 | The little Frenchman and his water lots, with other sketches of the times |  |
THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN
AND
HIS WATER LOTS.
And, closer view'd, you'll find they are unwise.
—Young.
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
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
for ever!
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
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 every-day 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 neighbours 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 lithographick 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
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
a piece, for de lot vid de valuarble vatare privalege;
c'est ça.”
“Only one hundred a piece for these sixty valuable
lots—only one hundred—going—going—going—
gone!”
Monsieur Poopoo was the fortunate possessor.
—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
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
lithographick 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, sare?”
“My friend,” said the farmer, “this section of
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
emphatick 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 labours of the day, and humming
the musick 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.
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.”
“Hollo, 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 Shathame-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 privilege 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
pennyless 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.
| The little Frenchman and his water lots, with other sketches of the times | |