Look into those they call unfortunate,
And, closer view’d, you’ll find they are unwise.—_Young._
Let wealth come in by comely thrift,
And not by any foolish shift:
’Tis haste
Makes waste:
Who gripes too hard the dry and slippery sand
Holds none at all, or little, in his hand.—_Herrick_.
Let well alone.—_Proverb_.
How much real comfort every one might enjoy if he would be
contented with the lot in which heaven has cast him, and how much
trouble would be avoided if people would only “let well alone.” A
moderate independence, quietly and honestly procured, is certainly
every way preferable even to immense possessions achieved by the
wear and tear of mind and body so necessary to procure them. Yet
there are very few individuals, let them be doing ever so well in
the world, who are not always straining every nerve to do better;
and this is one of the many causes why failures in business so
frequently occur among us. The present generation seem unwilling to
“realize” by slow and sure degrees; but choose rather to set their
whole hopes upon a single cast, which either makes or mars them
forever!
Gentle reader, do you remember Monsieur Poopoo? He used to keep a
small toy-store in Chatham, near the corner of Pearl Street. You
must recollect him, of course. He lived there for many years, and
was one of the most polite and accommodating of shopkeepers. When a
juvenile, you have bought tops and marbles of him a thousand times.
To be sure you have; and seen his vinegar-visage lighted up with
a smile as you flung him the coppers; and you have laughed at his
little straight queue and his dimity breeches, and all the other
oddities that made up the everyday apparel of my little Frenchman.
Ah, I perceive you recollect him now.
Well, then, there lived Monsieur Poopoo ever since he came from
“dear, delightful Paris,” as he was wont to call the city of his
nativity—there he took in the pennies for his kickshaws—there he
laid aside five thousand dollars against a rainy day—there he
was as happy as a lark—and there, in all human probability, he
would have been to this very day, a respected and substantial
citizen, had he been willing to “let well alone.” But Monsieur
Poopoo had heard strange stories about the prodigious rise in
real estate; and, having understood that most of his neighbors
had become suddenly rich by speculating in lots, he instantly
grew dissatisfied with his own lot, forthwith determined to shut
up shop, turn everything into cash, and set about making money
in right-down earnest. No sooner said than done; and our quondam
storekeeper a few days afterward attended an extensive sale of real
estate, at the Merchants’ Exchange.
There was the auctioneer, with his beautiful and inviting
lithographic maps—all the lots as smooth and square and enticingly
laid out as possible—and there were the speculators—and there, in
the midst of them, stood Monsieur Poopoo.
“Here they are, gentlemen,” said he of the hammer, “the most
valuable lots ever offered for sale. Give me a bid for them!”
“One hundred each,” said a bystander.
“One hundred!” said the auctioneer, “scarcely enough to pay for the
maps. One hundred—going—and fifty—gone! Mr. H., they are yours.
A noble purchase. You’ll sell those same lots in less than a
fortnight for fifty thousand dollars profit!”
Monsieur Poopoo pricked up his ears at this, and was lost in
astonishment. This was a much easier way certainly of accumulating
riches than selling toys in Chatham Street, and he determined to
buy and mend his fortune without delay.
The auctioneer proceeded in his sale. Other parcels were offered
and disposed of, and all the purchasers were promised immense
advantages for their enterprise. At last came a more valuable
parcel than all the rest. The company pressed around the stand, and
Monsieur Poopoo did the same.
“I now offer you, gentlemen, these magnificent lots, delightfully
situated on Long Island, with valuable water privileges. Property
in fee—title indisputable—terms of sale, cash—deeds ready for
delivery immediately after the sale. How much for them? Give them a
start at something. How much?” The auctioneer looked around; there
were no bidders. At last he caught the eye of Monsieur Poopoo.
“Did you say one hundred, sir? Beautiful lots—valuable water
privileges—shall I say one hundred for you?”
“_Oui, monsieur_; I will give you von hundred dollar apiece, for de
lot vid de valuarble vatare privalege; _c’est ça_.”
“Only one hundred apiece for these sixty valuable lots—only one
hundred—going—going—going—gone!”
Monsieur Poopoo was the fortunate possessor. The auctioneer
congratulated him—the sale closed—and the company dispersed.
“_Pardonnez-moi, monsieur_,” said Poopoo, as the auctioneer
descended his pedestal, “you shall _excusez-moi_, if I shall go to
_votre bureau_, your counting-house, ver quick to make every ting
sure wid respec to de lot vid de valuarble vatare privalege. Von
leetle bird in de hand he vorth two in de tree, _c’est vrai_—eh?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Vell den, _allons_.”
And the gentlemen repaired to the counting-house, where the
six thousand dollars were paid, and the deeds of the property
delivered. Monsieur Poopoo put these carefully in his pocket, and
as he was about taking his leave, the auctioneer made him a present
of the lithographic outline of the lots, which was a very liberal
thing on his part, considering the map was a beautiful specimen of
that glorious art. Poopoo could not admire it sufficiently. There
were his sixty lots, as uniform as possible, and his little gray
eyes sparkled like diamonds as they wandered from one end of the
spacious sheet to the other.
Poopoo’s heart was as light as a feather, and he snapped
his fingers in the very wantonness of joy as he repaired to
Delmonico’s, and ordered the first good French dinner that had
gladdened his palate since his arrival in America.
After having discussed his repast, and washed it down with a bottle
of choice old claret, he resolved upon a visit to Long Island to
view his purchase. He consequently immediately hired a horse and
gig, crossed the Brooklyn ferry, and drove along the margin of the
river to the Wallabout, the location in question.
Our friend, however, was not a little perplexed to find his
property. Everything on the map was as fair and even as possible,
while all the grounds about him were as undulated as they could
well be imagined, and there was an elbow of the East River
thrusting itself quite into the ribs of the land, which seemed to
have no business there. This puzzled the Frenchman exceedingly;
and, being a stranger in those parts, he called to a farmer in an
adjacent field.
“_Mon ami_, are you acquaint vid dis part of de country—eh?”
“Yes, I was born here, and know every inch of it.”
“Ah, _c’est bien_, dat vill do,” and the Frenchman got out of the
gig, tied the horse, and produced his lithographic map.
“Den maybe you vill have de kindness to show me de sixty lot vich I
have bought, vid de valuarble vatare privalege?”
The farmer glanced his eye over the paper.
“Yes, sir, with pleasure; if you will be good enough to _get into
my boat, I will row you out to them_!”
“Vat dat you say, sure?”
“My friend,” said the farmer, “this section of Long Island has
recently been bought up by the speculators of New York, and laid
out for a great city; but the principal street is only visible _at
low tide_. When this part of the East River is filled up, it will
be just there. Your lots, as you will perceive, are beyond it; _and
are now all under water_.”
At first the Frenchman was incredulous. He could not believe
his senses. As the facts, however, gradually broke upon him, he
shut one eye, squinted obliquely at the heavens—-the river—the
farmer—and then he turned away and squinted at them all over again!
There was his purchase sure enough; but then it could not be
perceived for there was a river flowing over it! He drew a box from
his waistcoat pocket, opened it, with an emphatic knock upon the
lid, took a pinch of snuff and restored it to his waistcoat pocket
as before. Poopoo was evidently in trouble, having “thoughts which
often lie too deep for tears”; and, as his grief was also too big
for words, he untied his horse, jumped into his gig, and returned
to the auctioneer in hot haste.
It was near night when he arrived at the auction-room—his horse in
a foam and himself in a fury. The auctioneer was leaning back in
his chair, with his legs stuck out of a low window, quietly smoking
a cigar after the labors of the day, and humming the music from the
last new opera.
“Monsieur, I have much plaisir to fin’ you, _chez vous_, at home.”
“Ah, Poopoo! glad to see you. Take a seat, old boy.”
“But I shall not take de seat, sare.”
“No—why, what’s the matter?”
“Oh, _beaucoup_ de matter. I have been to see de gran lot vot you
sell me to-day.”
“Well, sir, I hope you like your purchase?”
“No, monsieur, I no like him.”
“I’m sorry for it; but there is no ground for your complaint.”
“No, sare; dare is no _ground_ at all—de ground is all vatare!”
“You joke!”
“I no joke. I nevare joke; _je n’entends pas la raillerie_, Sare,
_voulez-vous_ have de kindness to give me back de money vot I pay!”
“Certainly not.”
“Den vill you be so good as to take de East River off de top of my
lot?”
“That’s your business, sir, not mine.”
“Den I make von _mauvaise affaire_—von gran mistake!”
“I hope not. I don’t think you have thrown your money away in the
_land_.”
“No, sare; but I tro it avay in de _vatare!_”
“That’s not my fault.”
“Yes, sare, but it is your fault. You’re von ver gran rascal to
swindle me out of _de l’argent_.”
“Hello, old Poopoo, you grow personal; and if you can’t keep a
civil tongue in your head, you must go out of my counting-room.”
“Vare shall I go to, eh?”
“To the devil, for aught I care, you foolish old Frenchman!” said
the auctioneer, waxing warm.
“But, sare, I vill not go to de devil to oblige you!” replied the
Frenchman, waxing warmer. “You sheat me out of all de dollar vot I
make in Shatham Street; but I vill not go to de devil for all dat.
I vish you may go to de devil yourself you dem yankee-doo-dell, and
I vill go and drown myself, _tout de suite_, right avay.”
“You couldn’t make a better use of your water privileges, old boy!”
“Ah, _miséricorde_! Ah, _mon dieu, je suis abîmé_. I am ruin! I am
done up! I am break all into ten sousan leetle pieces! I am von
lame duck, and I shall vaddle across de gran ocean for Paris, vish
is de only valuarble vatare privalege dat is left me _à present_!”
Poor Poopoo was as good as his word. He sailed in the next packet,
and arrived in Paris almost as penniless as the day he left it.
Should any one feel disposed to doubt the veritable circumstances
here recorded, let him cross the East River to the Wallabout, and
farmer J—— will _row him out_ to the very place where the poor
Frenchman’s lots still remain _under water_.