 Fenimore Cooper's Literary Offenses, by Mark Twain. The Pathfinder and the Deer Slayer 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. Professor Lownsbury. The five tales reveal an extraordinary fullness of invention. One of the very greatest characters in fiction, Natty Bumpo, 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, Professor Brander Matthews. Cooper is the greatest artist in the domain of romantic fiction yet 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. Cooper's art has some defects. In one place in Deer Slayer, and in the restricted space of two-thirds of a page, Cooper has scored 114 offenses against literary art out of a possible 115. It breaks the record. There are nineteen rules governing literary art in the domain of romantic fiction. Some say twenty-two. In Deer Slayer, Cooper violated eighteen of them. These eighteen require, one, that a tale shall accomplish something and arrive somewhere, but the Deer Slayer tale accomplishes nothing, and arrives in the air. Two, they require that the episodes of a tale shall be necessary parts of the tale, and shall help to develop it, but as the Deer Slayer 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. Three, 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 Deer Slayer tale. Four, 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 Deer Slayer tale. Five, 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 Deer Slayer tale to the end of it. Six, 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 Deer Slayer tale, as Natty Bumpo's case will amply prove. Seven, they require that when a personage talks like an illustrated, guilt-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 Deer Slayer tale. Eight, 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 Deer Slayer tale. Nine, 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 Deer Slayer tale. Seven, 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 Deer Slayer tale dislikes the good people in it, is indifferent to the others, and wishes they would all get drowned together. Eleven, 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 Deer Slayer tale this rule is vacated. In addition to these large rules there are some little ones. These require that the author shall, twelve, say what he is proposing to say, not merely come near it, thirteen, use the right word, not its second cousin, fourteen, eschew surplusage, fifteen, not omit necessary details, sixteen, avoid slovenliness of form, seventeen, use good grammar, eighteen, employ a simple and straightforward style. Even these seven are coldly and persistently violated in the Deer Slayer tale. The author'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 favourite one was to make a moccasin'd person tread in the tracks of the moccasin'd 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. 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 Bumpo and some of the other Couparian 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 sailor-craft, 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 Bumpo 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 cannon blast, 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 Bumpo. 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 way of doing things, he had a most delicate art in concealing the fact. For instance, one of his acute Indian experts, Shinkaguk, 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 a 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. We must be a little wary when Brander Matthews tells us that Cooper's books reveal an extraordinary fullness of invention. As a rule, I am quite willing to accept Brander Matthews' 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 these episodes of The Caves, and at the celebrated scuffle between Macquah and those others on the table-land a few days later, and at Hury Harry's queer water transit from the castle to the ark, and at Deer Slayer's half-hour with his first corpse, and at the quarrel between Hury Harry and Deer Slayer later. And at—but choose for yourself, you can't go amiss. 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 Deer Slayer 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. 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 scowl 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 bed-chamber. 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 marvellous creatures for noticing, but he was almost always in error about his Indians. There was seldom 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 arch 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. There still remained in the roost five Indians. The boat has passed under and is now out of their reach. Let me explain what the five did. He would not be able to reason it out for yourself. Number one, jumped for the boat, but fell in the water a stern of it. Then number two jumped for the boat, but fell in the water still farther a stern of it. Then number three jumped for the boat and fell a good way a stern of it. Then number four jumped for the boat and fell in the water a way a stern. Then even number five 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 cigar shop 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 reader will find some examples of Cooper's high 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. 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. 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 nail-head at that distance, for the size of the two objects is the same. It takes a keen eye to see a fly or a nail-head at fifty yards, one hundred and fifty feet. Can the reader 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, dear slayer, Hawkeye, long, rifle, leather, stocking, Pathfinder bump-o, 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!' 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. There, you see, is a man who could hunt flies with a rifle, and command 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 brick-bat, and with Cooper to help, he would have achieved it 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 a group of marksmen, observing, a hundred yards from the target mind. One Jasper raised his rifle and drove the center of the bullseye. Then the quartermaster fired. The target exhibited no result this time. There was a laugh. "'It's a dead miss,' said Major Lundy. 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.' 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. The respect for Pathfinder's skill and for his quickness and accuracy of sight, the italics are mine, was so profound in 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. 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. 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. If one dared to hint at such a thing, cried Major Duncan, I should say that the Pathfinder has also missed the target. As nobody had missed it yet, the also was not necessary, but never mind about that, for the Pathfinder is going to speak. No, no, Major," said he, confidently, that would be a risky declaration. I didn't load the piece and I can't say what was in it, but if it was led, 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. 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. That's not all, boys, that's not all. If you find the target touched at all, I'll own to amiss. The quartermaster cut the wood, but you'll find no 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 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 conversation 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, 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 Deer Slayer story he lets Deer Slayer talk the showiest kind of book-talk sometimes, and at other times the basest of base dialects. For instance, when someone asks him if he has a sweetheart, and if so where she abides, this is his majestic answer. 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. And he proceeded that a little before with this. It concerns me as all things that touches a friend concerns a friend, and this in another of his remarks. If I was engine-born now, I might tell of this, or carry in the scalp and boast of the exploit for the whole tribe, or if my enemy had only 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. Pointe de Cartier-aux-Cochins cried an eager pursuer who seemed to direct the operations of the enemy. Stand firm and be ready, my gallant sixtieths! Suddenly exclaimed a voice above them. Wait to see the enemy! Fire low and sweep the glasses. Father! Father! exclaimed a piercing cry from out of the mist. It is I, Alice, thy own Elsie. Bear! Oh! 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! Sixtieths! To the field! Pull not a trigger lest ye kill my lambs! Drive off these dogs of France with your steel!" Father'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 Dear Slayer. 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 determined, 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 insentient, 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 claim that Cooper could write English, but they are all dead now, all dead but Lownsbury. I don't remember that Lownsbury makes the claim in so many words, still he makes it, for he says that Dear Slayer is a pure work of art. Pure in that connection means faultless, faultless in all details, and language is a detail, if Mr. Lownsbury 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 Dear Slayer is the very worst that even Cooper ever wrote. I may be mistaken, but it does seem to me that Dear Slayer 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 Dear Slayer is just simply a literary delirium tremens. 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. Counting these out, what is left is art. I think we must all admit that. End of Fenimore Cooper's Literary Offenses by Mark Twain. Read by John Greenman.