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Paris As It Was and As It Is

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After having assured the Institute that they consider the
_pittoresque_ part of the restoration of the _Madonna di Foligno_ as
pure as it was possible to be desired, the Commissioners proceed to
call their attention to some discordance in the original design and
colouring of this _chef d'oeuvre_, and to make on it some critical
observations. This they do in order to prevent any doubts which might
arise in the mind of observers, and lead them to imagine that the
restoration had, in any manner, impaired the work of RAPHAEL.

They next congratulate themselves on having at length seen this
masterpiece of the immortal RAPHAEL restored to life, shining in all
its lustre, and through such means, that there ought no longer to
remain any fear respecting the recurrence of those accidents whose
ravages threatened to snatch it for ever from general admiration.

They afterwards terminate their Report in the following words:

"The Administration of the CENTRAL MUSEUM OF THE ARTS, who have, by
their knowledge, improved the art of restoration, will, no doubt,
neglect nothing to preserve that art in all its integrity; and,
notwithstanding repeated success, they will not permit the
application of it but to pictures so injured, that there are more
advantages in subjecting them to a few risks inseparable from
delicate and numerous operations, than in abandoning them to the
destruction by which they are threatened. The invitation which the
Administration of the Museum gave to the National Institute to attend
the restoration of the _Madonna di Foligno_ by RAPHAEL, is to us a
sure pledge that the enlightened men of whom it is composed felt that
they owed an account of their vigilance to all the connoisseurs in
Europe."

[Footnote 1: It may not be amiss to observe that RAPHAEL employed the
_impasto_ colour but in few of his pictures, of which the
_Transfiguration_ is one wherein it is the most conspicuous: his
other productions are painted with great transparency, the colours
being laid on a white ground; which rendered still more difficult the
operation above-mentioned. _Note of the Author_.]



LETTER XXXI.

_Paris, December 10, 1801._

"Of all the bridges that were ever built," says Sterne, "the whole
world, who have passed over it, must own that the noblest--the
grandest--the lightest--the longest--the broadest that ever conjoined
land and land together upon the face of the terraqueous globe, is the

PONT NEUF."

The _Pont Neuf_ is certainly the largest, and, on account of its
situation[1], the most conspicuous, and most frequented of any of the
bridges in Paris; but, in the environs of the capital, is one which
surpasses them all. This is the _Pont de Neuilly._

The first stone of the _Pont Neuf_ was laid by Henry III in 1578, and
the foundation of the piles was begun to be formed on the opposite
side; when the troubles of the League forced DU CERCEAU, the
architect, to withdraw to foreign countries. The work was not resumed
till the reign of Henry IV, who ordered it to be continued under the
direction of MARCHAND; but, owing to various causes, the _Pont Neuf_
was not finished till 1674.

The length of this bridge is one thousand and twenty feet, and its
breadth seventy-two; which is sufficient to admit of five carriages
passing abreast. It is formed of twelve arches, seven of which are on
the side of the _Louvre_, and five on the side of the _Quai des
Augustins_, extending over the two channels of the river, which is
wider in this place, from their junction.

In 1775, the parapets were repaired, and the foot-way lowered and
narrowed. SOUFFLOT, the architect of the Pantheon, availed himself of
this opportunity to build, on the twenty half-moons which stand
immediately above each pile, as many rotundas, in stone, to serve as
shops. On the outside, above the arches, is a double cornice, which
attracts the eye of the connoisseur in architecture, notwithstanding
its mouldering state, on account of the _fleurons_ in the antique
style, and the heads of Sylvans, Dryads, and Satyrs, which serve as
supports to it, at the distance of two feet from each other.

As the mole that forms a projection on this bridge between the fifth
and seventh arch, stands facing the _Place Dauphine_, which was built
by Henry IV, it was the spot chosen for erecting to him a statue.
This was the first public monument of the kind that had been raised
in honour of French kings. Under the first, second, and third race,
till the reign of Lewis XIII, if the statue of a king was made, it
was only for the purpose, of being placed on his tomb, or else at the
portal of some church, or royal residence which he had either built
or repaired.

Parisians and strangers used to admire this equestrian statue of
Henry IV, and before the revolution, all agreed in taking him for the
model of goodness. In proof of his popularity, we are told, in the
_Tableau de Paris_, that a beggar was one day following a passenger
along, the foot-way, of the _Pont Neuf_: it was a festival. "In the
name of St. Peter," said the mendicant, "in the name of St. Joseph,
in the name of the Virgin Mary, in the name of her divine Son, in the
name of God?" Being arrived before the statue of the conqueror of the
League, "In the name of _Henri quatre_" exclaimed he, "in the name of
_Henri quatre?_"--"Here!" said the passenger, and he gave him a louis
d'or.

Unquestionably, no monarch that ever sat on the throne of France was
so popular as _Henri quatre_; and his popularity was never eclipsed
by any of his successors. Even amidst the rage of the revolutionary
storm, the military still held his memory in veneration. On opening
the sepultures at St. Denis in 1793, the coffin of Henry IV was the
first that was taken out of the vault of the Bourbons. Though he died
in 1610, his body was found in such preservation that the features of
his face were not altered. A soldier, who was present at the opening
of the coffin, moved by a martial enthusiasm, threw himself on the
body of this warlike prince, and, after a considerable pause of
admiration, he drew his sabre, and cut off a long lock of Henry's
beard, which was still fresh, at the same time exclaiming, in very
energetic and truly-military terms: "And I too am a French soldier!
In future I will have no other whiskers." Then placing this valuable
lock on his upper lip, he withdrew, adding emphatically: "Now I am
sure to conquer the enemies of France, and I march to victory."

In Paris, all the statues of kings had fallen, while that of Henry IV
still remained erect. It was for some time a matter of doubt whether
it should be pulled down. "The poem of the _Henriade_ pleaded in its
favour;" but, says Mercier, "he was an ancestor of the perjured
king," Then, and not till then, this venerated statue underwent the
same fate.

It has been generally believed that the deed of Ravaillac was
dictated by fanaticism, or that he was the instrument employed by the
Marchioness of Verneuil and the Duke of Epernon for assassinating
that monarch. However, it stands recorded, I am told, in a manuscript
found in the National Library, that Ravaillac killed Henry IV because
he had seduced his sister, and abandoned her when pregnant. Thus
time, that affords a clue to most mysteries, has also solved this
historical enigma.

This statue of Henry IV was erected on the 23d of August, 1624. To
have insulted it, would, not long since, have been considered as a
sacrilege; but, after having been mutilated and trodden under foot,
this once-revered image found its way to the mint or the
cannon-foundry. On its site now stands an elegant coffeehouse,
whence you may enjoy a fine view of the stately buildings which
adorn the quays that skirt the river.

While admiring the magnificence of this _coup d'oeil_, an Englishman
cannot avoid being struck by the multitude of washerwomen, striving
to expel the dirt from linen, by means of _battoirs_, or wooden
battledores. On each side of the Seine are to be seen some hundreds
hard at work, ranged in succession, along the sides of low barks,
equal in length to our west-country barges. Such is the vigour of
their arm that, for the circumference of half-a-mile, the air
resounds with the noise of their incessant blows. After beating the
linen for some time in this merciless manner, they scrub it with a
hard brush, in lieu of soaping it, so that a shirt which has passed
through their hands five or six times is fit only for making lint. No
wonder then that Frenchmen, in general, wear coarse linen: a hop-sack
could not long resist so severe a process. However, it must be
confessed, that some good arises from this evil. These washerwomen
insensibly contribute to the diffusion of knowledge; for, as they are
continually reducing linen into rags, they cannot but considerably
increase the supply, of that article for the manufacture of paper.

Compared to the Thames, even above bridge, the Seine is far from
exhibiting a busy scene; a few rafts of wood for fuel, and some
barges occasionally in motion, now and then relieve the monotony of
its rarely-ruffled surface. At this moment, its navigation is impeded
from its stream being swollen by the late heavy rains. Hence much
mischief is apprehended to the country lying contiguous to its banks.
Many parts of Paris are overflowed: in some streets where carriages
must pass, horses are up to their belly in water; while pedestrians
are under the necessity of availing themselves of the temporary
bridges, formed with tressels and planks, by the industrious
Savoyards. The ill consequences of this inundation are already felt,
I assure you; being engaged to dinner yesterday in the _Rue St.
Florentin_, I was obliged to step into a punt in order to reach the
bottom of the stair-case; and what was infinitely more mortifying to
the master of the house, was that, the cellar being rendered
inaccessible,--he was deprived of the satisfaction of regaling his
guests with his best claret.

On the right hand side of the _Pont Neuf_, in crossing that bridge
from the _Quai de l'École_ to the _Quai de Conti_, is a building,
three stories high, erected on piles, with its front standing between
the first and second arches. It is called

LA SAMARITAINE.

Over the dial is a gilt group, representing Jesus Christ and the
Samaritan woman near Jacob's well, pourtrayed by a basin into which
falls a sheet of water issuing from a shell above. Under the basin is
the following inscription:

_Fons Hortorum
Puteus aquarum viventium._

These words of the Gospel are here not unaptly applied to the
destination of this building, which is to furnish water to the garden
of the _Tuileries_, whose basins were not, on that account, the less
dry half the year. The water is raised by means of a pump, and
afterwards distributed, by several conduits, to the _Louvre_ and the
_Palais du Tribunat_, as well as to the _Tuileries_.

In the middle, and above the arch, is a superstructure of timber-work
faced with gilt lead, where are the bells of the clock and those of
chimes, which ought to play every half-hour.

This tasteless edifice interrupts the view in every direction and as
it is far from being an ornament to the _Pont Neuf_, no one could now
regret its entire removal. Under the old _régime_, however, it was
nothing less than a government.

Among the functions of the governor, were included the care of the
clock, which scarcely ever told the hour, and that of the chimes,
which were generally out of order. When these chimes used to delight
Henry IV, it is to be presumed that they were kept in better tune. It
was customary to make them play during all public ceremonies, and
especially when the king passed.

"The _Pont Neuf_, is in the city of Paris what the heart is in the
human body, the centre of motion and circulation: the flux and reflux
of inhabitants and strangers crowd this passage in such a manner,
that, in order to meet persons one is looking for, it is sufficient
to walk here for an hour every day. Here, the _mouchards_, or spies
of the police, take their station; and, when at the expiration of a
few days, they see not their man, they positively affirm that he is
not in Paris."

Such was the animated picture of the _Pont Neuf_, as drawn by Mercier
in 1788, and such it really was before the revolution. At present,
though this bridge is sometimes thronged with passengers, it presents
not, according to my observation, that almost continual crowd and
bustle for which it was formerly distinguished. No stoppage now from
the press of carriages of any description, no difficulty in advancing
quickly through the concourse of pedestrians. Fruit-women, hucksters,
hawkers, pedlars, indeed, together with ambulating venders of
lottery-tickets, and of _tisane_, crying "_à la fraiche! Qui veut
boire?_" here take their stand as they used, though not in such
numbers.

But the most sensible diminution is among the shoe-blacks, who stand
in the carriage-way, and, with all their implements before them,
range themselves along the edge of the very elevated _trottoir_ or
foot-pavement. The _décrotteurs_ of the _Pont Neuf_ were once reputed
masters of the art: their foresight was equal to their dexterity and
expedition. For the very moderate sum of two _liards_, they enabled
an abbé or a poet to present himself in the gilded apartments of a
dutchess. If it rained, or the rays of the sun were uncommonly
ardent, they put into his hand an umbrella to protect the economy of
his head-dress during the operation. Their great patrons have
disappeared, and, in lieu of a constant succession of customers, the
few _décrotteurs_ who remain at their old-established station, are
idle half the day for want of employment.

These Savoyards generally practise more than one trade, as is
indicated by the _enseigne_ which is affixed, on a short pole, above
their tool-box.

LA FRANCE tond les
chiens coupe les chats
proprement et sa femme
vat en ville et en campagne

Change the name only, and such is, line for line, letter for letter,
the most ordinary style of their _annonce_. It is, however, to be
presumed, that the republican belles have adopted other favourites
instead of dogs and cats; for no longer is seen, as in the days of
royalty, the aspiring or favoured lover carrying his mistress's
lap-dog in the public promenades. In fact, the business of
dog-shearing, &c. seems full as dead in this part of Paris as that
of shoe-cleaning. The _artists_ of the _Pont Neuf_ are, consequently,
chop-fallen; and hilarity which formerly shone on their countenance,
is now succeeded by gloomy sadness.

At the foot of the _Pont Neuf_ on the _Quai de la Féraille_
recruiting-officers used to unfurl their inviting banners, and
neglect nothing that art and cunning could devise to insnare the
ignorant, the idle, and the unwary. The means which they sometimes
employed were no less whimsical than various: the lover of wine was
invited to a public-house, where he might intoxicate himself; the
glutton was tempted by the sight of ready-dressed turkies, fowls,
sausages &c. suspended to a long pole; and the youth, inclined to
libertinism, was seduced by the meretricious allurements of a
well-tutored doxy. To second these manoeuvres, the recruiter
followed the object of his prey with a bag of money, which he
chinked occasionally, crying out "_Qui en veut?_" and, in this
manner, an army of heroes was completed. It is almost superfluous
to add, that the necessity of such stratagems is obviated, by the
present mode of raising soldiers by conscription.

Before we quit the _Pont Neuf_, I must relate to you an adventure
which, in the year 1786, happened to our friend P-----, who is now
abroad, in a situation of considerable trust and emolument. He was,
at that time, a half-pay subaltern in the British army, and visited
Paris, as well from motives of economy as from a desire of acquiring
the French language. Being a tall, fresh-coloured young man, as he
was one day crossing the _Pont Neuf_, he caught the eye of a
recruiting-officer, who followed him from the _Quai de la Féraille_
to a coffee-house, in the _Rue St. Honoré_, which our Englishman
frequented for the sake of reading the London newspapers. The
recruiter, with all the art of a crimp combined with all the
politeness of a courtier, made up to him under pretence of having
relations in England, and endeavoured, by every means in his power,
to insinuate himself into the good graces of his new acquaintance.
P----, by way of sport, encouraged the eagerness of the recruiter,
who lavished on him every sort of civility; peaches in brandy,
together with the choicest refreshments that a Parisian coffee-house
could afford, were offered to him and accepted: but not the smallest
hint was dropped of the motive of all this more than friendly
attention. At length, the recruiter, thinking that he might venture
to break the ice, depicted, in the most glowing colours, the
pleasures and advantages of a military life, and declared ingenuously
that nothing would make him so happy as to have our countryman P----
for his comrade. Without absolutely accepting or rejecting his offer,
P---- begged a little delay in order to consider of the matter, at
the same time hinting that there was; at that moment, a small obstacle
to his inclination. The recruiter, like a pioneer, promised to remove
it, grasped his hand with joy and exultation, and departed, singing a
song of the same import as that of Serjeant Kite:

"Come brave boys, 'tis one to ten,
But we return all gentlemen."

In a few days, the recruiter again met Mr. P---- at his accustomed
rendezvous; when, after treating him with coffee, liqueur, &c. he
came directly to the point, but neglected not to introduce into his
discourse every persuasive allurement. P----, finding himself pushed
home, reminded the recruiter of the obstacle to which he had before
alluded, and, to convince him of its existence, put into his hand His
Britannic Majesty's commission. The astonishment and confusion of the
French recruiter were so great that he was unable to make any reply;
but instantly retired, venting a tremendous ejaculation.

[Footnote 1: By the Plan of Paris, it will be seen that the _Pont
Neuf_ lies at the west point of the Island called _L'Ile du Palais_,
and is, as it were, in the very centre of the capital.]



LETTER XXXII.

_Paris, December 13, 1801._

In this gay capital, balls succeed to balls in an almost incredible
variety. There are actually an immense number every evening; so that
persons fond of the amusement of dancing have full scope for the
exercise of their talents in Paris. It is no longer a matter of
surprise to me that the French women dance so well, since I find that
they take frequent lessons from their master, and, almost every
night, they are at a dance of one kind or another. Added to this, the
same set of dances lasts the whole season, and go where you will, you
have a repetition of the same. However, this detracts not in the
smallest degree; from the merit of those Parisian belles who shine as
first-rate dancers. The mechanical part of the business, as Mr.
C----g would call it, they may thus, acquire by constant practice;
but the decorative part, if I may so term the fascinating grace which,
they display in all their movements, is that the result of study, or
do they hold it from the bounteous hand of Nature?

While I am speaking of balls, I must inform you that, since the
private ball of which I gave you so circumstantial an account, I have
been at several others, also private, but of a different complexion;
inasmuch as pleasure, not profit, was the motive for which they were
given, and the company was more select; but, in point of general
arrangement, I found them so like the former, that I did not think it
worth while to make any one of them the subject of a distinct letter.
In this line Madame Recamier takes the lead, but though her balls are
more splendid, those of Madame Soubiran are more agreeable. On the
21st of Frimaire, which was yesterday, I was at a public ball of the
most brilliant kind now known in Paris. It was the first of the
subscription given this season, and, from the name of the apartment
where it is held, it is styled the

BAL DU SALON DES ÉTRANGERS.

Midnight is the general hour for the commencement of such diversions;
but, owing to the long train of carriages setting down company at
this ball, it was near two o'clock before I could arrive at the scene
of action, in the _Rue Grange Batelière_, near the Boulevards.

After I alighted and presented my ticket, some time elapsed before I
could squeeze into the room where the dancing was going forward. The
spectators were here so intermixed with the dancers, that they formed
around them a border as complete as a frame to a picture. It is
astonishing that, under such circumstances, a Parisian Terpsichore,
far from being embarrassed, lays fresh claim to your applause. With
mathematical precision, she measures with her eye the space to which
she is restricted by the curiosity of the by-standers. Rapid as
lightning, she springs forward till the measure recalling her to the
place she left, she traces her orbit, like a planet, at the same time
revolving on her axis. Sometimes her "light, fantastic toe" will
approach within half an inch of your foot; nay, you shall almost feel
her breath on your cheek, and still she will not touch you, except,
perhaps, with the skirt of her floating tunic.

Among the female part of the company, I observed several lovely
women; some, who might have been taken for Asiatic sultanas,
irradiating the space around them by the dazzling brilliancy of their
ornaments; others, without jewels, but calling in every other aid of
dress for the embellishment of their person; and a few, rich in their
native charms alone, verifying the expression of the poet. Truth
compels me to acknowledge that six or eight English ladies here were
totally eclipsed. For the honour of my country, I could have wished
for a better specimen of our excellence in female beauty. No women in
the world, or at least none that ever I have met with in the
different quarters I have visited, are handsomer than the English, in
point of complexion and features. This is a fact which Frenchmen
themselves admit; but for grace, say they, our countrywomen stand
unrivalled, I am rather inclined to subscribe to this opinion. In a
well-educated French woman, there is an ease, an affability, a desire
to please and be pleased, which not only render her manners
peculiarly engaging, but also influence her gait, her gestures, her
whole deportment in short, and captivate admiration. Her natural
cheerfulness and vivacity spread over her features an animation
seldom to be found in our English fair, whose general characteristics
are reserve and coldness. Hence that striking expression which
exhibits the grace of the French belles to superior advantage.

Although my memory frequently disappoints me when I wish to retain
names, I have contrived to recollect those of three of the most
remarkable women in the ball-room. I shall therefore commit them to
paper before I forget them. Madame la Princesse de Santa-Croce
displayed more diamonds than any of her competitors; Mademoiselle
Lescot was the best dancer among several ladies renowned for dancing;
and Madame Tallien was, on the whole, the handsomest female that I
saw in the room. There might possibly be women more beautiful than
she at this ball, but they did not come under my observation.

I had previously seen Madame Tallien at the _Opera Buffa_, and was
struck by her appearance before, I knew who she was. On seeing her
again at the _Salon des Étrangers_, I inquired of a French lady of my
acquaintance, whose understanding and discernment are pre-eminent, if
Madame T------ had nothing to recommend her but her personal
attractions? The lady's answer is too remarkable for me not to repeat
it, which I will do _verbatim_. "In Madame T------," said she,
"beauty, wit, goodness of heart, grace, talents, all are united. In a
gay world, where malice subsists in all its force, her
inconsistencies alone have been talked of, without any mention being
made of the numerous acts of beneficence which have balanced, if they
have not effaced, her weakness. Would you believe," continued she,
"that, in Paris, the grand theatre of misconduct, where moral
obligations are so much disregarded, where we daily commit actions
which we condemn in others; would you believe, that Madame T------
experiences again and again the mortification of being deprived of
the society of this, or that woman who has nothing to boast of but
her depravity, and cannot plead one act of kindness, or even
indulgence? This picture is very dark," added she, "but the colouring
is true."--"What you tell me," observed I, "proves that,
notwithstanding the irruption of immorality, attributed to the
revolution, it is still necessary for a woman to preserve appearances
at least, in order to be received here in what is termed the best
company."--"Yes, indeed," replied she; "if a woman neglects that main
point in Paris, she will soon find herself lowered in the opinion of
the fashionable world, and be at last excluded from even the
secondary circles. In London, your people of fashion are not quite so
rigid."--"If a husband chooses to wink at his wife's incontinence,"
rejoined I, "the world on our side of the water is sufficiently
complaisant to follow his example. Now with you, character is made to
depend more on the observance of etiquette; and, certainly,
hypocrisy, when detected, is of more prejudice to society than
barefaced profligacy."--The lady then resumed thus concerning the
subject of my inquiry. "Were some people to hear me," said she, "they
might think that I had drawn you a flattering portrait of Madame
T------ and say, by way of contrast, when the devil became old, he
turned hermit; but I should answer that, for some years, no
twenty-four hours have elapsed without persons, whom I could name on
occasion, having begun their daily career by going to see her, who
saved their life, when, to accomplish that object, she hazarded her
own."

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