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  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 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 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.”