University of Virginia Library

A CONTENTED MAN.

In the garden of the Tuileries there is a sunny corner under the
wall of a terrace which fronts the south. Along the wall is a
range of benches commanding a view of the walks and avenues of
the garden. This genial nook is a place of great resort in the
latter part of autumn, and in fine days in winter, as it seems to
retain the flavor of departed summer. On a calm, bright morning
it is quite alive with nursery-maids and their playful little
charges. Hither also resort a number of ancient ladies and gentlemen,
who, with laudable thrift in small pleasures and small expenses,
for which the French are to be noted, come here to enjoy
sunshine and save firewood. Here may often be seen some cavalier
of the old school, when the sunbeams have warmed his blood
into something like a glow, fluttering about like a frostbitten
moth thawed before the fire, putting forth a feeble show of gallantry
among the antiquated dames, and now and then eyeing the
buxom nursery-maids with what might almost be mistaken for an
air of libertinism.

Among the habitual frequenters of this place, I had often remarked

an old gentleman, whose dress was decidedly anti-revolutional.
He wore the three-cornered cocked hat of the ancien régime;
his hair was frizzed over each ear into ailes de pigeon, a
style strongly savoring of Bourbonism; and a queue stuck out behind,
the loyalty of which was not to be disputed. His dress,
though ancient, had an air of decayed gentility, and I observed that
he took his snuff out of an elegant though old-fashioned gold box.
He appeared to be the most popular man on the walk. He had
a compliment for every old lady, he kissed every child, and he patted
every little dog on the head; for children and little dogs are
very important members of society in France. I must observe,
however, that he seldom kissed a child without, at the same time,
pinching the nursery-maid's cheek; a Frenchman of the old school
never forgets his devoirs to the sex.

I had taken a liking to this old gentleman. There was an habitual
expression of benevolence in his face, which I have very
frequently remarked in these relics of the politer days of France.
The constant interchange of those thousand little courtesies which
imperceptibly sweeten life, have a happy effect upon the features,
and spread a mellow evening charm over the wrinkles of old age.

Where there is a favorable predisposition, one soon forms a
kind of tacit intimacy by often meeting on the same walks. Once
or twice I accommodated him with a bench, after which we touched
hats on passing each other; at length we got so far as to take a
pinch of snuff together out of his box, which is equivalent to eating
salt together in the East; from that time our acquaintance was
established.

I now became his frequent companion in his morning promenades,
and derived much amusement from his good-humored remarks

on men and manners. One morning, as we were strolling
through an alley of the Tuileries, with the autumnal breeze whirling
the yellow leaves about our path, my companion fell into a
peculiarly communicative vein, and gave me several particulars
of his history. He had once been wealthy, and possessed of a
fine estate in the country, and a noble hotel in Paris; but the
revolution, which effected so many disastrous changes, stripped
him of every thing. He was secretly denounced by his own steward
during a sanguinary period of the revolution, and a number
of the bloodhounds of the Convention were sent to arrest him.
He received private intelligence of their approach in time to effect
his escape. He landed in England without money or friends, but
considered himself singularly fortunate in having his head upon
his shoulders; several of his neighbors having been guillotined
as a punishment for being rich.

When he reached London he had but a louis in his pocket,
and no prospect of getting another. He ate a solitary dinner on
beefsteak, and was almost poisoned by port wine, which from its
color he had mistaken for claret. The dingy look of the chop-house,
and of the little mahogany-colored box in which he ate his dinner,
contrasted sadly with the gay saloons of Paris. Every thing
looked gloomy and disheartening. Poverty stared him in the
face; he turned over the few shillings he had of change; did
not know what was to become of him; and—went to the theatre!

He took his seat in the pit, listened attentively to a tragedy
of which he did not understand a word, and which seemed made
up of fighting, and stabbing, and scene-shifting, and began to feel
his spirits sinking within him; when, casting his eyes into the
orchestra, what was his surprise to recognize an old friend and

neighbor in the very act of extorting music from a huge violoncello.

As soon as the evening's performance was over he tapped his
friend on the shoulder; they kissed each other on each cheek,
and the musician took him home, and shared his lodgings with
him. He had learned music as an accomplishment; by his friend's
advice he now turned to it as a mean of support. He procured a
violin, offered himself for the orchestra, was received, and again
considered himself one of the most fortunate men upon earth.

Here therefore he lived for many years during the ascendency
of the terrible Napoleon. He found several emigrants living like
himself, by the exercise of their talents. They associated together,
talked of France and of old times, and endeavored to keep up a
semblance of Parisian life in the centre of London.

They dined at a miserable cheap French restaurateur in the
neighborhood of Leicester-square, where they were served with a
caricature of French cookery. They took their promenade in St.
James's Park, and endeavored to fancy it the Tuileries; in short,
they made shift to accommodate themselves to every thing but an
English Sunday. Indeed the old gentleman seemed to have
nothing to say against the English, whom he affirmed to be braves
gens; and he mingled so much among them, that at the end of
twenty years he could speak their language almost well enough to
be understood.

The downfall of Napoleon was another epoch in his life. He
had considered himself a fortunate man to make his escape penniless
out of France, and he considered himself fortunate to be able
to return penniless into it. It is true that he found his Parisian
hotel had passed through several hands during the vicissitudes

of the times, so as to be beyond the reach of recovery; but
then he had been noticed benignantly by government, and had a
pension of several hundred francs, upon which, with careful management,
he lived independently, and, as far as I could judge,
happily.

As his once splendid hotel was now occupied as a hôtel garni,
he hired a small chamber in the attic; it was but, as he said,
changing his bedroom up two pair of stairs—he was still in his
own house. His room was decorated with pictures of several
beauties of former times, with whom he professed to have been on
favorable terms: among them was a favorite opera-dancer, who
had been the admiration of Paris at the breaking out of the revolution.
She had been a protegée of my friend, and one of the
few of his youthful favorites who had survived the lapse of time
and its various vicissitudes. They had renewed their acquaintance,
and she now and then visited him; but the beautiful
Psyche, once the fashion of the day and the idol of the parterre,
was now a shrivelled, little old woman, warped in the back, and
with a hooked nose.

The old gentleman was a devout attendant upon levees: he
was most zealous in his loyalty, and could not speak of the royal
family without a burst of enthusiasm, for he still felt towards
them as his companions in exile. As to his poverty he made
light of it, and indeed had a good-humored way of consoling himself
for every cross and privation. If he had lost his chateau in
the country, he had half a dozen royal palaces, as it were, at his
command. He had Versailles and St. Cloud for his country resorts,
and the shady alleys of the Tuileries and the Luxembourg
for his town recreation. Thus all his promenades and relaxations

were magnificent, yet cost nothing. When I walk through these
fine gardens, said he, I have only to fancy myself the owner of
them, and they are mine. All these gay crowds are my visitors,
and I defy the grand seignior himself to display a greater variety
of beauty. Nay, what is better, I have not the trouble of entertaining
them. My estate is a perfect Sans Souci, where every
one does as he pleases, and no one troubles the owner. All Paris
is my theatre, and presents me with a continual spectacle. I have
a table spread for me in every street, and thousands of waiters
ready to fly at my bidding. When my servants have waited upon
me I pay them, discharge them, and there's an end: I have no
fears of their wronging or pilfering me when my back is turned.
Upon the whole, said the old gentleman, with a smile of infinite
good humor, when I think upon the various risks I have run, and
the manner in which I have escaped them; when I recollect all
that I have suffered, and consider all that I at present enjoy, I
cannot but look upon myself as a man of singular good fortune.

Such was the brief history of this practical philosopher, and it
is a picture of many a Frenchman ruined by the revolution. The
French appear to have a greater facility than most men in accommodating
themselves to the reverses of life, and of extracting
honey out of the bitter things of this world. The first shock of
calamity is apt to overwhelm them, but when it is once past, their
natural buoyancy of feeling soon brings them to the surface.
This may be called the result of levity of character, but it answers
the end of reconciling us to misfortune, and if it be not true philosophy,
it is something almost as efficacious. Ever since I have
heard the story of my little Frenchman, I have treasured it up in
my heart; and I thank my stars I have at length found, what I

had long considered as not to be found on earth—a contented
man.

P. S. There is no calculating on human happiness. Since
writing the foregoing, the law of indemnity has been passed, and
my friend restored to a great part of his fortune. I was absent
from Paris at the time, but on my return hastened to congratulate
him. I found him magnificently lodged on the first floor of his
hotel. I was ushered, by a servant in livery, through splendid
saloons, to a cabinet richly furnished, where I found my little
Frenchman reclining on a couch. He received me with his usual
cordiality; but I saw the gayety and benevolence of his countenance
had fled; he had an eye full of care and anxiety.

I congratulated him on his good fortune. “Good fortune?”
echoed he; “bah! I have been plundered of a princely fortune,
and they give me a pittance as an indemnity.”

Alas! I found my late poor and contented friend one of the
richest and most miserable men in Paris. Instead of rejoicing in
the ample competency restored to him, he is daily repining at the
superfluity withheld. He no longer wanders in happy idleness
about Paris, but is a repining attendant in the ante-chambers of
ministers. His loyality has evaporated with his gayety; he
screws his mouth when the Bourbons are mentioned, and even
shrugs his shoulders when he hears the praises of the king. In
a word, he is one of the many philosophers undone by the law of
indemnity, and his case is desperate, for I doubt whether even
another reverse of fortune, which should restore him to poverty,
could make him again a happy man.