University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

It is frequently the case, in the experience of the professional
novelist or tale-writer, that his neighbour comes in to his assistance
when he least seeks, and, perhaps, least desires any succour.
The worthy person, man or woman, however,—probably some excellent
octogenarian whose claims to be heard are based chiefly upon
the fact that he himself no longer possesses the faculty of hearing,—has
some famous incident, some wonderful fact, of which he
has been the eye-witness, or of which he has heard from his great-grandmother,
which he fancies is the very thing to be woven into
song or story. Such is the strong possession which the matter
takes of his brain, that, if the novelist whom he seeks to benefit
does not live within trumpet-distance, he gives him the narrative by
means of post, some three sheets of stiff foolscap, for which the
hapless tale-writer, whose works are selling in cheap editions at
twelve or twenty cents, pays a sum of one dollar sixty-two postage.
Now, it so happens, to increase the evil, that, in ninety-nine cases
in the hundred, the fact thus laboriously stated is not worth a
straw—consisting of some simple deed of violence, some mere
murder, a downright blow with gun-butt or cudgel over the skull,
or a hidden thrust, three inches deep, with dirk or bowie knife,
into the abdomen, or at random among the lower ribs. The man

dies and the murderer gets off to Texas, or is prematurely caught
and stops by the way—and still stops by the way! The thing is
fact, no doubt. The narrator saw it himself, or his brother saw
it, or—more solemn, if not more certain testimony still—his grandmother
saw it, long before he had eyes to see at all. The circumstance
is attested by a cloud of witnesses—a truth solemnly
sworn to—and yet, for the purposes of the tale-writer, of no manner
of value. This assertion may somewhat conflict with the
received opinions of many, who, accustomed to find deeds of violence
recorded in almost every work of fiction, from the time of
Homer to the present day, have rushed to the conclusion that this
is all, and overlook that labour of the artist, by which an ordinary
event is made to assume the character of novelty; in other
words, to become an extraordinary event. The least difficult
thing in the world, on the part of the writer of fiction, is to find
the assassin and the bludgeon; the art is to make them appear in
the right place, strike at the right time, and so adapt one fact to
another, as to create mystery, awaken curiosity, inspire doubt as
to the result, and bring about the catastrophe, by processes which
shall be equally natural and unexpected. All that class of sagacious
persons, therefore, who fancy they have found a mare's
nest, when, in fact, they are only gazing at a goose's, are respectfully
counselled that no fact—no tradition—is of any importance to
the artist, unless it embodies certain peculiar characteristics of its
own, or unless it illustrates some history about which curiosity
has already been awakened. A mere brutality, in which John
beats and bruises Ben, and Ben in turn shoots John, putting eleven
slugs, or thereabouts, between his collar-bone and vertebræ—
or, maybe, stabs him under his left pap, or any where you please,
is just as easily conceived by the novelist, without the help of
history. Nay, for that matter, he would perhaps rather not have
any precise facts in his way, in such cases, as then he will be
able to regard the picturesque in the choice of his weapon, and to
put the wounds in such parts of the body, as will better bear the
examination of all persons. I deem it right to throw out this hint,
just at this moment, as well for the benefit of my order as for
my own protection. The times are hard, and the post-office requires
all its dues in hard money. Literary men are not proverbially
prepared at all seasons for any unnecessary outlay—
and to be required to make advances for commodities of which
they have on hand, at all times, the greatest abundance, is an injustice
which, it is to be hoped, that this little intimation will
somewhat lessen. We take for granted, therefore, that our professional
brethren will concur with us in saying to the public,
that we are all sufficiently provided with “disastrous chances”
for some time to come—that our “moving accidents by flood and
field” are particularly numerous, and of “hair-breadth 'scapes”
we have enough to last a century. Murders, and such matters,
as they are among the most ordinary events of the day, are decidedly
vulgar; and, for mere cudgelling and bruises, the taste
of the belles-lettres reader, rendered delicate by the monthly
magazines, has voted them equally gross and unnatural.

But, if the character of the materials usually tendered to the
novelist by the incident-mongers, is thus ordinarily worthless as
we describe it, we sometimes are fortunate in finding an individual,
here and there, in the deep forests,—a sort of recluse, hale
and lusty, but white-headed,—who unfolds from his own budget
of experience a rare chronicle, on which we delight to linger.
Such an one breathes life into his deeds. We see them as we
listen to his words. In lieu of the dead body of the fact, we have
its living spirit—subtle, active, breathing and burning, and fresh
in all the provocations and associations of life. Of this sort
was the admirable characteristic narrative of Horse-Shoe Robinson,
which we owe to Kennedy, and for which he was indebted
to the venerable hero of the story. When we say that the subject
of the sketch which follows was drawn from not dissimilar
sources, we must beg our readers not to understand us as inviting
any reference to that able and national story—with which it
is by no means our policy or wish to invite or provoke comparison.