Chapter 3

William James Lampton (?–1917), who was known to many of his admirers as Will Lampton or as W.J.L. merely, was one of the most unique and interesting characters of literary and Bohemian New York from about 1895 to his death in 1917. I remember walking up Fifth Avenue with him one Sunday afternoon just after he had shown me a letter from the man who was then Comptroller of the Currency. The letter was signed so illegibly that my companion was in doubts as to the sender, so he suggested that we stop at a well-known hotel at the corner of 59th Street, and ask the manager who the Comptroller of the Currency then was, so that he might know whom the letter was from. He said that the manager of a big hotel like that, where many prominent people stayed, would be sure to know. When this problem had been solved to our satisfaction, John Skelton Williams proving to be the man, Lampton said, “Now you’ve told me who he is, I’ll show you who I am.” So he asked for a copy of _The American Magazine_ at a newsstand in the hotel corridor, opened it, and showed the manager a full-page picture of himself clad in a costume suggestive of the time of Christopher Columbus, with high ruffs around his neck, that happened to appear in the magazine the current month. I mention this incident to illustrate the lack of conventionality and whimsical originality of the man, that stood out no less forcibly in his writings than in his daily life. He had little use for “doing the usual thing in the usual sort of way.” He first gained prominence by his book of verse, _Yawps_ (1900). His poems were free from convention in technique as well as in spirit, although their chief innovation was simply that as a rule there was no regular number of syllables in a line; he let the lines be any length they wanted to be, to fit the sense or the length of what he had to say. He once said to me that if anything of his was remembered he thought it would be his poem, _Lo, the Summer Girl_. His muse often took the direction of satire, but it was always good-natured even when it hit the hardest. He had in his makeup much of the detached philosopher, like Cervantes and Mark Twain.

There was something cosmic about his attitude to life, and this showed in much that he did. He was the only American writer of humorous verse of his day whom I always cared to read, or whose lines I could remember more than a few weeks. This was perhaps because his work was never _merely_ humorous, but always had a big sweep of background to it, like the ruggedness of the Kentucky mountains from which he came. It was Colonel George Harvey, then editor of _Harper’s Weekly_, who had started the boom to make Woodrow Wilson President. Wilson afterwards, at least seemingly, repudiated his sponsor, probably because of Harvey’s identification with various moneyed interests. Lampton’s poem on the subject, with its refrain, “Never again, said Colonel George,” I remember as one of the most notable of his poems on current topics. But what always seemed to me the best of his poems dealing with matters of the hour was one that I suggested he write, which dealt with gift-giving to the public, at about the time that Andrew Carnegie was making a big stir with his gifts for libraries, beginning:

Dunno, perhaps One of the yaps Like me would make A holy break Doing his turn With money to burn. Anyhow, I Wouldn’t shy Making a try!

and containing, among many effective touches, the pathetic lines,

. . . I’d help The poor who try to help themselves, Who have to work so hard for bread They can’t get very far ahead.

When James Lane Allen’s novel, _The Reign of Law_, came out (1900), a little quatrain by Lampton that appeared in _The Bookman_ (September, 1900) swept like wildfire across the country, and was read by a hundred times as many people as the book itself:

“The Reign of Law”? Well, Allen, you’re lucky; It’s the first time it ever Rained law in Kentucky!

The reader need not be reminded that at that period Kentucky family feuds were well to the fore. As Lampton had started as a poet, the editors were bound to keep him pigeon-holed as far as they could, and his ambition to write short stories was not at first much encouraged by them. His predicament was something like that of the chief character of Frank R. Stockton’s story, “_His Wife’s Deceased Sister_” (January, 1884, _Century_), who had written a story so good that whenever he brought the editors another story they invariably answered in substance, “We’re afraid it won’t do. Can’t you give us something like ‘_His Wife’s Deceased Sister_’?” This was merely Stockton’s turning to account his own somewhat similar experience with the editors after his story, _The Lady or the Tiger_? (November, 1882, _Century_) appeared. Likewise the editors didn’t want Lampton’s short stories for a while because they liked his poems so well.

Do I hear some critics exclaiming that there is nothing remarkable about _How the Widow Won the Deacon_, the story by Lampton included in this volume? It handles an amusing situation lightly and with grace. It is one of those things that read easily and are often difficult to achieve. Among his best stories are: _The People’s Number of the Worthyville Watchman_ (May 12, 1900, _Saturday Evening Post_), _Love’s Strange Spell_ (April 27, 1901, _Saturday Evening Post_), _Abimelech Higgins’ Way_ (August 24, 1001, _Saturday Evening Post_), _A Cup of Tea_ (March, 1902, _Metropolitan_), _Winning His Spurs_ (May, 1904, _Cosmopolitan_), _The Perfidy of Major Pulsifer_ (November, 1909, _Cosmopolitan_), _How the Widow Won the Deacon_ (April, 1911, _Harper’s Bazaar_), and _A Brown Study_ (December, 1913, _Lippincott’s_). There is no collection as yet of his short stories. Although familiarly known as “Colonel” Lampton, and although of Kentucky, he was not merely a “Kentucky Colonel,” for he was actually appointed Colonel on the staff of the governor of Kentucky. At the time of his death he was about to be made a brigadier-general and was planning to raise a brigade of Kentucky mountaineers for service in the Great War. As he had just struck his stride in short story writing, the loss to literature was even greater than the patriotic loss.

_Gideon_ (April, 1914, _Century_), by Wells Hastings (1878– ), the story with which this volume closes, calls to mind the large number of notable short stories in American literature by writers who have made no large name for themselves as short story writers, or even otherwise in letters. American literature has always been strong in its “stray” short stories of note. In Mr. Hastings’ case, however, I feel that the fame is sure to come. He graduated from Yale in 1902, collaborated with Brian Hooker (1880- ) in a novel, _The Professor’s Mystery_ (1911) and alone wrote another novel, _The Man in the Brown Derby_ (1911). His short stories include: _The New Little Boy_ (July, 1911, _American_), _That Day_ (September, 1911, _American_), _The Pick-Up_ (December, 1911, _Everybody’s_), and _Gideon_ (April, 1914, _Century_). The last story stands out. It can be compared without disadvantage to the best work, or all but the very best work, of Thomas Nelson Page, it seems to me. And from the reader’s standpoint it has the advantage—is this not also an author’s advantage?—of a more modern setting and treatment. Mr. Hastings is, I have been told, a director in over a dozen large corporations. Let us hope that his business activities will not keep him too much away from the production of literature—for to rank as a piece of literature, something of permanent literary value, _Gideon_ is surely entitled.

ALEXANDER JESSUP.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This I have attempted in _Representative American Short Stories_ (Allyn & Bacon: Boston, 1922).

[2] Will D. Howe, in _The Cambridge History of American Literature_, Vol. II, pp. 158–159 (G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1918).

[3] _A History of American Literature Since 1870_, p. 317 (The Century Co.: 1915).

[4] _A History of American Literature Since 1870_, pp 79–81.

[5] “The Works of Bret Harte,” twenty volumes. The Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston.

[6] _The Cambridge History of American Literature_, Vol. II, p. 386.

[7] See this Introduction.

[8] _The Cambridge History of American Literature_, Vol. II, p. 385.

[9] Fred Lewis Pattee, in The Cambridge History of American Literature, Vol. II, p. 394.

CONTENTS

PAGE

INTRODUCTION v _Alexander Jessup_

THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN AND HIS WATER LOTS (1839) 1 _George Pope Morris_

THE ANGEL OF THE ODD (1844) 7 _Edgar Allan Poe_

THE SCHOOLMASTER’S PROGRESS (1844) 18 _Caroline M.S. Kirkland_

THE WATKINSON EVENING (1846) 34 _Eliza Leslie_

TITBOTTOM’S SPECTACLES (1854) 52 _George William Curtis_

MY DOUBLE; AND HOW HE UNDID ME (1859) 75 _Edward Everett Hale_

A VISIT TO THE ASYLUM FOR AGED AND DECAYED PUNSTERS (1861) 94 _Oliver Wendell Holmes_

THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY (1865) 102 _Mark Twain_

ELDER BROWN’S BACKSLIDE (1885) 109 _Harry Stillwell Edwards_

THE HOTEL EXPERIENCE OF MR. PINK FLUKER (1886) 128 _Richard Malcolm Johnston_

THE NICE PEOPLE (1890) 141 _Henry Cuyler Bunner_

THE BULLER-PODINGTON COMPACT (1897) 151 _Frank Richard Stockton_

COLONEL STARBOTTLE FOR THE PLAINTIFF (1901) 170 _Bret Harte_

THE DUPLICITY OF HARGRAVES (1902) 199 _O. Henry_

BARGAIN DAY AT TUTT HOUSE (1905) 213 _George Randolph Chester_

A CALL (1906) 237 _Grace MacGowan Cooke_

HOW THE WIDOW WON THE DEACON (1911) 252 _William James Lampton_

GIDEON (1914) 260 _Wells Hastings_

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

_The Nice People_, by Henry Cuyler Bunner, is republished from his volume, _Short Sixes_, by permission of its publishers, Charles Scribner’s Sons. _The Buller-Podington Compact_, by Frank Richard Stockton, is from his volume, _Afield and Afloat_, and is republished by permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons. _Colonel Starbottle for the Plaintiff_, by Bret Harte, is from the collection of his stories entitled _Openings in the Old Trail_, and is republished by permission of the Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers of Bret Harte’s complete works. _The Duplicity of Hargraves_, by O. Henry, is from his volume, _Sixes and Sevens_, and is republished by permission of its publishers, Doubleday, Page & Co. These stories are fully protected by copyright, and should not be republished except by permission of the publishers mentioned. Thanks are due Mrs. Grace MacGowan Cooke for permission to use her story, _A Call_, republished here from _Harper’s Magazine_; Wells Hastings, for permission to reprint his story, _Gideon_, from _The Century Magazine_; and George Randolph Chester, for permission to include _Bargain Day at Tutt House_, from _McClure’s Magazine_. I would also thank the heirs of the late lamented Colonel William J. Lampton for permission to use his story, _How the Widow Won the Deacon_, from _Harper’s Bazaar_. These stories are all copyrighted, and cannot be republished except by authorization of their authors or heirs. The editor regrets that their publishers have seen fit to refuse him permission to include George W. Cable’s story, “_Posson Jone’_,” and Irvin S. Cobb’s story, _The Smart Aleck_. He also regrets he was unable to obtain a copy of Joseph C. Duport’s story, _The Wedding at Timber Hollow_, in time for inclusion, to which its merits—as he remembers them—certainly entitle it. Mr. Duport, in addition to his literary activities, has started an interesting “back to Nature” experiment at Westfield, Massachusetts.

To CHARLES GOODRICH WHITING Critic, Poet, Friend

THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN AND HIS WATER LOTS[10]

BY GEORGE POPE MORRIS (1802–1864)

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_.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] From _The Little Frenchman and His Water Lots, with Other Sketches of the Times_ (1839), by George Pope Morris.

THE ANGEL OF THE ODD[11]

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809–1849)