“The sigh that issued from my bosom was not one of fatigue,” I replied, “but of profound, nearly insupportable melancholy.”

“Concerning what?”

“I had been ruminating on the exceedingly harsh and bitter life led by poor Montague. Here was an individual possessed of a high intelligence and an unusually literate sensibility. And yet, for much of his life, he appears to have existed in a state of die most excruciating poverty and deprivation imaginable.” Shaking my head, I ruefully declared: “In a country such as this, to be a man of letters is a grim—if not indeed a tragic—fate.”

“Why, that ain’t necessarily the case,” exclaimed the frontiersman. “Take a gander at me. I’ll be pecked to death by humming birds if I don’t stand to make a whole bundle of money off of my book!”

That a work of such staggering ineptitude as Crockett’s crudely written memoir could meet with resounding commercial success was, of course, a precise confirmation of my point. Only in a nation whose citizens were possessed of the most primitive, if not actively debased, literary sensibility could such a phenomenon occur. Not wishing to insult my companion, however—nor to engage in a protracted debate about the deplorable reading tastes of the American public—I merely said, with subtly calibrated irony: “Clearly, Colonel Crockett, you have discovered the secret of successful writing.”

“Danged right I have,” he replied, oblivious as ever of the nuances of my tone. “Know what it is?”

“I confess to my ignorance in this matter.”

“Write about things that common folks can understand! Take a look at this-here Montague feller,” he exclaimed, indicating the paper in his hands. “Here he is, a-rattling on and on about some writing by ol’ Shakespeare—some blame foolishness about a midsummer dream, all full of fairies and whatnot.” His features wrought into a look of the purest disdain, he dropped the newspaper onto the tabletop and continued: “No sir, Poe. That kind of flapdoodle just ain’t got no meaning for folks nowadays. They want to read about the real world. If you want folks to buy your writing, give ’em the plain facts of life—tell them what you done—what you lived through—what you seen with your own two eyes!”

In spite of my resolve to avoid a dispute with the frontiersman, I could scarcely refrain from offering a response to this exceedingly callow aesthetic pronouncement. Before I was able to speak, however, my attention was arrested by a peculiar noise emanating from a spot directly to my rear.

Swivelling in my seat, I was startled to perceive a quartet of young male faces, eagerly gathered at the partially open window. Among this group I immediately recognized the towheaded lad who had been kneeling in the street at the time of our arrival, and whose act of casual childhood cruelty we had unwittingly interrupted.