This is a modern-English version of Fenimore Cooper's Literary Offences, originally written by Twain, Mark.
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and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
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FENIMORE COOPER'S
LITERARY OFFENCES
by Mark Twain
The Pathfinder and The Deerslayer stand at the head of Cooper's
novels as artistic creations. There are others of his works
which contain parts as perfect as are to be found in these, and
scenes even more thrilling. Not one can be compared with
either of them as a finished whole.
The defects in both of these tales are comparatively slight.
They were pure works of art.—Prof. Lounsbury.
The Pathfinder and The Deerslayer are at the forefront of Cooper's novels as artistic masterpieces. There are other works of his that feature sections as flawless as those in these novels, and even more exciting scenes. However, none can match either of them as complete works.
The flaws in both of these stories are relatively minor. They are true works of art.—Prof. Lounsbury.
The five tales reveal an extraordinary fulness of invention.
... One of the very greatest characters in fiction, Natty
Bumppo....
The craft of the woodsman, the tricks of the trapper, all the
delicate art of the forest, were familiar to Cooper from his
youth up.—Prof. Brander Matthews.
Cooper is the greatest artist in the domain of romantic fiction
yet produced by America.—Wilkie Collins.
The five stories showcase an incredible richness of creativity.
...One of the greatest characters in fiction, Natty Bumppo....
Cooper was well-acquainted with the skills of the woodsman, the techniques of the trapper, and all the subtle arts of the forest from a young age.—Prof. Brander Matthews.
Cooper is the best artist in the field of romantic fiction ever produced by America.—Wilkie Collins.
It seems to me that it was far from right for the Professor of English Literature in Yale, the Professor of English Literature in Columbia, and Wilkie Collins to deliver opinions on Cooper's literature without having read some of it. It would have been much more decorous to keep silent and let persons talk who have read Cooper.
It seems to me that it was completely inappropriate for the English Literature professors at Yale and Columbia, along with Wilkie Collins, to share their opinions on Cooper's work without having actually read any of it. It would have been much more respectful to stay quiet and let those who have read Cooper speak.
Cooper's art has some defects. In one place in 'Deerslayer,' and in the restricted space of two-thirds of a page, Cooper has scored 114 offences against literary art out of a possible 115. It breaks the record.
Cooper's writing has its flaws. In one part of 'Deerslayer,' and in just two-thirds of a page, Cooper committed 114 mistakes in literary art out of a possible 115. That sets a new record.
There are nineteen rules governing literary art in the domain of romantic fiction—some say twenty-two. In Deerslayer Cooper violated eighteen of them. These eighteen require:
There are nineteen rules for literary art in the field of romantic fiction—some people say there are twenty-two. In Deerslayer, Cooper broke eighteen of them. These eighteen require:
1. That a tale shall accomplish something and arrive somewhere. But the Deerslayer tale accomplishes nothing and arrives in the air.
1. A story should achieve something and lead you somewhere. But the Deerslayer story achieves nothing and goes nowhere.
2. They require that the episodes of a tale shall be necessary parts of the tale, and shall help to develop it. But as the Deerslayer tale is not a tale, and accomplishes nothing and arrives nowhere, the episodes have no rightful place in the work, since there was nothing for them to develop.
2. They insist that the episodes of a story must be essential components of the narrative and should contribute to its development. However, since the Deerslayer story isn't really a story, and doesn't achieve anything or lead anywhere, the episodes don't belong in the work because there’s nothing for them to enhance.
3. They require that the personages in a tale shall be alive, except in the case of corpses, and that always the reader shall be able to tell the corpses from the others. But this detail has often been overlooked in the Deerslayer tale.
3. They require that the characters in a story must be alive, except for corpses, and that the reader should always be able to distinguish the corpses from the others. But this detail has often been missed in the Deerslayer story.
4. They require that the personages in a tale, both dead and alive, shall exhibit a sufficient excuse for being there. But this detail also has been overlooked in the Deerslayer tale.
4. They require that the characters in a story, both dead and alive, must have a good reason for being there. But this detail has also been overlooked in the Deerslayer story.
5. They require that when the personages of a tale deal in conversation, the talk shall sound like human talk, and be talk such as human beings would be likely to talk in the given circumstances, and have a discoverable meaning, also a discoverable purpose, and a show of relevancy, and remain in the neighborhood of the subject in hand, and be interesting to the reader, and help out the tale, and stop when the people cannot think of anything more to say. But this requirement has been ignored from the beginning of the Deerslayer tale to the end of it.
5. They need the characters in a story to have conversations that sound like real human dialogue, reflecting how people would actually talk in those situations, and that the conversations should have clear meanings, purposes, and relevance, staying on topic, being interesting to the reader, contributing to the story, and ending when the characters run out of things to say. However, this requirement has been overlooked from the beginning of the Deerslayer story to the end.
6. They require that when the author describes the character of a personage in his tale, the conduct and conversation of that personage shall justify said description. But this law gets little or no attention in the Deerslayer tale, as Natty Bumppo's case will amply prove.
6. They expect that when the author describes a character in their story, the behavior and dialogue of that character should back up that description. However, this rule is mostly ignored in the Deerslayer story, as Natty Bumppo's situation will clearly show.
7. They require that when a personage talks like an illustrated, gilt-edged, tree-calf, hand-tooled, seven-dollar Friendship's Offering in the beginning of a paragraph, he shall not talk like a negro minstrel in the end of it. But this rule is flung down and danced upon in the Deerslayer tale.
7. They insist that when a character speaks like a fancy, well-designed book in the beginning of a paragraph, they shouldn't suddenly sound like a stereotypical minstrel at the end. However, this rule is disregarded and ignored in the Deerslayer story.
8. They require that crass stupidities shall not be played upon the reader as “the craft of the woodsman, the delicate art of the forest,” by either the author or the people in the tale. But this rule is persistently violated in the Deerslayer tale.
8. They demand that blatant foolishness shouldn't be presented to the reader as “the skill of the woodsman, the delicate art of the forest,” by either the author or the characters in the story. However, this rule is repeatedly broken in the Deerslayer story.
9. They require that the personages of a tale shall confine themselves to possibilities and let miracles alone; or, if they venture a miracle, the author must so plausibly set it forth as to make it look possible and reasonable. But these rules are not respected in the Deerslayer tale.
9. They require that the characters in a story stick to what’s possible and avoid miracles; or, if a miracle is included, the author must present it in such a believable way that it seems possible and reasonable. However, these rules are not followed in the Deerslayer story.
10. They require that the author shall make the reader feel a deep interest in the personages of his tale and in their fate; and that he shall make the reader love the good people in the tale and hate the bad ones. But the reader of the Deerslayer tale dislikes the good people in it, is indifferent to the others, and wishes they would all get drowned together.
10. They need the author to make the reader feel a strong connection to the characters in the story and their outcomes; and to make the reader love the good characters and hate the bad ones. However, the reader of the Deerslayer story dislikes the good characters, doesn't care about the others, and wishes they would all just drown together.
11. They require that the characters in a tale shall be so clearly defined that the reader can tell beforehand what each will do in a given emergency. But in the Deerslayer tale this rule is vacated.
11. They insist that the characters in a story should be so clearly defined that the reader can predict what each will do in a particular situation. However, in the Deerslayer story, this rule does not apply.
In addition to these large rules there are some little ones. These require that the author shall:
In addition to these big rules, there are some smaller ones. These require that the author must:
12. Say what he is proposing to say, not merely come near it.
12. Say exactly what he intends to say, not just get close to it.
13. Use the right word, not its second cousin.
13. Use the right word, not a less accurate option.
14. Eschew surplusage.
Avoid unnecessary words.
15. Not omit necessary details.
15. Don’t leave out necessary details.
16. Avoid slovenliness of form.
16. Avoid messy appearance.
17. Use good grammar.
Use proper grammar.
18. Employ a simple and straightforward style.
18. Use a simple and straightforward style.
Even these seven are coldly and persistently violated in the Deerslayer tale.
Even these seven are coldly and continuously broken in the Deerslayer story.
Cooper's gift in the way of invention was not a rich endowment; but such as it was he liked to work it, he was pleased with the effects, and indeed he did some quite sweet things with it. In his little box of stage properties he kept six or eight cunning devices, tricks, artifices for his savages and woodsmen to deceive and circumvent each other with, and he was never so happy as when he was working these innocent things and seeing them go. A favorite one was to make a moccasined person tread in the tracks of the moccasined enemy, and thus hide his own trail. Cooper wore out barrels and barrels of moccasins in working that trick. Another stage-property that he pulled out of his box pretty frequently was his broken twig. He prized his broken twig above all the rest of his effects, and worked it the hardest. It is a restful chapter in any book of his when somebody doesn't step on a dry twig and alarm all the reds and whites for two hundred yards around. Every time a Cooper person is in peril, and absolute silence is worth four dollars a minute, he is sure to step on a dry twig. There may be a hundred handier things to step on, but that wouldn't satisfy Cooper. Cooper requires him to turn out and find a dry twig; and if he can't do it, go and borrow one. In fact, the Leather Stocking Series ought to have been called the Broken Twig Series.
Cooper's talent for invention wasn’t extraordinary, but he enjoyed using it, and he was happy with the results. He had a small collection of stage props that included six or eight clever devices and tricks for his characters, allowing them to outsmart each other. He was never happier than when he was using these innocent tools and watching them in action. One of his favorites was having a person in moccasins walk in the footsteps of their moccasined enemy to hide their own trail. He went through countless pairs of moccasins perfecting that trick. Another prop he often used was a broken twig. He valued that broken twig above all his other props and used it the most. It’s a relief in any of his books when someone doesn't step on a dry twig and alert everyone nearby. Whenever a character in a Cooper story is in danger and silence is crucial, they’re guaranteed to step on a dry twig. There might be a hundred other things that would be easier to step on, but that wouldn’t satisfy Cooper. He insists that the character finds a dry twig, and if they can’t, they should go borrow one. In fact, the Leather Stocking Series should have been called the Broken Twig Series.
I am sorry there is not room to put in a few dozen instances of the delicate art of the forest, as practised by Natty Bumppo and some of the other Cooperian experts. Perhaps we may venture two or three samples. Cooper was a sailor—a naval officer; yet he gravely tells us how a vessel, driving towards a lee shore in a gale, is steered for a particular spot by her skipper because he knows of an undertow there which will hold her back against the gale and save her. For just pure woodcraft, or sailorcraft, or whatever it is, isn't that neat? For several years Cooper was daily in the society of artillery, and he ought to have noticed that when a cannon-ball strikes the ground it either buries itself or skips a hundred feet or so; skips again a hundred feet or so—and so on, till finally it gets tired and rolls. Now in one place he loses some “females”—as he always calls women—in the edge of a wood near a plain at night in a fog, on purpose to give Bumppo a chance to show off the delicate art of the forest before the reader. These mislaid people are hunting for a fort. They hear a cannonblast, and a cannon-ball presently comes rolling into the wood and stops at their feet. To the females this suggests nothing. The case is very different with the admirable Bumppo. I wish I may never know peace again if he doesn't strike out promptly and follow the track of that cannon-ball across the plain through the dense fog and find the fort. Isn't it a daisy? If Cooper had any real knowledge of Nature's ways of doing things, he had a most delicate art in concealing the fact. For instance: one of his acute Indian experts, Chingachgook (pronounced Chicago, I think), has lost the trail of a person he is tracking through the forest. Apparently that trail is hopelessly lost. Neither you nor I could ever have guessed out the way to find it. It was very different with Chicago. Chicago was not stumped for long. He turned a running stream out of its course, and there, in the slush in its old bed, were that person's moccasin-tracks. The current did not wash them away, as it would have done in all other like cases—no, even the eternal laws of Nature have to vacate when Cooper wants to put up a delicate job of woodcraft on the reader.
I’m sorry there isn’t enough space to share a bunch of examples of the subtle skills of the forest as shown by Natty Bumppo and other experts in Cooper's works. Maybe we can try a couple of examples. Cooper was a sailor—a naval officer; yet he seriously tells us how a ship, being pushed toward the shore in a storm, is steered toward a specific spot by its captain because he knows there’s an undertow that will hold it back against the storm and save it. Now, for pure woodcraft, sailor skills, or whatever it is, isn’t that impressive? For several years, Cooper spent time with artillery, and he should have observed that when a cannonball hits the ground, it either buries itself or bounces a hundred feet or so; bounces again a hundred feet or so—and so on, until it finally gets tired and rolls. Now, in one part, he loses some “females”—as he always refers to women—on the edge of a woods near a plain at night in a fog, just to give Bumppo a chance to demonstrate the delicate art of the forest to the reader. These misplaced people are searching for a fort. They hear a cannon blast, and soon a cannonball rolls into the woods and stops at their feet. To the women, this doesn’t mean anything. But for the impressive Bumppo, it’s a different story. I’m hoping I never find peace again if he doesn’t quickly follow the path of that cannonball across the plain through the thick fog to find the fort. Isn’t that something? If Cooper had any real understanding of how nature operates, he had a remarkable talent for hiding the truth. For instance, one of his sharp Indian characters, Chingachgook (pronounced Chicago, I believe), has lost the trail of someone he’s tracking through the forest. It seems like that trail is completely lost. Neither you nor I would have ever figured out how to find it. But it was different for Chicago. He wasn’t stumped for long. He redirected a running stream, and there, in the mud of its old bed, were that person’s moccasin tracks. The current didn’t wash them away, as it would in any normal situation—no, even the lasting laws of nature have to step aside when Cooper wants to show off a delicate piece of woodcraft to the reader.
We must be a little wary when Brander Matthews tells us that Cooper's books “reveal an extraordinary fulness of invention.” As a rule, I am quite willing to accept Brander Matthews's literary judgments and applaud his lucid and graceful phrasing of them; but that particular statement needs to be taken with a few tons of salt. Bless your heart, Cooper hadn't any more invention than a horse; and I don't mean a high-class horse, either; I mean a clothes-horse. It would be very difficult to find a really clever “situation” in Cooper's books, and still more difficult to find one of any kind which he has failed to render absurd by his handling of it. Look at the episodes of “the caves”; and at the celebrated scuffle between Maqua and those others on the table-land a few days later; and at Hurry Harry's queer water-transit from the castle to the ark; and at Deerslayer's half-hour with his first corpse; and at the quarrel between Hurry Harry and Deerslayer later; and at—but choose for yourself; you can't go amiss.
We should be a bit cautious when Brander Matthews claims that Cooper's books “show an extraordinary fullness of invention.” Generally, I’m more than willing to accept Brander Matthews’s literary opinions and appreciate his clear and elegant way of expressing them; but that particular statement should be taken with a hefty grain of salt. Honestly, Cooper had about as much creativity as a horse—not even a fancy one, but a clothes-horse. It would be pretty tough to find a truly clever “situation” in Cooper's work, and even harder to find one that he hasn’t made ridiculous with his approach. Just look at the scenes with “the caves,” and the famous fight between Maqua and the others on the plateau a few days later, or Hurry Harry’s strange journey by water from the castle to the ark, and Deerslayer’s half-hour spent with his first corpse, and the argument between Hurry Harry and Deerslayer later on. And you can keep going—pick any example; you really can’t go wrong.
If Cooper had been an observer his inventive faculty would have worked better; not more interestingly, but more rationally, more plausibly. Cooper's proudest creations in the way of “situations” suffer noticeably from the absence of the observer's protecting gift. Cooper's eye was splendidly inaccurate. Cooper seldom saw anything correctly. He saw nearly all things as through a glass eye, darkly. Of course a man who cannot see the commonest little every-day matters accurately is working at a disadvantage when he is constructing a “situation.” In the Deerslayer tale Cooper has a stream which is fifty feet wide where it flows out of a lake; it presently narrows to twenty as it meanders along for no given reason; and yet when a stream acts like that it ought to be required to explain itself. Fourteen pages later the width of the brook's outlet from the lake has suddenly shrunk thirty feet, and become “the narrowest part of the stream.” This shrinkage is not accounted for. The stream has bends in it, a sure indication that it has alluvial banks and cuts them; yet these bends are only thirty and fifty feet long. If Cooper had been a nice and punctilious observer he would have noticed that the bends were oftener nine hundred feet long than short of it.
If Cooper had been an observer, his creativity would have functioned better; not more interestingly, but more logically, more convincingly. Cooper's best “situations” clearly suffer from the lack of an observer's valuable perspective. Cooper's vision was remarkably inaccurate. He rarely saw anything correctly. He viewed almost everything as if through a dim glass eye. Obviously, a person who cannot accurately perceive the simplest everyday details is at a disadvantage when creating a “situation.” In the Deerslayer story, Cooper describes a stream that is fifty feet wide as it flows out of a lake; it then narrows to twenty feet without any reason given; yet, when a stream behaves like that, it should be expected to provide an explanation. Fourteen pages later, the width of the stream's outlet from the lake has suddenly decreased by thirty feet, becoming “the narrowest part of the stream.” This reduction is unexplained. The stream has bends in it, which typically indicates it has soft banks that erode; however, these bends are only thirty and fifty feet long. If Cooper had been a careful and precise observer, he would have noticed that the bends were more often nine hundred feet long than short.
Cooper made the exit of that stream fifty feet wide, in the first place, for no particular reason; in the second place, he narrowed it to less than twenty to accommodate some Indians. He bends a “sapling” to the form of an arch over this narrow passage, and conceals six Indians in its foliage. They are “laying” for a settler's scow or ark which is coming up the stream on its way to the lake; it is being hauled against the stiff current by a rope whose stationary end is anchored in the lake; its rate of progress cannot be more than a mile an hour. Cooper describes the ark, but pretty obscurely. In the matter of dimensions “it was little more than a modern canal-boat.” Let us guess, then, that it was about one hundred and forty feet long. It was of “greater breadth than common.” Let us guess, then, that it was about sixteen feet wide. This leviathan had been prowling down bends which were but a third as long as itself, and scraping between banks where it had only two feet of space to spare on each side. We cannot too much admire this miracle. A low-roofed log dwelling occupies “two-thirds of the ark's length”—a dwelling ninety feet long and sixteen feet wide, let us say a kind of vestibule train. The dwelling has two rooms—each forty-five feet long and sixteen feet wide, let us guess. One of them is the bedroom of the Hutter girls, Judith and Hetty; the other is the parlor in the daytime, at night it is papa's bedchamber. The ark is arriving at the stream's exit now, whose width has been reduced to less than twenty feet to accommodate the Indians—say to eighteen. There is a foot to spare on each side of the boat. Did the Indians notice that there was going to be a tight squeeze there? Did they notice that they could make money by climbing down out of that arched sapling and just stepping aboard when the ark scraped by? No, other Indians would have noticed these things, but Cooper's Indians never notice anything. Cooper thinks they are marvelous creatures for noticing, but he was almost always in error about his Indians. There was seldom a sane one among them.
Cooper made the exit of that stream fifty feet wide at first, for no specific reason; then he narrowed it to less than twenty feet to accommodate some Native Americans. He bends a “sapling” into an arch over this narrow passage and hides six Native Americans in its foliage. They are waiting for a settler's scow or ark that is coming up the stream on its way to the lake; it is being pulled against the strong current by a rope with one end anchored in the lake; it’s moving at a speed of no more than a mile an hour. Cooper describes the ark, but in a rather unclear way. In terms of size, “it was little more than a modern canal-boat.” Let's estimate it was about one hundred and forty feet long. It was “broader than usual.” Let’s guess it was about sixteen feet wide. This giant had been navigating bends that were only a third as long as itself and squeezing between banks with just two feet of space on each side. We can’t help but admire this feat. A low-roofed log cabin occupies “two-thirds of the ark's length”—let's say it’s ninety feet long and sixteen feet wide, a sort of vestibule train. The cabin has two rooms—each about forty-five feet long and sixteen feet wide, we assume. One room is where the Hutter sisters, Judith and Hetty, sleep; the other serves as the parlor during the day, and at night, it’s their father’s bedroom. The ark is now arriving at the stream's exit, which has been narrowed to less than twenty feet for the Native Americans—let’s say to eighteen feet. There’s a foot to spare on each side of the boat. Did the Native Americans realize it would be a tight fit? Did they notice they could earn money by climbing down from that arched sapling and just stepping aboard as the ark passed by? No, other Native Americans might have picked up on these things, but Cooper’s Native Americans never seem to notice anything. Cooper thinks they are amazing at noticing details, but he was almost always mistaken about them. There was rarely a sane one among them.
The ark is one hundred and forty feet long; the dwelling is ninety feet long. The idea of the Indians is to drop softly and secretly from the arched sapling to the dwelling as the ark creeps along under it at the rate of a mile an hour, and butcher the family. It will take the ark a minute and a half to pass under. It will take the ninety foot dwelling a minute to pass under. Now, then, what did the six Indians do? It would take you thirty years to guess, and even then you would have to give it up, I believe. Therefore, I will tell you what the Indians did. Their chief, a person of quite extraordinary intellect for a Cooper Indian, warily watched the canal-boat as it squeezed along under him, and when he had got his calculations fined down to exactly the right shade, as he judged, he let go and dropped. And missed the house! That is actually what he did. He missed the house, and landed in the stern of the scow. It was not much of a fall, yet it knocked him silly. He lay there unconscious. If the house had been ninety-seven feet long he would have made the trip. The fault was Cooper's, not his. The error lay in the construction of the house. Cooper was no architect.
The ark is one hundred and forty feet long; the dwelling is ninety feet long. The plan of the Indians is to drop quietly and stealthily from the arched sapling to the dwelling while the ark moves underneath it at a speed of one mile per hour, and take out the family. It will take the ark a minute and a half to pass under. The ninety-foot dwelling will take a minute to pass under. So, what did the six Indians do? It would take you thirty years to guess, and even then, you’d have to give up, I think. So, let me tell you what the Indians did. Their chief, a person with quite remarkable intelligence for a Cooper Indian, carefully observed the canal boat as it squeezed by beneath him, and when he felt he had his calculations just right, he let go and dropped. And he missed the house! That’s exactly what happened. He missed the house and landed in the back of the scow. It wasn’t a big fall, but it knocked him out cold. He lay there unconscious. If the house had been ninety-seven feet long, he would have made it. The mistake was Cooper’s, not his. The problem lay in how the house was built. Cooper wasn’t an architect.
There still remained in the roost five Indians.
There were still five Indians left in the roost.
The boat has passed under and is now out of their reach. Let me explain what the five did—you would not be able to reason it out for yourself. No. 1 jumped for the boat, but fell in the water astern of it. Then No. 2 jumped for the boat, but fell in the water still farther astern of it. Then No. 3 jumped for the boat, and fell a good way astern of it. Then No. 4 jumped for the boat, and fell in the water away astern. Then even No. 5 made a jump for the boat—for he was a Cooper Indian. In the matter of intellect, the difference between a Cooper Indian and the Indian that stands in front of the cigarshop is not spacious. The scow episode is really a sublime burst of invention; but it does not thrill, because the inaccuracy of the details throws a sort of air of fictitiousness and general improbability over it. This comes of Cooper's inadequacy as an observer.
The boat has passed underneath and is now out of their reach. Let me explain what the five did—you wouldn’t be able to figure it out on your own. No. 1 jumped for the boat but fell into the water behind it. Then No. 2 jumped for the boat but fell into the water even farther back. Then No. 3 jumped for the boat and landed quite a ways behind it. Then No. 4 jumped for the boat and fell into the water well behind it. Even No. 5 made a leap for the boat—he was a Cooper Indian. In terms of intelligence, there isn’t much difference between a Cooper Indian and the Indian standing outside the cigar shop. The scow episode is actually a brilliant moment of creativity, but it doesn’t excite because the inaccuracies in the details create a sense of fiction and overall unlikelihood. This stems from Cooper’s inability as an observer.
The reader will find some examples of Cooper's high talent for inaccurate observation in the account of the shooting-match in The Pathfinder.
The reader will find some examples of Cooper's great talent for inaccurate observation in the account of the shooting match in The Pathfinder.
“A common wrought nail was driven lightly into the target, its
head having been first touched with paint.”
“A regular iron nail was gently driven into the target, its head having been first dipped in paint.”
The color of the paint is not stated—an important omission, but Cooper deals freely in important omissions. No, after all, it was not an important omission; for this nail-head is a hundred yards from the marksmen, and could not be seen by them at that distance, no matter what its color might be.
The color of the paint isn't mentioned—this is a significant omission, but Cooper often leaves out important details. In reality, it wasn’t a crucial omission; after all, this nail-head is a hundred yards away from the shooters, and they wouldn't be able to see it from that distance, regardless of what color it was.
How far can the best eyes see a common house-fly? A hundred yards? It is quite impossible. Very well; eyes that cannot see a house-fly that is a hundred yards away cannot see an ordinary nailhead at that distance, for the size of the two objects is the same. It takes a keen eye to see a fly or a nailhead at fifty yards—one hundred and fifty feet. Can the reader do it?
How far can the best eyes see a regular housefly? A hundred yards? That's really not possible. Well, if eyes can't see a housefly that’s a hundred yards away, then they can't see a regular nailhead at that distance either, because the size of both objects is the same. It takes a sharp eye to spot a fly or a nailhead at fifty yards—one hundred and fifty feet. Can you do it?
The nail was lightly driven, its head painted, and game called. Then the Cooper miracles began. The bullet of the first marksman chipped an edge off the nail-head; the next man's bullet drove the nail a little way into the target—and removed all the paint. Haven't the miracles gone far enough now? Not to suit Cooper; for the purpose of this whole scheme is to show off his prodigy, Deerslayer Hawkeye—Long-Rifle—Leather-Stocking—Pathfinder—Bumppo before the ladies.
The nail was lightly hammered in, its head painted, and the game commenced. Then the Cooper miracles started. The first marksman's bullet knocked a chip off the nail-head; the next bullet pushed the nail further into the target—and stripped away all the paint. Haven't the miracles gone far enough now? Not according to Cooper; the whole point of this scheme is to showcase his prodigy, Deerslayer Hawkeye—Long-Rifle—Leather-Stocking—Pathfinder—Bumppo before the ladies.
“'Be all ready to clench it, boys!' cried out Pathfinder,
stepping into his friend's tracks the instant they were vacant.
'Never mind a new nail; I can see that, though the paint is
gone, and what I can see I can hit at a hundred yards, though
it were only a mosquito's eye. Be ready to clench!'
“'Get ready to grab it, guys!' shouted Pathfinder, stepping into his friend's footprints as soon as they were empty. 'Don't worry about a new nail; I notice that even though the paint is worn off, and what I can see I can hit from a hundred yards away, even if it's just a mosquito's eye. Be ready to grab it!'
“The rifle cracked, the bullet sped its way, and the head of the nail was buried in the wood, covered by the piece of flattened lead.”
“The rifle went off, the bullet flew through the air, and the head of the nail was driven into the wood, hidden by the flattened piece of lead.”
There, you see, is a man who could hunt flies with a rifle, and command a ducal salary in a Wild West show to-day if we had him back with us.
There, you see, is a man who could hunt flies with a rifle and earn a ducal salary in a Wild West show today if we had him back with us.
The recorded feat is certainly surprising just as it stands; but it is not surprising enough for Cooper. Cooper adds a touch. He has made Pathfinder do this miracle with another man's rifle; and not only that, but Pathfinder did not have even the advantage of loading it himself. He had everything against him, and yet he made that impossible shot; and not only made it, but did it with absolute confidence, saying, “Be ready to clench.” Now a person like that would have undertaken that same feat with a brickbat, and with Cooper to help he would have achieved it, too.
The recorded achievement is definitely surprising on its own, but it's not surprising enough for Cooper. Cooper adds an extra element. He has had Pathfinder pull off this miracle using someone else's rifle; and not only that, but Pathfinder didn't even have the advantage of loading it himself. He faced every challenge possible, yet he made that incredible shot—not just that, but he did it with complete confidence, saying, “Be ready to strike.” Someone like that would have tackled the same challenge with a brick, and with Cooper's help, he would have pulled it off too.
Pathfinder showed off handsomely that day before the ladies. His very first feat was a thing which no Wild West show can touch. He was standing with the group of marksmen, observing—a hundred yards from the target, mind; one Jasper raised his rifle and drove the centre of the bull's-eye. Then the Quartermaster fired. The target exhibited no result this time. There was a laugh. “It's a dead miss,” said Major Lundie. Pathfinder waited an impressive moment or two; then said, in that calm, indifferent, know-it-all way of his, “No, Major, he has covered Jasper's bullet, as will be seen if any one will take the trouble to examine the target.”
Pathfinder showcased his skills impressively that day in front of the ladies. His very first trick was something no Wild West show could match. He was standing with the group of marksmen, watching—from a hundred yards away from the target, mind you. One man named Jasper lifted his rifle and hit the center of the bull's-eye. Then the Quartermaster took his shot. This time, the target showed no results. There was a laugh. “It’s a complete miss,” said Major Lundie. Pathfinder paused for a moment or two, then said in his calm, indifferent, know-it-all tone, “No, Major, he has hit Jasper's bullet, as anyone would see if they took the time to examine the target.”
Wasn't it remarkable! How could he see that little pellet fly through the air and enter that distant bullet-hole? Yet that is what he did; for nothing is impossible to a Cooper person. Did any of those people have any deep-seated doubts about this thing? No; for that would imply sanity, and these were all Cooper people.
Wasn't it amazing! How could he see that tiny pellet fly through the air and hit that far-off bullet hole? Yet that's exactly what he did; nothing is impossible for a Cooper person. Did any of those folks have any serious doubts about this? No; because that would suggest sanity, and these were all Cooper people.
“The respect for Pathfinder's skill and for his 'quickness and
accuracy of sight'” (the italics [''] are mine) “was so
profound and general, that the instant he made this declaration
the spectators began to distrust their own opinions, and a
dozen rushed to the target in order to ascertain the fact.
There, sure enough, it was found that the Quartermaster's
bullet had gone through the hole made by Jasper's, and that,
too, so accurately as to require a minute examination to be
certain of the circumstance, which, however, was soon clearly
established by discovering one bullet over the other in the
stump against which the target was placed.”
“The respect for Pathfinder's skill and for his 'quickness and accuracy of sight' (the italics [''] are mine) was so deep and widespread that as soon as he made this statement, the onlookers began to doubt their own opinions, and a dozen people rushed to the target to verify it. There, indeed, they discovered that the Quartermaster's bullet had gone through the hole made by Jasper's, and so precisely that it required a close inspection to confirm the fact, which was soon clearly established by finding one bullet on top of the other in the stump against which the target was placed.”
They made a “minute” examination; but never mind, how could they know that there were two bullets in that hole without digging the latest one out? for neither probe nor eyesight could prove the presence of any more than one bullet. Did they dig? No; as we shall see. It is the Pathfinder's turn now; he steps out before the ladies, takes aim, and fires.
They did a close inspection, but really, how could they know there were two bullets in that hole without digging out the latest one? Neither the probe nor their eyes could confirm there was more than one bullet. Did they dig? No; as we will see. Now it's the Pathfinder's turn; he steps out in front of the ladies, takes aim, and fires.
But, alas! here is a disappointment; an incredible, an unimaginable disappointment—for the target's aspect is unchanged; there is nothing there but that same old bullet-hole!
But, unfortunately! here is a letdown; an unbelievable, an unimaginable letdown—for the target's appearance is unchanged; there is nothing there but that same old bullet hole!
“'If one dared to hint at such a thing,' cried Major Duncan, 'I
should say that the Pathfinder has also missed the target!'”
“'If someone were to suggest such a thing,' Major Duncan exclaimed, 'I would say that the Pathfinder has also missed the mark!'”
As nobody had missed it yet, the “also” was not necessary; but never mind about that, for the Pathfinder is going to speak.
As no one had noticed it yet, the “also” wasn’t needed; but that doesn’t matter, because the Pathfinder is about to speak.
“'No, no, Major,' said he, confidently, 'that would be a risky
declaration. I didn't load the piece, and can't say what was
in it; but if it was lead, you will find the bullet driving
down those of the Quartermaster and Jasper, else is not my name
Pathfinder.'
“A shout from the target announced the truth of this
assertion.”
“'No, no, Major,' he said confidently, 'that would be a risky
statement. I didn't load the gun, and I can't say what was
in it; but if it was lead, you'll find the bullet hitting
those of the Quartermaster and Jasper, otherwise my name's not
Pathfinder.'
“A shout from the target confirmed the truth of this
statement.”Is the miracle sufficient as it stands? Not for Cooper. The Pathfinder speaks again, as he “now slowly advances towards the stage occupied by the females”:
Is the miracle enough as it is? Not for Cooper. The Pathfinder speaks again as he “now slowly moves toward the stage where the women are”:
“'That's not all, boys, that's not all; if you find the target
touched at all, I'll own to a miss. The Quartermaster cut the
wood, but you'll find no wood cut by that last messenger.”
“'That's not everything, guys, that's not everything; if you find the target even slightly disturbed, I'll admit I missed. The Quartermaster cut the wood, but you won't find any wood cut by that last messenger.”
The miracle is at last complete. He knew—doubtless saw—at the distance of a hundred yards—that his bullet had passed into the hole without fraying the edges. There were now three bullets in that one hole—three bullets embedded processionally in the body of the stump back of the target. Everybody knew this—somehow or other—and yet nobody had dug any of them out to make sure. Cooper is not a close observer, but he is interesting. He is certainly always that, no matter what happens. And he is more interesting when he is not noticing what he is about than when he is. This is a considerable merit.
The miracle is finally complete. He knew—probably even saw—from a hundred yards away—that his bullet had gone through the hole without damaging the edges. Now there were three bullets in that one hole—three bullets lined up inside the stump behind the target. Everyone was aware of this—somehow—and yet no one had bothered to dig any of them out to check. Cooper isn't a keen observer, but he is intriguing. He's always interesting, no matter what happens. And he’s even more fascinating when he’s not paying attention to what he’s doing than when he is. This is quite a significant quality.
The conversations in the Cooper books have a curious sound in our modern ears. To believe that such talk really ever came out of people's mouths would be to believe that there was a time when time was of no value to a person who thought he had something to say; when it was the custom to spread a two-minute remark out to ten; when a man's mouth was a rolling-mill, and busied itself all day long in turning four-foot pigs of thought into thirty-foot bars of conversational railroad iron by attenuation; when subjects were seldom faithfully stuck to, but the talk wandered all around and arrived nowhere; when conversations consisted mainly of irrelevancies, with here and there a relevancy, a relevancy with an embarrassed look, as not being able to explain how it got there.
The conversations in the Cooper books sound pretty strange to our modern ears. To think that people actually spoke like this would mean believing there was a time when time didn’t matter to someone who thought they had something to say; when it was normal to stretch a two-minute comment into ten; when a person's mouth was constantly spinning out huge thoughts into lengthy chats like they were working on a railroad; when topics rarely stayed on track, but instead meandered all over the place and went nowhere; when conversations mainly focused on random stuff, with the occasional relevant point popping up, looking out of place and unsure of how it even got there.
Cooper was certainly not a master in the construction of dialogue. Inaccurate observation defeated him here as it defeated him in so many other enterprises of his. He even failed to notice that the man who talks corrupt English six days in the week must and will talk it on the seventh, and can't help himself. In the Deerslayer story he lets Deerslayer talk the showiest kind of book-talk sometimes, and at other times the basest of base dialects. For instance, when some one asks him if he has a sweetheart, and if so, where she abides, this is his majestic answer:
Cooper definitely wasn't great at writing dialogue. His lack of accurate observation tripped him up here, just like in many of his other works. He even overlooked that a person who uses poor English six days a week will, without a doubt, do the same on the seventh day—there's no way to avoid it. In the Deerslayer story, he sometimes has Deerslayer speaking in an overly elaborate bookish way, while at other times, he uses the lowest kind of dialect. For example, when someone asks him if he has a sweetheart, and where she lives, this is his grand reply:
“'She's in the forest-hanging from the boughs of the trees, in
a soft rain—in the dew on the open grass—the clouds that
float about in the blue heavens—the birds that sing in the
woods—the sweet springs where I slake my thirst—and in all
the other glorious gifts that come from God's Providence!'”
“'She's in the forest—hanging from the branches of the trees, in a gentle rain—in the dew on the open grass—the clouds drifting in the blue sky—the birds singing in the woods—the sweet springs where I quench my thirst—and in all the other wonderful gifts that come from God's Providence!'”
And he preceded that, a little before, with this:
And he started that off a little earlier with this:
“'It consarns me as all things that touches a fri'nd consarns a
fri'nd.'”
“'It concerns me just like everything that affects a friend concerns a friend.'”
And this is another of his remarks:
And this is another of his comments:
“'If I was Injin born, now, I might tell of this, or carry in
the scalp and boast of the expl'ite afore the whole tribe; or
if my inimy had only been a bear'”—and so on.
“'If I was born an Indian, I could talk about this or bring in the scalp and brag about the adventure in front of the whole tribe; or if my enemy had just been a bear'”—and so on.
We cannot imagine such a thing as a veteran Scotch Commander-in-Chief comporting himself in the field like a windy melodramatic actor, but Cooper could. On one occasion Alice and Cora were being chased by the French through a fog in the neighborhood of their father's fort:
We can't picture a seasoned Scotch Commander-in-Chief acting in the field like a dramatic actor, but Cooper could. One time, Alice and Cora were being pursued by the French through a fog near their father's fort:
“'Point de quartier aux coquins!' cried an eager pursuer, who
seemed to direct the operations of the enemy.
“'Stand firm and be ready, my gallant 60ths!' suddenly
exclaimed a voice above them; wait to see the enemy; fire low,
and sweep the glacis.'
“'Father? father!' exclaimed a piercing cry from out the mist;
'it is I! Alice! thy own Elsie! spare, O! save your daughters!'
“'Hold!' shouted the former speaker, in the awful tones of
parental agony, the sound reaching even to the woods, and
rolling back in solemn echo. ''Tis she! God has restored me my
children! Throw open the sally-port; to the field, 60ths, to
the field! pull not a trigger, lest ye kill my lambs! Drive
off these dogs of France with your steel!'”
“'No quarter for rogues!' shouted an eager pursuer, who seemed to be commanding the enemy's actions.
“'Stand strong and be ready, my brave 60ths!' suddenly shouted a voice above them; wait to see the enemy; aim low, and clear the slope.'
“'Father? Father!' a desperate voice cried out from the mist; 'it's me! Alice! your own Elsie! please, spare us! save your daughters!'
“'Stop!' yelled the previous speaker, in the heart-wrenching tones of a parent in despair, the sound echoing even to the woods, returning in solemn response. 'It’s her! God has given me back my children! Open the gate; to the battlefield, 60ths, to the battlefield! Don’t fire a shot, or you’ll hit my girls! Drive off these French dogs with your steel!'”Cooper's word-sense was singularly dull. When a person has a poor ear for music he will flat and sharp right along without knowing it. He keeps near the tune, but it is not the tune. When a person has a poor ear for words, the result is a literary flatting and sharping; you perceive what he is intending to say, but you also perceive that he doesn't say it. This is Cooper. He was not a word-musician. His ear was satisfied with the approximate word. I will furnish some circumstantial evidence in support of this charge. My instances are gathered from half a dozen pages of the tale called Deerslayer. He uses “verbal,” for “oral”; “precision,” for “facility”; “phenomena,” for “marvels”; “necessary,” for “predetermined”; “unsophisticated,” for “primitive”; “preparation,” for “expectancy”; “rebuked,” for “subdued”; “dependent on,” for “resulting from”; “fact,” for “condition”; “fact,” for “conjecture”; “precaution,” for “caution”; “explain,” for “determine”; “mortified,” for “disappointed”; “meretricious,” for “factitious”; “materially,” for “considerably”; “decreasing,” for “deepening”; “increasing,” for “disappearing”; “embedded,” for “enclosed”; “treacherous;” for “hostile”; “stood,” for “stooped”; “softened,” for “replaced”; “rejoined,” for “remarked”; “situation,” for “condition”; “different,” for “differing”; “insensible,” for “unsentient”; “brevity,” for “celerity”; “distrusted,” for “suspicious”; “mental imbecility,” for “imbecility”; “eyes,” for “sight”; “counteracting,” for “opposing”; “funeral obsequies,” for “obsequies.”
Cooper's sense of words was really dull. When someone has a bad ear for music, they’ll sing flat or sharp without even realizing it. They stay close to the tune, but it’s not really the tune. When someone has a poor ear for words, the result is a literary flatness and sharpness; you can figure out what they’re trying to say, but you also realize they’re not actually saying it. This is Cooper. He wasn’t a word artist. His ear was satisfied with the approximate word. I’ll provide some clear evidence to back this up. My examples are pulled from just a few pages of the story called Deerslayer. He uses “verbal” instead of “oral”; “precision” for “facility”; “phenomena” for “marvels”; “necessary” for “predetermined”; “unsophisticated” for “primitive”; “preparation” for “expectancy”; “rebuked” for “subdued”; “dependent on” for “resulting from”; “fact” for “condition”; “fact” for “conjecture”; “precaution” for “caution”; “explain” for “determine”; “mortified” for “disappointed”; “meretricious” for “factitious”; “materially” for “considerably”; “decreasing” for “deepening”; “increasing” for “disappearing”; “embedded” for “enclosed”; “treacherous” for “hostile”; “stood” for “stooped”; “softened” for “replaced”; “rejoined” for “remarked”; “situation” for “condition”; “different” for “differing”; “insensible” for “unsentient”; “brevity” for “celerity”; “distrusted” for “suspicious”; “mental imbecility” for “imbecility”; “eyes” for “sight”; “counteracting” for “opposing”; “funeral obsequies” for “obsequies.”
There have been daring people in the world who claimed that Cooper could write English, but they are all dead now—all dead but Lounsbury. I don't remember that Lounsbury makes the claim in so many words, still he makes it, for he says that Deerslayer is a “pure work of art.” Pure, in that connection, means faultless—faultless in all details—and language is a detail. If Mr. Lounsbury had only compared Cooper's English with the English which he writes himself—but it is plain that he didn't; and so it is likely that he imagines until this day that Cooper's is as clean and compact as his own. Now I feel sure, deep down in my heart, that Cooper wrote about the poorest English that exists in our language, and that the English of Deerslayer is the very worst that even Cooper ever wrote.
There have been bold people in the world who claimed that Cooper could write in English, but they're all gone now—all gone but Lounsbury. I don’t remember Lounsbury explicitly saying this, but he implies it when he calls Deerslayer a “pure work of art.” Pure, in that context, means perfect—perfect in every detail—and language is one of those details. If Mr. Lounsbury had only compared Cooper's English to his own, it’s clear he didn’t; so it’s likely he still thinks Cooper's writing is as smooth and polished as his own. Honestly, I’m sure, deep down, that Cooper wrote some of the worst English in our language, and that the English in Deerslayer is the absolute worst Cooper ever wrote.
I may be mistaken, but it does seem to me that Deerslayer is not a work of art in any sense; it does seem to me that it is destitute of every detail that goes to the making of a work of art; in truth, it seems to me that Deerslayer is just simply a literary delirium tremens.
I could be wrong, but it seems to me that Deerslayer isn't a work of art in any way; it feels to me like it lacks every detail that makes something an art piece; honestly, it seems like Deerslayer is just a literary case of the shakes.
A work of art? It has no invention; it has no order, system, sequence, or result; it has no lifelikeness, no thrill, no stir, no seeming of reality; its characters are confusedly drawn, and by their acts and words they prove that they are not the sort of people the author claims that they are; its humor is pathetic; its pathos is funny; its conversations are—oh! indescribable; its love-scenes odious; its English a crime against the language.
A work of art? It lacks originality; it has no structure, organization, flow, or outcome; it doesn’t feel lifelike, it has no excitement, no emotional impact, no sense of reality; its characters are poorly developed, and through their actions and dialogue, they show that they aren’t the kind of people the author says they are; its humor is sad; its emotional moments are laughable; its conversations are—oh! beyond description; its love scenes are terrible; its English is a disgrace to the language.
Counting these out, what is left is Art. I think we must all admit that.
Counting these out, what's left is Art. I think we all have to admit that.
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