University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
OUR HERO FINISHES HIS EDUCATION AT PARIS.

Having still plenty of money, our hero found no
difficulty in finding ways and means of spending
it. Riches make themselves wings every
where, but no where do they fly away more
pleasantly than in Paris. He got acquainted
with the dancers at the Opera Francois, and
they furnished one wing. He got acquainted with
the beau monde, and they furnished another.
Finally, he got acquainted with some of the gambling
houses, and they added two more. An

American gentleman never suspects foul play in
gambling with gentlemen, for he has no experience
of that sort at home. But there are such
things abroad, even among titled personages. A
baron and a count attached themselves to him particularly,
and what was not a little remarkable,
never played without winning his money, although
they never won before in their lives, and were
especially mortified that this rare turn of fortune
should be at the expense of their particular friend.

Our hero, while administering at the grocery in
Pump-street, had whiled away the tedious intervals
of leisure, by learning to play the fiddle a
little. Transplanted to the genial regions of the
Square, he took a master, and, as every man is
good for something, he discovered an aptitude for
music, and became a capital amateur. For the
last twenty years music has got the better of all
the arts and sciences in Europe. A Prima Donna
reigns more despotically, and gives herself ten
times more airs than a Semiramis; a fashionable
composer, outranks a first rate poet or philosopher;
and a man that can sing one of Rossini's songs,
never wants a supper. Our hero got acquainted
with Rossini, the vainest blockhead of the age, and
gained his confidence to such a degree, that he told
him in private, he had received immense offers
through the British Ambassador, who had been
specially instructed by his government. He
thought, however, he should decline them, lest it

might occasion a war between the two countries.
“And what will the poor Dutchess de—say?”
quoth Rossini, taking a pinch of snuff out of a gold
box set with diamonds, and bearing the picture of
an emperor, which had been given him for composing
“Di tanti palpiti,” an air he had stolen
from the Tyrolese, and spoiled a little.

Sopus was now at the pinnacle. He was introduced
to Mademoiselle Sontag, who sung him a
song which cost him five hundred guineas, in suppers
and tickets for her benefit. He played the
fiddle for her, and she declared every where in
the first circles, that he played like a king.
Now every thing done in the manner of kings, is
perfect in Paris, except among the Liberals. Accordingly,
the Liberals abused, and the Ultras
praised; all Paris was divided into factions, and
Rossini become jealous lest our hero's fiddle should
cut out his piano. A musical war raged for some
time, and produced great discords in the beau
monde.

All this while our hero's money, which after all
is a sine qua non in the fashionable world, was
melting, or rather flying away rapidly. How
could it do otherwise when it had so many wings?
It is astonishing how little difference there is between
a great deal and a little money. Every
thing depends on the owner. If he is a prudent
man, with moderate desires, he has always a plenty
of money; but if, like our hero, he has been properly

initiated into the virtue of self-denial, let
him have boundless wealth, and he will always be
wanting. It is not the money, but the man, makes
the real difference between a competency and
wealth. All other is ideal.

The ultras were delighted with our hero's fiddle,
because he played like a king; and especially because
he was an amateur, and it was charming to
get so expensive an article as music for nothing.
Among every people except barbarians and semi-barbarians,
it is the custom to devote all our attention
to married ladies, leaving the young unmarried
ones to get married as soon as possible. The unenlightened
semi-barbarians of this republic rail
at this as indicating corruption of manners. They
should have heard the sentiments of our hero,
derived from a first rate philosopher, on this subject.
He was accustomed to assert that this fashion
of following married women was founded
in the strictest reason and propriety. In reason,
because a man could not pay particular attention
to a single lady without exciting disreputable
suspicions that he intended to marry her. In propriety,
because every body knew a man could not
well marry a woman who already had a husband,
and therefore nobody could suspect him of such
an intention. It deceived no one and therefore
there was no harm in it. The custom he maintained,
was moreover founded, in the highest possible
respect for the sex, since it furnished the

best evidence of the virtue of the married ladies,
who certainly would not permit such attentions,
unless they felt themselves above all danger. Finally,
it was his opinion that the custom was invaluable
to the interests of the world at large, because
it encouraged marriages, as the only means
of gaining those attentions which are so indispensable
to a fashionable lady.

“But what do the husbands say to all this?”
asked some one.

“Husbands? why what business is it to them?”
replied Sopus.

What a fine thing is travelling, if a man only
knows how to make good use of his opportunities
—and how much he may improve his countrymen,
and more especially his countrywomen when
he comes home!

Friend Sopus finished his education as a roué,
and his estate about the same time. The count
and the baron never had such a run of luck before,
and fortune now seemed to make them ample
amends for all her former frowns. But a man
can't sleep forever, and all at once it occurred to
our hero that this unceasing run of the count and
baron was somewhat singular. He determined to
watch them, but he might as well have let it
alone; for they would not have completely finished
him in a month or two perhaps, if they had not
perceived with the quick instinct of guilt, that he
began to be a little suspicious of his friends.

Taking advantage of one of those tides on which
the affairs of men float to success or ruin, when
our hero was flushed with wine, and with a billet
from a dutchess who was a grandmother—ergo—a
perfect Ninon, they assailed him with the oft practised
and oft detected arts of a gambler, and completed
his ruin in a single night, at a single sitting.
They left him, as poor as old Sopus when he began
the world with his horse and cart.

Our hero knew enough of the world, to know
that the less the world knows of a man's wants,
the better is he likely to be treated. He therefore
said nothing about his being a ruined man.
But murder will out, and so will poverty, either at
the elbows or somewhere else. There is a pestilent
servility commonly attendant upon it, that
never fails to betray it to the eyes of experience.
I never see a person that has treated me as a common
acquaintance, or perhaps neglected me entirely
for years, grow all at once very attentive,
in calling and leaving cards, but I begin to suspect
the rogue is going down hill—and, alas! for
human nature—my suspicions are generally realized
in the end. From being impudent, or rather
from possessing that open self-possession, and
happy confidence, which attends a man conscious
of wealth, and sure of a welcome reception, our
hero dwindled all at once into a mighty modest
gentleman, and sneaked into a drawing room as
quietly as a cat. Hereupon the bon ton began

to smell a rat. Nothing but poverty, thought the
wiser ones, can bring a fashionable roué to this
pass. The suspicion was verified not long after, in
his making a demonstration upon the purse of one
of his best friends—a man who delighted in his
music beyond measure so long as it cost him nothing.
But though he loved music, he loved his
money still better, and came off triumphantly,
with an apology and a quick step.

Our hero became melancholy and thoughtful.
Nay, he moralized, and railed at the ingratitude
and bad taste of the Parisians, who would give
every thing but money for a song. When a man
is unhappy abroad, ten to one, but he begins to
think of “home, sweet home.” I heard three chimney
sweeps singing that charming song in the snow
the other day; so the sentiment must be universal.
Our hero first thought—then sighed—then
pined for home. Finally, he came to the resolution
of once more visiting his dear native country, and
marrying Angelina—for he had not heard of the
inconstancy of that faithless woman. “I will
teach them,” quoth he, “to estimate properly the
value of a fiddler—the delights of the opera, and the
opera dancers—I will refine, enlighten, and civilize
my semi-barbarous countrymen, who don't
know the exquisite propriety of courting the married,
and neglecting the single ladies, except the
latter are rich; and my more than semi-barbarous
countrywomen, who are as skittish as wild colts, a

sure sign of ill breeding. I will teach the young
gentlemen the proper value of whiskers—the
young ladies the importance of rouge—the married
women to flirt, and the married men to shut
their eyes. In short, I will be the Solon of the
fashionable world. The ladies will have me at
their parties—the citizens will give me dinners—
the single ladies will set their caps at me, and their
mammas will encourage them, so long as they remain
ignorant of the mortality of old Sopus' money
bags—and that I shall take care they shall not
soon know. I'll marry an heiress—I'll gallant the
married ladies—I'll”—But where is the money
to clear you out of Paris, and pay your passage
across the seas—whispered that ill natured rascal,
matter of fact.

He cast about among his dear friends. He
went to the count and the baron, and stated his
case frankly. The count and the baron had only
won a couple of hundred thousands, and they
generously lent him ten thousand francs. “You
may depend on my remitting you the money on
my arrival.” “My dear friend, say no more—the
money is yours.” “What a couple of generous
fellows are the count and the baron,” quoth Sopus.
And having finished his education, he embarked
for the new world.