An American Story Writer

How much American literature would gain in freshness, variety, and local color, were it not systematically discouraged by an unjust, unpatriotic, and myopic policy on the part of the government, is occasionally hinted by the appearance of some new writer, who persists under adversity, and finally succeeds in producing delightful results from phases of our life which otherwise would remain unchronicled and unknown. Of such writers the most noticeable are Bret Harte and George Cable ; but we must name, as instancing similar native and independent tendencies, Miss Jewett and Charles Egbert Craddock, the latter of whom has recently issued his stories in collected form.¹

To most readers the title chosen for this charming and unusual volume will convey no very clear idea of the contents ; but Atlantic readers will know that, instead of being a book of travels or an essay on geology, In the Tennessee Mountains is a series of tales, the subjects and the artistic worth of which are uncommon.

Within these covers there are eight short stories, every one of which has an idea, a motive, amply qualified to sustain its interest. They are told with a sincerity, a simplicity of manner, and a closeness of observation that recall at moments the rare gift of Thomas Hardy ; they are as unpretentious, as mellow and quiet in tone, as Miss Jewett’s narratives ; and they describe an existence as curious and unusual as that of the Creole society which Mr. Cable has taken for his province. Yet the author’s atmosphere is completely his own : we do not detect any trace of imitation in his conception or his manner. If his effects are less pointed and his pathos is less deep than Mr. Cable’s, he has the advantage of being less artificial in his method than the Louisiana novelist. On the other hand, the situations that he chooses are more intense than those which we have grown used to expect from Miss Jewett. Possibly Mr. Harte’s success with Californian themes may have inspired the writer who veils his identity under the name of Craddock; but it that be so, there is nothing servile in the inspiration, and we are inclined to think that Mr. Craddock is a great deal truer to the dialect and the general probabilities of the region in which he is an explorer than Mr. Harte is in his studies of humanity on the Pacific slope. Drifting Down Lost Creek is presumably the author’s favorite production, since it is placed first in order, though this may be due simply to its primacy in length. Certainly it is a very thorough piece of work, and embodies a situation abounding in elements of interest which are all thoroughly brought out; and it is no more than fair to remark that, while the scene and the study of dialect are somewhat like those of Joel Chandler Harris’s story At Teague Poteet’s, Mr. Craddock preëmpted the field some time before Mr. Harris was heard of at all. The motive in this delicate and affecting miniature romance is quite Mr. Craddock’s own ; and all the accessories are touched in with so perfect a regard for the total impression that the every-day feminine tragedy of Cynthia Ware’s history, gilded by the light of her trustful heroism, will be apt to live long in the mind of the reader. Electioneerin’ on Big Injun Mounting is an episode of a sturdier kind, which contains more of the dramatic, both in matter and manner, than any of the other sketches. It strikes at the close a chord of feeling so true to the better part of human nature that one is thrilled by a certain elation, at the same time that the sudden tenderness of the rude mountaineers towards the man whom they had misunderstood touches the springs of pathos. The study, also, which the author has here made of an aspiring young politician, whose stern sense of justice makes him unpopular with the lawless constituency from which he sprang, strikes us as being a careful, original, and very suggestive one.

In Old Sledge at the Settlemint, again, a group of card-players is presented, one of whom is gambling away everything that he owns — even to his corn and hogs, and his house and land — in play with the man whom His wife had jnted. The way in which this picture of the gamblers throwing their cards on the inverted splint basket, by the light of a tallow dip and a pitch-pine fire, while the moon shines without and the uncanny echoes ring back from the rocks and woods, is highly imaginative, yet as realistically graphic as one of Spagnoletto’s paintings. Indeed, we are constantly reminded of the pictorial art by the effects which Mr. Craddock evolves from the use of words, from his sense of color and his keen vision of the significant traits in the physical surroundings.

These are especially to be remarked in the descriptions of mountain scenery, with all the shifting phases of spring and autumn, of sunset, mist, and forest fires, which he introduces so aptly. Accessories of this kind are lavished with a free hand that discloses the range and minuteness of the author’s observation ; and although in each story we find three or four carefully wrought landscapes in little, no one in the whole gallery of the volume repeats any other. Here, for example, is a night-piece: The foliage was all embossed with exquisite silver designs that seemed to stand out some little distance from the dark masses of leaves ; now and then there came to his eyes that emerald gleam never seen upon verdure in the daytime, and only shown by some artificial light, or the moon’s sweet uncertainty.”Here is another, nearly the same, yet different: “The moon’s idealizing glamour had left no trace of the uncouthness of the place which the daylight revealed ; the little log house, the great overhanging chestnut-oaks, the jagged precipice before the door, all suffused with a magic sheen, might have seemed a stupendous alto-relievo in silver repoussé.” We are incessantly yet unobtrusively reminded of the large and solemn presence of nature. The moment any lull occurs in the action of the personages, the mountain solitudes come in to play their part: the sylvan glades, the foaming cataracts, the springing flowers at their due season, and the wild birds and animals all assume the function of dramatis personœ, that say nothing, but carry on a strange, inarticulate chorus, which seems to interpret the melancholy or the emotion of the human actors. In this utilization of forces not human Mr. Craddock, we incline to think, is not surpassed by any writer of the time.

But, more than this, each particular story holds some idea of striking value in its bearing on sentiment or conduct, yet arising spontaneously out of the conditions of the peculiar community depicted by the writer. We have the mountain girl, who, by the most terrible exertions and by long journeys on foot, secures the pardon of the unjustly imprisoned man whom she loves, only to find that he does not even know who rescued him, and to pine away in lonely maidenhood while he marries some one else. We have, again, the weak and slender Celia Shaw, who painfully toils through the wintry woods for many miles, at night, to warn and save the men whom her father and his friends had decided to “ wipe out; ” and the case of the brave ex-chaplain, who by his coolness, though unarmed, prevents a murderous affray at a rough up-country “ dancin’ party.” This last story ends with a touch of grim humor. The young man who has been restrained from killing the outlaw, Rick Pearson, who had stolen a bay filly, expresses gratitude at being saved from the crime ; for, he says, “ the bay filly ain’t sech a killin’ matter, nohow ; ef it war the roan three-year-old, now, ’t would be different.” But in every instance there is a strong idea; a good lesson is modestly taught; the heart is stirred with refining pity and admiration. Not less excellent is the artist’s exposition of the lonely, self-reliant, and half-mournful life of the mountain folk; and particularly of the sweet, pure, naive young women, and the faded older women “ holding out wasted hands to the years as they pass, — holding them out always, and always empty.” The dialect is employed well and without effort, although at times the speeches assigned to the characters are a trifle prolix. One or two other limitations upon the author’s ability in carrying out his plans suggest themselves : such as that in the delineation of his heroines he leaves us with a somewhat slight and unsatisfactory account of them ; and that, while he chooses situations full of dramatic possibilities, he too often obscures the climax by his own quiet reflections, instead of leaving it to affect us by its inherent strength. These defects, however, may be pardoned to one who writes with so much sincerity, so much poetic feeling, and such exquisite art of detail as are manifested in this volume. It is odd that the American people as a whole have little genuine appreciation for the most delicate and deserving productions of native literary artists, notwithstanding that American imaginative writers are to-day distinguished above their English fellows for refinement of idea, phrase, and effect; but we cannot do otherwise than hope that Mr. Craddock will take his place among the exceptions which prove that genius in this country, even when unassuming, need not always be debarred from popularity.