 The Cavalcade of America presented by DuPont. This evening, DuPont presents episodes in the life of America's first great novelist, James Fenimore Cooper. In the ranks of the Cavalcade of America, march many sturdy pioneers in all fields of endeavor. Exploration, business, commerce, statecraft, art and science. Possibly no other nation over the same span of years can point to so many splendid achievements of her sons and daughters. Among these pioneers are also the research chemists, to whom we owe many of the comforts and conveniences we enjoy today. Their contributions are aptly summed up in the DuPont Pledge. Better things for better living, through chemistry. As an overture, Don Voris and his DuPont Cavalcade Orchestra joined two unrelated subjects, James Fenimore Cooper's Indian Legends and St. Patrick's Day. By playing an excerpt from Natoma, the American Indian opera by the great Irish American composer Victor Herbert, 1789. During his youth, which was passed in western New York, then a wilderness, he showed no aptitude for books or writing. After two years at Yale, at the age of 19, he secured a commission as midshipman in the United States Navy. In 1811, he resigned, married Susan Delancey of Westchester, and settled down to the domestic life of a country gentleman. One evening in 1820, in his Westchester home near Mamaronex, we find Cooper reading aloud to his wife from an English novel which has just been received in America. I beg your forgiveness, my fair Lady Vera. The manly form of Lord Edmund Nelt by the sight of the beautiful but proud heirs of Rosewood Manor. His dark eyes besought hers at dawn. James, throwing a book on the floor. Oh, just trash. In our eight years of marriage, I've never seen you display such temper. The book seems to me as entertaining as any of Mrs. Opie's other novels. Entertains through why I could write a better book myself. Oh, James. I mean it. You write a book? Well, are you who admit being the worst penman in America? James, you told me the principal reason you agreed to live here in Westchester is so you'd be spared the need of writing to me when I came home to visit my parents. Well, there's some truth in that, my dearest Sue. But I still maintain I could write a better book than this trash from England. James Cooper. All right. I challenge you to do it. Why, I had not meant that I'd actually said about the writing of a book. Then you shouldn't make empty boast. Well, there'd be no harm in trying. The most difficult part of writing a novel must be to start it. Well then, I accept your challenge. For your private amusement, Susan, I'll write one novel. But no one must ever know. James Fenimore Cooper would never have completed that first novel if his wife had not continued to challenge him. And solely to please her, he printed a few hundred copies at his own expense. In the tradition of the early 19th century, it was a story of English high society. And it appeared without the author's name. One evening a few weeks after the book is printed, Cooper and his wife dine at the Westchester home of their intimate friend, Judge John Jay. In the drawing room after dinner, Cooper is startled to hear one of the guests to Miss McDonald discussing his book. Have you read the new novel called Precaution, Mr. Jay? Yes, Miss McDonald. I have. Interesting book. Interesting enough. But I am indignant with the booksellers. Say that American gentleman wrote it. I can say it emphatically. It was written by an English woman. Why do you suppose the bookseller states that an American wrote it, Miss McDonald? Oh, I can't answer that, Mr. Jay. But I'm sure it's a fraudulent statement. That book was undoubtedly written by the English novelist, Mrs. Opie. One of her poorer books, of course. One of her poorer books, Miss McDonald. Why, I thought it a better novel than any Mrs. Opie ever wrote. Well, each of us two are tased. Gracious. Is that nine o'clock? My coach must be at the door. It has been a delightful evening, Mr. Jay. And it has been a pleasure, Mrs. Cooper, to see you and Mr. Cooper again. Thank you, and good night, Miss McDonald. Oh, Mr. Cooper, when you have read this new book, Precaution, please let me know if you do not agree that Mrs. Opie wrote it. I'll read it with interest, Miss McDonald, and let you know my opinion. Good night. Good night. I shall escort you to your carriage, Miss McDonald. We'll be back in just a moment. Well... James, please don't be distressed. Before Mr. Jay gets back, I want to tell you, it really is a compliment, Miss McDonald, thinking Mrs. Opie wrote your book. One of Mrs. Opie's poorer novels, she said. And I set out to do a better one. I think it's an admirable book, James. No other Westchester gentleman could have done as well. But don't you see what I've done? I've imitated those atrocious novels of Mrs. Opie, with her English society and lords and ladies. I've never been in London, and I tried to write about it. But all English novels are about society people? Well, not these new Waverly novels, Sue. Oh, but you couldn't write books like those, James. You've never been to Scotland either. No. The only country I know is America. Westchester, Cooperstown, Lake Otsego. If no one ever writes about America, it's too rough, too crude, too new. What is nothing in America, to interest readers? I wonder. Sue, dearest, I'm ashamed of myself. I wrote percussion because of an idle boast, and I failed. I'm so angry with myself, I'm going to have to write one more book. And this time I'll write about something I really know. Challenged by failure, James Fenimore Cooper now challenged himself to write a book. At last it was completed, and in the hands of his bookseller and publisher friend Charles Wiley. Cooper has made the long trip from Westchester to New York City to visit Wiley and to hear the verdict on his second book entitled The Spy. He greets Wiley hopefully. Well, Wiley, have you read it? Cooper, you've been my friend for several years. I wish there were a jet away of telling you what I must tell you today. Wiley, you mean you don't like the book? This is the strangest book I've read in all my years as a bookseller and publisher. I'm sorry, but it's not worth wasting paper to print and bind it. You found no merit in the book whatsoever? Well, can't you yourself see the faults of the book? You're an intelligent man, Cooper. Surely you must know no book like this has ever been written. A book whose setting is the American wilderness. Is it your honest judgment that no American would read a book about his own country? Well, it's the judgment of any sane man, Cooper. Americans want to read of life and manners in polished European circles. They know too much about Indians and rough frontiersmen already. I'm afraid you're right, Wiley. My wife's enthusiasm led me to be too hopeful of the book. And to think I'd come here today intending to offer you the copyright at a small price. Well, I'm sorry, Cooper, but I don't dare gamble on it. I understand, Wiley. And I appreciate your frankness. It's a funny thing. After I completed two chapters, I would have burned them. But my wife begged me to finish the book. And now she tells me it's her dream to see it printed. I think to please her, I'll print it myself. Charles Wiley lived to regret his refusal to buy the copyright of the spy. Despite the fact that books were distributed slowly in those days of stagecoaches and packet boats, scarcely a year had passed before the spy had been declared a remarkable piece of fiction. James Fenimore Cooper was hailed in this country and even in London as America's first novelist. Encouraged this time by success, Cooper wrote one more novel, The Pioneer, and still another, The Pilot. But his most famous book was yet to be written. In the year 1800-25, James Cooper is at home recovering slowly from a serious illness. One afternoon, his devoted wife, Sue, hurries to his bedside as he calls in a feeble voice, Sue, dear, please bring me a paper and pen. Oh, but James, you're not strong enough to hold a pen. And the doctor said that... Oh, bother the doctor. There's something I must set on paper this minute. There, there, James. Now please don't excite yourself, dear. Your favorite pen and paper. Right on this table. Now have Martha bring the paper. Martha? Yes, Mr. Cooper? Will you please bring some sheets of paper at once to Mr. Cooper? They're on the desk in the drawing room. Yes, Mr. Cooper. Here's an offer to do at the... Glen's Falls. It came on the Rocky Island. Perfect hiding place for Indians. The ideal setting. Yes, dear. I remember you told me about your trip to Glen's Falls last summer. It must have been a beautiful sight. Uncus, the last of his tribe, the Mojigans. That's it. The last of the Mojigans. Susan, where is that paper? I'll set me the paper, your right, Martha Cooper. Here, too. And the pen? Oh, please, you must not get up there. You're not strong enough. No, I can help, oh, Martha Cooper, up on the bed. Oh, I'm beggin' to break into that, James. I can't do it. I can't hold a pen. I have an idea, James. You tell me what it is you want to say and I'll write it. I write a fairly legible hand. Well, I'm more legible than mine. Are you ready to write, Sue? Just a moment, yes. There, I'm ready. The breach of Hawkeye's rifle fell on the naked head of his adversary, whose muscles... Well, we're not quite the first, do you know? Whose muscles appeared to weather under the shock. Yes. When Uncus had brained his first antagonist, he turned like a hungry lion to seek another. Suddenly darting at each other, the two combatants closed and came to the earth, twisting together like twining shepherds in pliant and subtle poles. Covered as they were with dust and blood, the swift evolution of the two men seemed to incorporate their bodies into one. Oh, Lord. The fiery eyes of Magwa were seen glittering like the fable organs of the basilisk. James, James, are you sure you're strong enough to do this today? Martha, Cripple, come on up. Wait just a second, James. I need another sheet of paper. Martha. Yes. Then for the doctor as one. That is horrible. Oh, yes. The word Mr. Cooper is telling me to write sounds like a nightmare. I'm afraid he's delirious again. What a poor man. He sure is brave in this room. Well, I'd go on like we'd lighten for that doctor. Susan. Yes. Where are you going? I'm not finished. I must get this one scene on paper. I'm right here, dear. Well, what was the last time I gave you? Wait. The fiery eyes of Magwa were seen glittering like the fable organs of the basilisk. Yes, yes. The Mohegan now found an opportunity to make a powerful fuss for the night. Magwa suddenly fell backward without a motion. Victory to the Mohegan, cried Hawkeye, elevating the butt of his long and faithful wife. And in this manner was born the book which was to assure James Fenimore Cooper's immortality, the last of the Mohegan's. Let us turn the pages and recall some of its stirring scenes. Its hero, the noble Indian Uncus, soon ranked in popularity here in the broad of Sir Walter Scott's Ivanhole. The setting of this dramatic narrative of frontier and Indian life is the wilderness of northern New York state. Now as our scene opens, Uncus with ear to the ground warns his friend, the White Hunter Hawkeye, that men are approaching. Your ears are copper in mine, Uncus. I hear nothing. The horses of white men are close to us. It is true. The leader comes in sight. The two young ladies ride in close line, fools to venture into these woods and pass it as they are of your arms. Who comes? Two young ladies and an English officer who journeyed since the rising sun and are sadly wearied. Whoa, whoa, whoa. You're lost then? We're here, sir. Poor boy. Then. I'm Major Hayward. These two young ladies are the daughters of Colonel Monroe, commanding officer of the English fort, called William Henry. Know you're the distance to the fort? Yeah, then you are lost if you seek William Henry. Oh, I fear it as much. We trusted to a friendly Indian guide, but he seems to have lost his way. The Indians lost in the woods? Not possible. Or what tribe is he? The tribe called Shoron. Shoron? You hear that, Uncus? They're a feverish tribe. What is your guide? I ordered him to ride behind because I suspected he was leading us in the wrong direction. Magwa! Magwa! William has gone, Duncan. He's left the way in the woods at the very moment. I told you, the Hurons are a lion, treacherous bunch of ornaments. These woods are full of them all in the war pamp. If we don't leave this spot at once and cover our tracks with Indian cunning, our scalps will be dryin' in that wind before this hour tomorrow. Oh, Duncan, are we truly in such danger? You have no fear, Eric. I'm sure these kind friends will guide us part of the way to the fort. We must reach it before nightfall. For nightfall? Look at the sky. Darkness will soon be on us. Then heaven help us. Walk high. We take pale face, officer, and squalls to cave. Concus, have you taken leave of your senses? The island cave is our only hiding place, a secret known only to us. It'll be fatal to take such a large party there. The Hurons are places too readily. These young ladies are in my care. Their father awaits them anxiously. He and I will be glad for a ward with gold. Plenty of gold when we reach the fort. Uncus does not want gold. Uncus will not leave pale face squalls to tomahawks of Hurons. We take them to cave Hawkeye. As Hawkeye fears the winning of the girls' horses betray the secret hiding place on the island of Glen Falls. But thanks to the skill of Uncus and Hawkeye and the last of their powder, the Hurons are repulsed temporarily. Uncus, who has been scouting, returns to the cave where Hawkeye, his travelers, and Uncus' father, Ching-Dagook, are waiting. You returned from the river empty-handed, Uncus? Bad news, Hawkeye. Can you float the wave? Warner, them rascally Hurons guided it. They were lost. You mean that the Hurons discovered your canoe and sent it adrift? The end has come. The Sagamore of my father has spoken. A sorry end for a man who's past 30 years in the forest to be taken without being able to defend his own self-defense. Is it really true? Are we surrounded by hostile Indians? Only too true, Miss Alex. Is there nothing that we can do? The end has come. Your Chief Uncle's father has laid down his knife and tomahawk. He's preparing for death. Oh, I swore to Colonel Monroe I'd escort his daughter safely to the port. Oh, Hawkeye, surely there's hope yet. We may prevent the Hurons landing on the island. Prevent their landing, Hayward. But what? The arrows are anchors, so the tears are the women. Tingle-goop, my brother. An orcus, my boy. We fought our last battle together. Oh, no. Why prepare for death? The path is open on every side. Go, brave men. You're remaining only to protect my sister and me. You know what little of the craft are there here on this quarry if you believe the varmints are left a path open to the woods. The downstream current, it is true. You'll sweep us beyond the reach of their rifles. Then try the river. Why linger to add to the number of their victims? Go to my father at the fort and bring gunpowder and men to our rescue. There's reason in her words. Tingle-goop, Conkess. Hear you the word to the dark-eyed woman. Her word. Good. Tingle-goop. Go, river. Bring warriors. It is good. You see, the older chief is going. You can't help us here. Cora's right, Hawkeye. Why don't you go too? I shall remain here with the young ladies. That's enough. Wisdom is some time given to the young and the women as well as men. I'll join the Mohican chief. Swim down the river and try to bring a rescue party. Goodbye, and God be with you. We're grateful for all you've done, Hawkeye. Farewell. And our powder held out this disgrace could never have befallen. Goodbye, and God willing, we shall meet again in this or another world. But, Conkess is still here. Conkess, go quickly before it is too late. Your father is not being seen. He's safe. It's time for you to follow. Conkess will stay, old dark-haired one. Conkess, I beg you. Go to my father at the fort. My father and Hawkeye go to fort. Conkess will stay. But hear me, Conkess. You are younger, Peter has thought than your father or Hawkeye. My sister and I will feel more hopeful that Conkess will go. If Hurons carry your way great tweaks, then bushes make trail and Conkess will follow. I'm sure of it, Conkess. Go now quickly, and our gratitude and our prayers will go with you. Within a few hours, the treacherous Huron Magua and a band of savages capture the three whites and force them to ride many miles through the forest. Now in the encampment, Alice, Cora and Duncan Hayward closely guarded by several warriors, listen anxiously as some distance away the wily Magua makes an impassioned speech to the Indians. He's not worth saying. That's as easy to guess. He's settling our fate. I can read our fortunes in their faces. There's no hope. And I'm to blame. If only I hadn't trusted that scoundrel Magua to guide us. You could not go, Duncan. Until this moment, I believe Conkess would find our trail. Conkess and Hawkeye are many miles away. They swam down the river to the fort and Magua led us in the opposite direction. Conkess begged us to mark our trail. I did try to break one overhanging branch but Magua was watching me. Oh, it wouldn't have mattered, Cora. See, the scoundrel Magua is approaching. The savages are starting their war down. It's too late to expect Conkess now. Oh, Duncan! Stand back, Alice. I don't consent it any of us. She'll be bound without a struggle. Light has fallen. What you're unlike pale air scum. Don't you dare touch her, you barbarian. You scumbag! You may go to your grave or go to death. Pray to God it will be over quickly. These barbarians were then concerned. Let us show them that fight women as well as fight men know how to die. I'll try to be brave, Cora. Van Dyck will soon hang in Magua's wigwam. Magua! His famous novel, The Last of the Mohicans, the noble and romantic Indian hero, Conkess, who dies at length in a final valiant attempt to save Cora, became part of the life and language of almost every American and European of the 19th century. As the first great American novelist, and the first novelist to believe that the American scene merited perpetuation in fiction, James Fenimore Cooper is accorded a high place of honor among the illustrious men and women enrolled in the cavalcade of America. On Sunday, March 21st, winter is officially over, despite snow underfoot in many sections of the country. The Easter season is just about here, and America will soon be stepping out in its new spring wardrobe. Shop windows from coast to coast are bright with new things. Spring fashion shows are attracting audiences in many communities, and one of the most unusual fashion shows I ever heard about is going to be held next week from Tuesday, March 23rd through Saturday, March 27th in the DuPont exhibit on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Why a fashion show in the DuPont exhibit, you may ask? The answer is that this show depicts how chemistry walks hand in hand with fashion in the modern Easter parade, even creating new styles in many cases. For instance, DuPont chemists developed yarns from which new and better fabrics have been woven for women's gowns. They have found ways to treat these and other fabrics so they are water repellent and crush resistant. In work with dyes, chemists develop new colors that brighten up the hat, the dress, gloves, or any other part of the spring costume. The smartest washable handbags are made of coated fabrics and plastics. Many a dainty feminine shoe is colored by special leather dyes to match costumes. And the scuffless heels that add so much to the looks and life of feminine foot gear are developments of chemistry. So is much of the costume jewelry and decorative buttons, buckles, and other embellishments made of DuPont plastics. And their hats made partly or entirely of colorful cellophane cellulose film. These and the great many other chemical products that play their part in the creation of new and interesting fashions were unknown to you and me a few years ago. They were in the research and experimental stage then. Today we take them for granted as part of our equipment for more enjoyable living. In style shows and Easter parades, and throughout the years, the results of DuPont chemical research are represented by new products and improved products, as practical as they are smart and gay. So you see even in this field, as in so many others, research chemistry is doing its part to bring us, as DuPont expresses it, better things for better living through chemistry. The House of Glass, Incidents in the Romantic and Colorful Life of Henry William Stiegel, first American manufacturer of glass, will be the subject of the broadcast when next week at the same time, DuPont again presents the Cavalcade of America. This is the Columbia Broadcasting System.