extremely tiresome;
German, Italian, Spanish, Dutch, Danish, Russ, together with English
and French, all spoken at the same time and in the same room, make a
confusion of tongues as great almost as that which reigned at Babel.
In addition to the French newspapers, those of England and Germany
may be read; but as they are often bespoke by half a dozen persons in
succession, it requires no small degree of patience to wait while
these quidnuncs are conning over every paragraph.
Independently of coffee, tea, and chocolate, ices, punch and liqueurs
may be had in the principal coffeehouses; but nothing in the way of
dinner or supper, except at the subterraneous ones in the _Palais du
Tribunat_, though there are many of a rather inferior order where
substantial breakfasts in the French style are provided. Whether
Voltaire's idea be just, that coffee clears the brain, and stimulates
the genius, I will not pretend to determine: but if this be really
the case, it is no wonder that the French are so lively and full of
invention; for coffee is an article of which they make an uncommon
consumption. Indeed, if Fame may be credited, the prior of a
monastery in Arabia, on the word of a shepherd who had remarked that
his goats were particularly frisky when they had eaten the berries of
the coffee-tree, first made a trial of their virtue on the monks of
his convent, in order to prevent them from sleeping during divine
service.
Be this as it may, Soliman Aga, ambassador of the Porte to Lewis XIV,
in 1669, was the first who introduced the use of coffee in Paris.
During a residence of ten years in the French capital, he had
conciliated the friendship of many persons of distinction, and the
ladies in particular took a pleasure in visiting him. According to
the custom of his country, he presented them with coffee; and this
beverage, however disgusting from its colour and bitterness, was well
received, because it was offered by a foreigner, in beautiful china
cups, on napkins ornamented with gold fringe. On leaving the
ambassador's parties, each of the guests, in the enthusiasm of
novelty, cried up coffee, and took means to procure it. A few years
after, (in 1672) one Paschal, an Armenian, first opened, at the
_Foire St. Germain_, and, afterwards on the _Quai de l'École_, a shop
similar to those which he had seen in the Levant, and called his new
establishment _café_. Other Levantines followed his example; but, to
fix the fickle Parisian, required a coffeeroom handsomely decorated.
PROCOPE acted on this plan, and his house was successively frequented
by Voltaire, Piron, Fontenelle, and St. Foix.
As drinking, which was then in vogue, was pursued less on account of
the pleasure which it afforded, than for the sake of society, the
French made no hesitation in deserting the tavern for the
coffeehouse. But, in making this exchange, it has been remarked, by
the observers of the day, that they have not only lost their taste
for conviviality, but are become more reserved and insincere than
their forefathers, whose hearts expanded by the free use of the
generous juice of the grape; thus verifying the old maxim, _in vino
veritas._
No small attraction to a Parisian coffeehouse is a pretty female to
preside in the bar, and in a few I have seen very handsome women;
though this post is commonly assigned to the mistress or some
confidential female relation. Beset as they are from morn to night by
an endless variety of flatterers, the virtue of a Lucretia could
scarcely resist such incessant temptation. In general, they are
coquetish; but, without coquetry, would they be deemed qualified for
their employment?
Before the revolution, I remember, in the _ci-devant Palais Royal_, a
coffeehouse called _Le café mécanique_. The mechanical contrivance,
whence it derived its name, was of the most simple nature. The tables
stood on hollow cylinders, the tops of which, resembling a salver
with its border, were level with the plane of the table, but
connected with the kitchen underneath. In the bar sat a fine, showy
lady, who repeated your order to the attendants below, by means of a
speaking-trumpet. Presently the superficial part of the salver,
descended through the cylinder, and reascending immediately, the
article called for made its appearance. This _café méchanique_ did
not long remain in being, as it was not found to answer the
expectation of the projector. But besides six or seven coffeehouses
on the ground-floor of the _Palais du Tribunat_, there are also
several subterraneous ones now open.
In one of these, near the _Théâtre Français,_ is a little stage, on
which farces, composed for the purpose, are represented _gratis_. In
another, is an orchestra consisting entirely of performers belonging
to the National Institution of the Blind. In a third, on the north
side of the garden, are a set of musicians, both vocal and
instrumental, who apparently never tire; for I am told they never
cease to play and sing, except to retune their instruments. Here a
female now and then entertains the company with a solo on the French
horn. To complete the sweet melody, a merry-andrew habited _à la
sauvage_, "struts his hour" on a place about six feet in length, and
performs a thousand ridiculous antics, at the same time flogging and
beating alternately a large drum, the thunder-like sound of which is
almost loud enough to give every auditor's brain a momentary
concussion.
A fourth subterraneous coffeehouse in the _Palais du Tribunat_ is
kept by a ventriloquist, and here many a party are amused by one of
their number being repeatedly led into a mistake, in consequence of
being ignorant of the faculty possessed by the master of the house.
This man seems to have no small share of humour, and exercises it
apparently much to his advantage. In three visits which I paid to his
cellar, the crowd was so great that it was extremely difficult to
approach the scene of action, so as to be able to enjoy the effect of
his ludicrous deceptions.
A friend of mine, well acquainted with the proper time for visiting
every place of public resort in Paris, conducted me to all these
subterraneous coffeehouses on a Sunday evening, when they were so
full that we had some difficulty to find room to stand, for to find a
seat was quite impossible. Such a diversity of character I never
before witnessed in the compass of so small a space. However, all was
mirth and good-humour. I know not how they contrive to keep these
places cool in summer; for, in the depth of winter, a more than
genial warmth prevails in them, arising from the confined breath of
such a concourse. On approaching the stair-case, if the orchestra be
silent, the entrance of these regions of harmony is announced by a
heat which can be compared only to the true Sirocco blast such as you
have experienced at Naples.