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[Transcriber's Note: Original spelling and grammar has been retained
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                       CHILDREN'S STORIES

                                IN

                       AMERICAN LITERATURE

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  CHILDREN'S STORIES IN AMERICAN LITERATURE,
  1861-1896. One vol., 12mo.         $1.25

  CHILDREN'S STORIES IN AMERICAN LITERATURE,
  1660-1860. One vol., 12mo.         $1.25

  CHILDREN'S STORIES OF AMERICAN PROGRESS.
  One vol., 12mo. Illustrated        $1.25

  CHILDREN'S STORIES IN AMERICAN HISTORY.
  One vol., 12mo. Illustrated        $1.25

  CHILDREN'S STORIES OF THE GREAT SCIENTISTS.
  One vol., 12mo. Illustrated        $1.25

  CHILDREN'S STORIES IN ENGLISH LITERATURE.
  FROM TALIESIN TO SHAKESPEARE. One vol.,
  12mo.                              $1.25

  CHILDREN'S STORIES IN ENGLISH LITERATURE.
  FROM SHAKESPEARE TO TENNYSON. One vol.,
  12mo.                              $1.25

  THE PRINCESS LILLIWINKINS AND OTHER STORIES.
  One vol., 12mo. Illustrated        $1.25

                       CHILDREN'S STORIES

                               IN

                       AMERICAN LITERATURE

                           1660-1860

                               BY

                    HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT

NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1909
COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.

CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I                                PAGE

  THE EARLY LITERATURE,                       1

  CHAPTER II

  JOHN JAMES AUDUBON--1780-1851,             14

  WASHINGTON IRVING--1783-1859,              28

  CHAPTER IV

  JAMES FENIMORE COOPER--1789-1851,          51

  CHAPTER V

  WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT--1794-1878,          69

  CHAPTER VI

  WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT--1796-1859,            82

  CHAPTER VII

  JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER--1807-1892,        96

  CHAPTER VIII

  NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE--1804-1864,           108

  CHAPTER IX

  GEORGE BANCROFT--1800-1891,               123

  CHAPTER X

  EDGAR ALLAN POE--1809-1849,               137

  CHAPTER XI

  RALPH WALDO EMERSON--1803-1882,           149

  CHAPTER XII

  HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW--1807-1882,    156

  CHAPTER XIII

  JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY--1814-1877,           174

  CHAPTER XIV

  HARRIET BEECHER STOWE--1811-1896,         188

  CHAPTER XV

  JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL--1819-1892,          203

  CHAPTER XVI

  FRANCIS PARKMAN--1823-1893,               219

  CHAPTER XVII

  OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES--1809-1894,         234

CHAPTER I

THE EARLY LITERATURE

One Sunday morning, about the year 1661, a group of Indians was
gathered around a noble-looking man, listening to a story he was
reading. It was summer and the day was beautiful, and the little
Indian children who sat listening were so interested that not even the
thought of their favorite haunts by brookside or meadow could tempt
them from the spot. The story was about the life of Christ and his
mission to the world, and the children had heard it many times,
but to-day it seemed new to them because it was read in their own
language, which had never been printed before. This was the Mohegan
tongue, which was spoken in different dialects by the Indians
generally throughout Massachusetts; and although it had been used
for hundreds of years by the tribes in that part of the country
its appearance on paper was as strange to them as if it had been a
language of which they knew not a single word. It was just as strange
to them, in fact, as if they had heard one of their war cries or love
songs set to music, or had seen a picture of their dreams of the happy
hunting grounds in that invisible western world where the sun went
every night, and which they expected to see only after death.

The man who was reading the old story was John Eliot, an English
missionary, who had devoted his life to the Indians, and whose
ambition it was to leave behind him as his greatest gift the Bible
translated into their own tongue. With this in view he set about
making them familiar with the Christian faith, and established
Sunday-schools among them, where men, women, and children alike were
instructed.

From time to time they heard read stories from the New Testament which
Eliot had translated, and in which he was greatly helped by one or two
Indians who had gifts as translators, and could express the English
thought into Indian words more fitting and beautiful than Eliot
himself could have done. In all his earlier missionary work he also
had the assistance of the great sachem Waban, because, as it happened,
the first sermon Eliot ever preached to the Indians was delivered
in Waban's wigwam. The text was from the old poetic words of
Ezekiel--"Say to the wind, Thus saith the Lord God," etc.

The Indian name for wind was Waban, the old sachem's name, and he
thought the sermon was addressed to him. He became an ardent convert
and helped Eliot greatly in his work of Christianizing the tribes,
and in particular in his trouble to keep peace among the sachems,
who objected to the freedom of thought which the new religion taught,
thinking that it interfered with their own authority over their
people.

In a little book in which Eliot describes these grievances of the
chiefs he calls them _Pills for the Sachems_, and says they were much
harder to swallow than even the nauseous doses of their medicine men.

For the better instruction of the Indian children Eliot prepared a
small primer, which was printed in 1669, eight years after the New
Testament was printed. It was a curious little book, having the
alphabet in large and small letters on the fly-leaf, and containing
the Apostles' Creed, the Catechism, and the Lord's Prayer, with other
religious matter. Out of this primer the Indian youth learned to read
and to spell in words of one syllable. When he was able to master the
whole Bible, which was printed in 1663, his education was considered
complete.

This old Indian Bible, which Eliot was ten years in translating, was
printed at Cambridge and bound in dark blue morocco, it being the
first Bible and one of the first books ever printed in America. Two
hundred copies were made, and a second edition contained a dedication
to Charles II. of England, praising him for his goodness in
distributing the word of God among his colonies, which had not
yielded him gold and silver as the Spanish colonies had yielded their
sovereign, but which would nevertheless redound to his immortal glory
as the first-fruits of Christianity among those heathen tribes. The
dedication took up two pages, which was about all the English the
old book contained, the rest being in that curious, half-musical,
half-guttural tongue of the Mohegans, which Cotton Mather said had
been growing since the time of the confusion of tongues at the Tower
of Babel. Certainly some of the words are of such mighty length and
awful sound that we may well believe the same old preacher when he
says that he knew from personal knowledge that demons could understand
Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, but that they were utterly baffled by the
speech of the American Indians.

Very few of these Bibles now exist, and those are of priceless value
to lovers of old books.

One of the earliest books that may be claimed as belonging to American
letters was a volume descriptive of the early settlements in Virginia
by Captain John Smith. It has great value as a representation of
Indian life before its contact with white civilization. Smith had
followed the army of England through the greater part of Europe and
Asia and knew the life of a soldier of fortune. He had fought with
Turks, hunted Tartars, and had always been the hero of the occasion.
The Indian to him was but another kind of heathen to subdue, and the
book is full of adventures, in which he describes himself as always
intrepid and victorious. This is the earliest book that brings the
Indians of the colonies closely before our eyes, and its style is
good, and shows that strong, terse, English fibre which characterized
the writings of the adventurous Englishman of that time. In another
book Smith gives a charming description of inland Virginia, whose
birds, flowers, wild animals, rivers, and scenery are discussed in
a poetic fashion that throws a new light on the character of
the adventurous soldier. There is in both volumes a richness of
description in the details of Indian life that possesses a rare value
to the student. The story of Smith's visit to Powhatan, the father
of Pocahontas, reads like a bit of oriental fairy lore, and the great
Indian chief, seated upon his couch of skins, with his savage guard
around him, is brought as vividly before our eyes as the hero of
a romance. And so Smith's books stand for good literature, though
written only with the idea of familiarizing the people at home with
the condition of the new colony, and they make no mean showing as the
beginning of American letters.

In New England literature from the first partook inevitably of the
Puritan character. There were long journals of the pilgrim fathers,
books on books of sermons, and volume after volume of argument on the
burning religious questions that had been heard in England since
the first Puritan defied the king and openly declared for freedom of
conscience. Among the most celebrated of these old books is the _Bay
Psalm Book_ of 1640, in which the psalms of David were done into metre
for the use of congregations. This book, in which the beautiful Hebrew
poetry is tortured into the most abominable English, is a fair example
of the religious verse-making of the day.

A curious book was the first almanac, published at Cambridge in
1689, and which contained prognostications of the weather, dates of
historical events, general news of the world, and bits of poetry,
having also blank spaces for the use of the owner, who could either
utilize them for preserving his own verses, as Cotton Mather did, or
keep therein his accounts with his wig maker and hair-dresser, as did
that worthy Puritan Thomas Prince.

Perhaps the greatest poet of those early times was Anne Bradstreet,
who wrote her famous poems on the Assyrian, Persian, Grecian, and
Roman monarchies, and who was called the tenth muse by an admiring
public. These works are long and learned, but they show less the
poetic spirit of the age than do the short but pointed ballads that
sprang up from time to time and which indicated the popular feeling
over the events that were making the history of New England. These
ballads were on every conceivable subject, from the Day of Judgment
to the sale of a cow. The war between England and France for the
possession of Canada gave rise to many ditties the tunes of which
remained popular long afterward. The Indian wars also furnished
material for many. They were printed in almanacs, or loose sheets, and
sometimes not printed at all. They served as news-venders long before
the first newspaper was published (in 1690) and they expressed, as
nothing else could have done, the attitude of the people toward
the church, the state, the governor, and even the "tidy man"
(tithing-man), whose duty it was to tickle with a hazel rod any
youngster who was unlucky enough to fall asleep in church. Later, in
revolutionary times, the ballad became a power second to none.
Here first appears that great hero Yankee Doodle, who comes, like
will-o'-the-wisp, from no one knows where, although many learned pages
have been written to show his nationality. He seems to have been as
great a traveller as Marco Polo or Baron Munchausen, and, like them,
he must have seen many strange sights and countries. Perhaps he
may have a trace of the gypsy in him and could recall, if he
liked, strange wanderings through the Far East. He may have been a
camp-follower through the German and Flemish wars. It is more than
probable that he hobnobbed with the Italian banditti, and took an
elfish delight in depriving honest travellers of their wits and
purses. We know that he lived for a time in Holland, where he seems
to have preferred a peaceful life and was content with the humdrum
existence of those worthy Dutch farmers who invited him to their
feasts, welcomed him to their roofs, and sang his praises in their
harvest-fields in such stirring words as these:

  Yanker didel doodel down,
  Didel dudel lanter;
  Yanke viver voover vown,
  Botermilk un tanther;

which means that if the lads and lassies reaped and gleaned faithfully
they should be rewarded by a tenth of the grain, and an unlimited
supply of buttermilk.

Afterward Yankee Doodle seems to have tired of pastoral life, for we
find him in the midst of Roundhead and Cavalier upon the battle-fields
of England during the Civil War. No doubt such a jolly comrade felt a
tinge of sadness at the misfortunes of the unlucky Charles I., and he
could not have found the long-faced Puritans, with their nasal voices,
very good company for such a happy-go-lucky as himself. At any rate he
never became an Englishman, and seems only to have paused in England
while making up his mind where to settle down and spend his old age.
He probably made his first bow in America in 1775, and it is evident
that he took a fancy to the new country, and was pleased, and perhaps
flattered, by the reception he met. With his old abandon he threw
himself heart and soul into the conflict, and became, in fact, the
child of the Revolution. He was a leading spirit everywhere. Throwing
all recollections of English hospitality to the winds, he chased the
red coats at Bunker Hill, gave them a drubbing at Bennington, and
remained bravely in the rear to watch their scouts while Washington
retreated from Long Island. Many a time he was the sole support of the
faithful few stationed to guard some important outpost; many a time he
marched along with the old Continentals, grim and faithful, expecting
every moment would reveal danger and perhaps death.

He crossed the Delaware with Washington on that eventful Christmas
night, in 1775, though the Italian blood in him must have shrunk a
little from the cold. He stood shoulder to shoulder with the great
leader through all the misery and hopelessness of Valley Forge. He was
joyously welcomed by the soldiers in all their daring escapades when
breaking loose from the restraints of camp life; and the women and
children who had to remain home and suffer danger and privation alone,
never saw his honest face without a smile.

Such devotion met with its reward. When the war was over the old
veteran retired from the service with full military rank, and was
brevetted an American citizen besides. It is pleasant to think that he
has at last found a resting place among a people who will always honor
and love him.

Two other ballads very popular at that time were _The Battle of
Trenton_ and _The Massacre of Wyoming_, while innumerable ones of
lesser note were sung by fireside and camp-fire, all through the
colonies.

In New York the first liberty pole raised in the country was planted
by the Sons of Liberty, a band of patriotic Americans, who set it up
again and again as it was cut down by the Tories, accompanying their
work by singing every imaginable kind of ballad that would irritate
the breast of the British sympathizers.

During the war of 1812, came the _Star Spangled Banner_, written to
the accompaniment of shot and shell, while the author, Francis S. Key,
was a prisoner on shipboard watching the bombardment of Fort McHenry
by the British, in the harbor of Baltimore. The song was born in the
darkness of a night of terrible anxiety, and when the dawn broke and
found the flag still floating over the fort, an earnest of the victory
to come, its triumphant measures seemed the fitting pæan of American
liberty.

The ballad of the camps had developed into the national anthem.

CHAPTER II

JOHN JAMES AUDUBON

1780-1851

In the days when Louisiana was a province of Spain a little dark-eyed
boy used to wander among the fields and groves of his father's
plantation studying with eager delight the works of nature around him.

Lying under the orange-trees watching the mocking-bird, or learning
from his mother's lips the names of the flowers that grew in every
corner of the plantation, he soon came to feel that he was part of
that beautiful world, whose language was the songs of birds and whose
boundaries extended to every place where a blossom lifted its head
above the green sod. To him, as he said years afterward, the birds
were playmates and the flowers dear friends, and before he could
distinguish between the azure of the sky and the emerald of the
grass he had formed an intimacy with them so close and endearing
that whenever removed from their presence he felt a loneliness almost
unbearable. No other companions suited him so well, and no roof
seemed so secure as that formed of the dense foliage under which the
feathered tribes resorted, or the caves and rocks to which the curlew
and cormorant retired to protect themselves from the fury of the
tempest. In these words, recorded by himself, we read the first
chapter of the life history of John James Audubon, the American
naturalist and the author of one of the early classics of American
literature.

In those early days his father was Audubon's teacher, and hand in hand
they searched the groves for new specimens, or lingered over the nests
where lay the helpless young. It was his father who taught him to
look upon the shining eggs as 'flowers in the bud,' and to note the
different characteristics which distinguished them. These excursions
were seasons of joy, but when the time came for the birds to take
their annual departure the joy was turned to sorrow. To the young
naturalist a dead bird, though beautifully preserved and mounted, gave
no pleasure. It seemed but a mockery of life, and the constant care
needed to keep the specimens in good condition brought an additional
sense of loss. Was there no way in which the memory of these feathered
friends might be kept fresh and beautiful? He writes that he turned in
his anxiety to his father, who in answer laid before him a volume of
illustrations. Audubon turned over the leaves with a new hope in
his heart, and although the pictures were badly executed the idea
satisfied him. Although he was unconscious of it, it was the moment of
the birth of his own great life work. Pencil in hand he began to
copy nature untiringly, although for a long time he produced what he
himself called but a family of cripples, the sketches being burned
regularly on his birthdays. But no failure could stop him. He
made hundreds of sketches of birds every year, worthless almost in
themselves because of bad drawing, but valuable as studies of nature.

Meantime for education the boy had been taken from Louisiana to
France, the home of his father, who wished him to become a
soldier, sailor, or engineer. For a few hours daily Audubon studied
mathematics, drawing, and geography, and then would disappear in the
country, returning with eggs, nests, or curious plants. His rooms
looked like a museum of natural history, while the walls were covered
with drawings of French birds.

Learning mathematics with difficulty Audubon became easily proficient
in fencing and dancing, and learned to play upon the violin, flute,
flageolet, and guitar. His drawing lessons were his greatest delight,
the great French artist, David, being his teacher and critic. Once, on
the elder Audubon's return from a long sea-voyage, he was chagrined
to find that although his son had probably the largest amateur
natural-history collection in France, he had neglected his equations,
angles, and triangles, and the lad was sent to his father's station,
given one day to visit the ships and fortifications, and then set to
the study of mathematics, and mathematics only.

For one year he wrestled with problems and theorems, counting himself
happy if by any chance he could fly to the country for an hour to take
up his acquaintance with the birds; and then the father admitted his
son's unfitness for military pursuits and sent him to America to take
charge of some property.

Audubon was then seventeen years of age, and had but one ambition
in life--to live in the woods with his wild friends. As his father's
estate was rented by a very orderly minded Quaker there was little
for Audubon to do except enjoy himself. Hunting, fishing, drawing,
and studying English from a young English girl he afterward married,
filled the day, while he never missed the balls and skating parties
for which the neighborhood was famous. He was the best marksman in the
region, able to bring down his quarry while riding at full speed.
He was the best skater to be found; at balls and parties he was the
amateur master of ceremonies, gayly teaching the newest steps and
turns that obtained in France. In the hunt it was Audubon--dressed,
perhaps, in satin breeches and pumps, for he was a great dandy--who
led the way through the almost unbroken wilderness. Add to this
that he was an expert swimmer, once swimming the Schuylkill with a
companion on his back; that he could play any one of half a dozen
instruments for an impromptu dance; that he could plait a set of
picnic dishes out of willow rushes; train dogs, and do a hundred other
clever things, and it is easy to see why he was a general favorite.

His private rooms were turned into a museum. The walls were covered
with festoons of birds' eggs, the shelves crowded with fishes, snakes,
lizards, and frogs; the chimney displayed stuffed squirrels and
opossums, and wherever there was room hung his own paintings of birds.
It was the holiday of life for the young lover of nature, and he
enjoyed it with good will.

Here the idea of his great work came to him as he was one day looking
over his drawings and descriptions of birds. Suddenly, as it seemed to
him, though his whole life had led to it, he conceived the plan of a
great work on American ornithology. He began his gigantic undertaking
as a master in the school of nature wherein he had been so faithful a
student, for he now saw with joy that the past, which had often seemed
idle, had been in reality rich with labors that were to bear fruit.

He began at once to put his work into scientific form, and nothing
better illustrates his energy and ambition than the fact that he
entered on it alone and unaided, though none knew better than he the
toil and ceaseless endeavor necessary for its completion. Except in a
very immature form, American ornithology at that time did not exist;
it was a region almost as unknown to human thought as the new world
which Columbus discovered. Season after season, from the Gulf to
Canada and back again, these winged creatures of the air wended their
way, stopping to hatch and breed their young, becoming acquainted with
Louisiana orange-groves and New England apple-orchards, now fluttering
with kindly sociability round the dwellings of men and again seeking
lonely eeries among inaccessible mountain tops, pursuing their course
at all times almost without the thought and cognizance of man. It was
Audubon who was the conqueror, if not the discoverer of this aërial
world of song, of which he became the immortal historian. It was
his untiring zeal which gave thus early to American literature
a scientific work of such vast magnitude and importance that it
astonished the scientists of Europe and won for itself the fame of
being the most gigantic biblical enterprise ever undertaken by a
single individual. To do this meant a life of almost constant change,
and Audubon can hardly have had an abiding place after his first
serious beginning. The wide continent became his home and he found his
dwelling wherever the winged tribes sought shelter from the wind and
storm. His pursuit was often interrupted by occupations necessary for
the support of his family, for at his father's death he had given to
his sister his share of the estate and so became entirely dependent
upon his own efforts for a livelihood; but at all times, no matter
what his situation, his heart was in the wild retreats of nature.
Travelling through the West and South in search of fortune as well as
of specimens his experiences were often disenchanting. At Louisville
and New Orleans he would be forced to make crayon portraits of the
principal citizens in order to raise the money for family expenses.
Again he taught drawing; he served as tutor in private families, and
in order to secure funds for the publication of his work he earned
$2,000 by dancing lessons, the largest sum he had ever earned.
Many business speculations enlisted Audubon's hopes, but all failed
utterly. Once he embarked his money in a steam mill, which, being
built in an unfit place, soon failed. At another time he bought a
steamboat, which, proving an unlucky speculation, was sold to a shrewd
buyer who never paid the purchase money. Again he was cheated in the
clearing of a tract of timber. But his studies in natural history
always went on. When he had no money to pay his passage up the
Mississippi he bargained to draw the portrait of the captain of the
steamer and his wife as remuneration. When he needed boots he obtained
them by sketching the features of a friendly shoemaker, and more
than once he paid his hotel bills, and saved something besides, by
sketching the faces of the host and his family.

On the other hand, his adventures in search of material for his work
were romantic enough to satisfy the most ambitious traveller. From
Florida to Labrador, and from the Atlantic to the then unknown regions
of the Yellowstone he pursued his way, often alone, and not seldom in
the midst of dangers which threatened life itself. He hunted buffalo
with the Indians of the Great Plains, and lived for months in the
tents of the fierce Sioux. He spent a season in the winter camp of
the Shawnees, sleeping, wrapped in a buffalo robe, before the great
camp-fire, and living upon wild turkey, bear's grease, and opossums.
He made studies of deer, bears, and cougars, as well as of wild
turkeys, prairie hens, and other birds. For days he drifted down the
Ohio in a flat-bottomed boat, searching the uninhabited shores for
specimens, and living the life of the frontiersman whose daily food
must be supplied by his own exertions. Sometimes his studies would
take him far into the dense forests of the West, where the white man
had never before trod, and the only thing that suggested humanity
would be the smoke rising miles away from the evening camp-fire of
some Indian hunter as lonely as himself.

Once as he lay stretched on the deck of a small vessel ascending the
Mississippi he caught sight of a great eagle circling about his head.
Convinced that it was a new species, he waited patiently for two years
before he again had a glimpse of it, flying, in lazy freedom, above
some butting crags where its young were nested. Climbing to the place,
and watching like an Indian in ambush until it dropped to its nest,
Audubon found it to be a sea-eagle. He named it the Washington Sea
Eagle, in honor of George Washington. Waiting two years longer, he was
able to obtain a specimen, from which he made the picture given in his
work. This is but one example of the tireless patience with which he
prosecuted his studies, years of waiting counting as nothing if he
could but gain his end.

Some of his discoveries in this kingdom of the birds he relates with a
romantic enthusiasm. Throughout the entire work there runs the note
of warmest sympathy with the lives of these creatures of the air and
sunshine. He tells us of their hopes and loves and interests, from the
time of the nest-making till the young have flown away. The freedom of
bird life, its happiness, its experiences, and tragedies appeal to him
as do those of humanity. The discovery of a new species is reported as
rapturously as the news of a new star. Once in Labrador, when he was
making studies of the eggers, his son brought to him a great hawk
captured on the precipice far above his head. To Audubon's delight, it
was that rare specimen, the gerfalcon, which had heretofore eluded all
efforts of naturalists. While the rain dripped down from the rigging
above, Audubon sat for hours making a sketch of this bird and feeling
as rich as if he had discovered some rare gem.

After twenty years the work was published. Every specimen, from the
tiny humming-bird to the largest eagles and vultures, was sketched
life size and colored in the tints of nature. There were four hundred
and seventy-five of these plates, furnishing a complete history of
the feathered tribes of North America, for they showed not only the
appearance of the birds but represented also the manners and home
life of this world of song. The humming-bird poised before the crimson
throat of the trumpet flower, the whippoorwill resting among the
leaves of the oak, the bobolink singing among the crimson flowers
of the swamp maples, the snow-bird chirping cheerily among the
snow-touched berries of the holly, were not sketches merely but bits
of story out of bird history. So also are those pictures of the swan
among the reeds of the Great Lakes, of the great white heron seizing
its prey from the waters of the Gulf, and of the golden eagle winging
its way toward the distant heights that it inhabits.

The work was published by subscription in London in 1829 under the
title, "The Birds of North America." The price was eighty guineas.
Later on a smaller and cheaper edition was issued. The work now is
very rare. Audubon had the gratification of knowing that his labors
were understood and appreciated by the world of science. When he
exhibited his plates in the galleries of England and France, whither
he went to obtain subscriptions, crowds flocked to see them, and the
greatest scientists of the age welcomed him to their ranks. _The Birds
of America_ was his greatest work, though he was interested somewhat
in general zoölogy and wrote on other subjects.

Audubon died in New York in 1851. The great zoölogist Cuvier called
_The Birds of North America_ the most magnificent monument that art
has ever erected to ornithology. The Scotch naturalist Wilson said
that the character of Audubon was just what might have been expected
from the author of such a work, brave, enthusiastic, self-sacrificing,
and capable of heroic endurance.

WASHINGTON IRVING

1783-1859

"Left his lodging some time ago and has not been heard of since, a
small elderly gentleman, dressed in an old black coat and cocked hat,
by the name of Knickerbocker. . . . Any information concerning him
will be thankfully received."

Such was the curious advertisement that appeared in the _Evening Post_
under the date of October 26, 1809, attracting the attention of all
New York. People read it as they sat at supper, talked of it afterward
around their wood fires, and thought of it again and again before
they fell asleep at night. And yet not a soul knew the missing old
gentleman or had ever heard of him before. Still he was no stranger to
them, for he was a Knickerbocker, and everyone was interested in
the Knickerbockers, and everyone felt almost as if a grandfather or
great-grandfather had suddenly come back to life and disappeared again
still more suddenly without a word of explanation.

Those who could remember their childhood sent their wits back into the
past and gathered up memories of these old Knickerbockers. They saw
the old burghers again walking through the streets dressed in their
long-waisted coats with skirts reaching nearly to the ankles, and
wearing so solemnly their low-crowned beaver hats, while their small
swords dangled by their sides to show their importance. They saw their
wives in their close-fitting muslin caps, with their dress-skirts
left open to show their numerous petticoats of every color, their
gay stockings, and their low-cut, high-heeled shoes. They entered the
quaint gabled houses made of brick brought from Holland, and sat
in the roomy kitchen whose floor had just been sprinkled with sand
brought from Coney Island, and on whose walls hung deer antlers and
innumerable Dutch pipes. They passed into the parlor, whose chief
ornament was the carved bedstead upon which reposed two great
feather-beds covered with a patch-work quilt. They sat in the
fireplace and drank from the huge silver tankard while listening to
stories of Indian warfare. In the streets they saw groups of Indians
standing before the shop windows, and passed by the walls of the old
fort wherein cows, pigs, and horses were feeding. They noticed the
queerly rigged ships in the bay, the windmills scattered everywhere,
and the canal passing right through the town and filled with Dutch
canal boats. They saw the Dutch maidens standing around the ponds
washing the family linen, and visited the bowerie or country house
of some honest burgher, and sat with him in his little garden where
cabbages and roses flourished side by side.

Such were the scenes that the strange advertisement called up, and
more than one New Yorker dreamed that night that he was a child again,
living over those long past days.

For some time nothing was heard of Diedrich Knickerbocker, and then
another advertisement appeared in the _Post_ saying he had been seen
twice on the road to Albany. Some time again elapsed, and finally the
paper stated that the landlord of the inn at which he stopped gave up
hope of ever seeing his guest again, and declared that he should sell
the manuscript of a book that Mr. Knickerbocker had left behind and
take the proceeds in payment of his bill. People were really excited
about the fate of the old gentleman, and one of the city officials was
upon the point of offering a reward for his discovery when a curious
thing happened. It was found that there was no old gentleman by the
name of Knickerbocker who had wandered away from his lodging; that
there was no inn at which he had lived, and no manuscript he had left
behind, and that in fact, Mr. Knickerbocker was simply the hero of a
book which the author had taken this clever means of advertising. The
book claimed to be the true history of the discovery and settlement
of New York, and began with an account of the creation of the world,
passing on to the manners, customs, and historical achievements of the
old Hollanders from their first voyage in the celebrated ark the Good
Vrow, to the shores of New Jersey. Here we read how, as the Indians
were given to long talks and the Dutch to long silences, they had no
trouble about the settlement of the land, but all lived peacefully
together. How Oloffe Van Kortlandt took his perilous journey from New
Jersey as far north as Harlem and decided to build a city on Manhattan
Island. Then we read of the golden reign of the first Dutch governor,
Wouter Van Twiller, who was exactly five feet six inches in height,
and six feet five inches in circumference, and who ate four hours a
day, smoked eight, and slept twelve, and so administered the affairs
of the colony that it was a marvel of prosperity. Next we hear of
Governor Keift, of lofty descent, since his father was an inspector of
windmills--how his nose turned up and his mouth turned down, how his
legs were the size of spindles, and how he grew tougher and tougher
with age so that before his death he looked a veritable mummy. And
then we see the redoubtable Peter Stuyvesant stumping around on
his wooden leg adorned with silver reliefs and follow him in his
expedition against the neighboring Swedish colonies, when the entire
population of the city thronged the streets and balconies to wave
farewell to him as he left, and to welcome his return as a victorious
conqueror. Lastly we see him, furious with rage, menacing the British
fleet which has come to take possession of the town, threatening
vengeance dire upon the English king, and still cherishing his wrath
with fiery bravery when the enemy finally occupy the old Dutch town
and proceed to transform it into an English city. The book was read
with interest, admiration, or amazement as the case might be. Some
said it appeared too light and amusing for real history, others
claimed that it held stores of wisdom that only the wise could
understand; others still complained that the author was no doubt
making fun of their respectable ancestors and had written the book
merely to hold them up to ridicule. Only a few saw that it was the
brightest, cleverest piece of humor that had yet appeared in America,
and that its writer had probably a career of fame before him.

The author was Washington Irving, then a young man in his
twenty-seventh year and already known as the writer of some clever
newspaper letters, and of a series of humorous essays published in a
semi-monthly periodical called _Salmagundi_.

Irving was born in New York on April 3, 1783, and was named after
George Washington. The Revolution was over, but the treaty of peace
had not yet been signed, and the British army still remained in the
city, which had been half burned down during the war.

New York was then a small town, with a population of about one
seven-hundredth of what it now has; beyond the town limits were
orchards, farms, country houses, and the high road leading to Albany,
along which the stage coach passed at regular times. There were
no railroads, and Irving was fourteen years old before the first
steam-boat puffed its way up the Hudson River, frightening the country
people into the belief that it was an evil monster come to devour
them. All travelling was done by means of sailing vessels, stage
coaches, or private conveyances; all letters were carried by the
stage-coach, and every one cost the sender or receiver twenty-five
cents for postage. The telegraph was undreamed of, and if any one had
hinted the possibility of talking to some one else a thousand miles
away over a telephone wire he would have been considered a lunatic, or
possibly a witch. In fact New York was a quiet, unpretentious little
town, whose inhabitants were still divided into English or Dutch
families according to their descent, and in whose households were
found the customs of England and Holland in full force. In Irving's
family, however, there was doubtless greater severity practised in
daily life than in the neighboring households. The father was a
Scotch Presbyterian who considered life a discipline, who thought all
amusement a waste of precious time, and who made the children devote
one out of the two half weekly holidays to the study of the catechism.
They were also obliged to attend church three times every Sunday,
and to spend any spare moments left in reading some religious book,
a discipline which had such an effect upon Irving that, to avoid
becoming a Presbyterian, he went secretly to Trinity Church and was
confirmed. Naturally Irving's love of fun was sedulously hid from such
a father, and, as fun he must have, he sought amusement outside his
own home. Forbidden to attend the theatre, he would risk his neck
nightly by climbing out of his window to visit the play for an hour or
so, and then rush home in terror lest his absence had been discovered
and his future fun imperilled. Many a night when sent early to bed he
would steal away across the adjacent roofs to send a handful of stones
clattering down the wide, old-fashioned chimney of some innocent
neighbor, who would start from his dreams to imagine robbers, spooks,
or other unpleasant visitors in his bed-chamber; and often when Irving
was supposed to be fast asleep he was far away in the midst of a group
of truant boys concocting some scheme of mischief which was meant
to startle the neighborhood and bring no end of fun to the daring
perpetrators.

Irving went to school kept by an old Revolutionary soldier, with whom
he was a great favorite and who always called him _General_. He
was not particularly brilliant in his studies, but he distinguished
himself as an actor in the tragedies which the boys gave at times in
the school-room; at ten years of age he was the star of the company,
which did not even lose respect for him when once, being called
suddenly upon the stage through a mistake, he appeared with his mouth
full of honey-cake, which he was obliged to swallow painfully while
the audience roared at the situation. Afterward, when he rushed around
the stage flourishing a wooden sabre, he was not a tragedian to be
trifled with. The glory of it even paid him for the cruelty of having
to run away to see a real play.

It was a favorite amusement with him after school to wander down to
the wharves, where he would spend hours in watching the ships load
and unload, and dream of the day when he, too, should visit those
beautiful regions that lay only in reach of their white sails; for,
fond as he was of boyish sports, he was much given to day-dreams, and
the romantic past of the old world held a great charm for him.
His favorite books were "Robinson Crusoe," "The Arabian Nights,"
"Gulliver's Travels," and all stories of adventure and travel. The
world beyond the sea seemed a fairyland to him; a little print of
London Bridge and another of Kensington Gardens, that hung up in
his bed-room, stirred his heart wistfully, and he fairly envied the
odd-looking old gentlemen and ladies who appeared to be loitering
around the arches of St. John's Gate, as shown in a cut on the cover
of an old magazine.

Later his imagination was also kindled by short excursions to the then
wild regions of the Hudson and Mohawk valleys. Drifting up the
Hudson in a little sloop, day after day the picturesque beauty of the
Highlands and Catskills impressed itself more deeply upon him, while
his mind dwelt fondly upon the traditions which still lingered around
the mountains and rivers forever associated with the struggles of the
early settlers. Years afterward we find the remembrance of these days
gracing with loving touch the pages of some of his choicest work, and
it is this power of sympathy, so early aroused, that gives Irving one
of his greatest charms as a writer, and makes the period of which he
writes seem as real as if a part of to-day.

At seventeen Irving left school and began to study for the bar. But
his health, which had always been delicate, made it necessary for him
to take a long rest from study, and he accordingly left America for
two years of travel abroad. He visited England, France, and Italy,
taking great delight in seeing those lands he had so often dreamed of,
in meeting the famous people of the day, and, above all, in indulging
in frequent visits to the theatre and opera, becoming in this way
acquainted with all the great singers and actors whose reputation had
reached America. It was after his return home that he brought out his
Knickerbocker history, a work which made him so famous that when he
returned to England some time afterward he found himself very well
known in the best literary circles. The results of this second visit
are found in the volumes comprising _Geoffrey Crayon's Sketch Book_,
_Bracebridge Hall_, _Tales of a Traveller_ and other miscellany, in
which occur charming descriptions of English country life, delightful
ghost stories, the famous description of an English Christmas, the
immortal legend of _Rip Van Winkle_, and an account of a visit to the
haunts of Robin Hood, whose exploits had so fascinated him as a boy
that he once spent his entire holiday money to obtain a copy of his
adventures.

_Abbotsford_ is an account of a visit that Irving paid to Sir Walter
Scott. It is a charming revelation of the social side of Scott's
character, who welcomed Irving as a younger brother in art, became his
guide in his visit to Yarrow and Melrose Abbey, and took long rambling
walks with him all around the country made so famous by the great
novelist. Irving recalled as among the most delightful hours of his
life those walks over the Scottish hills with Scott, who was described
by the peasantry as having "an awfu' knowledge of history," and whose
talk was full of the folk-lore, poetry, and superstitions that made up
the interest of the place.

In the evening they sat in the drawing-room, while Scott, with a great
hound, Maida, at his feet, read to them a scrap of old poetry or a
chapter from King Arthur, or told some delightful bit of peasant fairy
lore, like that of the black cat who, on hearing one shepherd tell
another of having seen a number of cats dressed in mourning following
a coffin, sprang up the chimney in haste, exclaiming: "Then I am king
of the cats," and vanished to take possession of his vacant kingdom.
From this time Irving's life was one of constant literary labor
for many years, all of which were spent abroad. His works on the
companions of Columbus, and the Alhambra, were written during his
residence in Spain, where he had access to the national archives and
where he became as familiar with the life of the people as it
was possible for a stranger to become. He was at home both in the
dignified circles of higher life and among the picturesque and simple
peasantry, whose characteristics he draws with such loving grace.

After seventeen years' absence Irving returned to America, where he
was welcomed as one who had won for his country great honors. He was
the first writer to make American literature respected abroad, and his
return was made the occasion of numerous fêtes given in his honor in
New York and other cities. He now built Sunnyside, on the Hudson, the
home that he loved so dearly and that will ever be famous as the abode
of America's first great writer.

His principal works following the Spanish histories were _Astoria_,
the history of the fur-trading company in Oregon founded by the head
of the Astor family; _Captain Bonneville_, the adventures of a hunter
in the far West; the _Life of Goldsmith_ and the _Lives of Mahomet and
His Successors_.

He returned to Spain in 1842 as ambassador, and remained four years.
In the _Legends of the Conquest of Spain_ Irving tells the story of
the conquest of Spain by the Moors, as related in the old Spanish and
Moorish chronicles. The pages are full of the spirit of the warfare
of the middle ages. Here we see the great Arab chieftain, Taric, the
one-eyed, with a handful of men cruising along the Spanish coast to
spy out its strength and weakness, and finally making a bold dash
inland to capture and despoil a city and return to Africa laden with
plunder to report the richness of the land. "Behold!" writes Taric's
chief in a letter to the Caliph, "a land that equals Syria in its
soil, Arabia in its temperature, India in its flowers and spices, and
Cathay in its precious stones."

And at this news the Caliph wrote back in haste that God was great,
and that it was evidently his will that the infidel should perish, and
bade the Moors go forward and conquer.

In these delightful chapters we follow Taric in his conquests from the
taking of the rock of Calpe, henceforth called from him Gibraltar,
the rock of Taric, to the final overthrow of the Christians and the
establishment of the Moorish supremacy in Spain.

The whole story is a brilliant, living picture of that romantic age.
The Spanish king goes to battle wearing robes of gold brocade, sandals
embroidered with gold and diamonds, and a crown studded with the
costliest jewels of Spain. He rides in a chariot of ivory, and a
thousand cavaliers knighted by his own hand surround him, while tens
of thousands of his brave soldiers follow him, guarding the sacred
banners emblazoned with the cross. The Moorish vanguard, riding the
famous horses of Arabia, advance to the sound of trumpet and cymbal,
their gay robes and snowy turbans and their arms of burnished gold and
steel glittering in the sunshine, which reflects in every direction
the sacred crescent, the symbol of their faith. The surroundings are
equally picturesque and romantic. The famous plain of Granada, adorned
with groves and gardens and winding streams, and guarded by the famous
Mountains of the Sun and Air, forms the foreground to the picture,
while in the distance we see the gloomy mountain passes, the fortified
rocks and castles, and the great walled cities, through which the
Moors passed, always victorious and never pausing until their banners
floated from every cliff and tower.

Scattered through the narrative of battles and sieges we find also
many legends that abounded at that time both in the Moslem and
Christian faiths, translated with such fidelity from the old
chroniclers that they retain all the supernatural flavor of the
original. Here we learn how Arab and Christian alike beheld portents,
saw visions, received messages from the spirits, and were advised,
encouraged, and comforted by signs and warnings from heaven, the whole
narrative being most valuable as presenting in fine literary form
the every-day life and intense religious fervor of the soldier of the
middle ages.

For eight hundred years the Moors held Spain. They built beautiful
cities and palaces, the remains of which are marvels to this day;
they made the plain of Granada a garden of flowers; they preserved
classical literature when the rest of Europe was sunk in ignorance;
they studied the sciences, and had great and famous schools, which
were attended by the youth of all nations; they rescued the Jewish
people from the oppression of the Spaniards, and made them honorable
citizens; and they impressed upon their surroundings an art so
beautiful that its influence has extended throughout Christendom.
Their occupation of Spain at that time probably did more for the
preservation of literature, science, and art than any other event in
history.

In his chapters on the Alhambra, the beauties of that celebrated
palace, the favorite abode of the Moorish kings, is described by
Irving as seen by him during a visit in 1829. Even at that date,
nearly four hundred years after its seizure by the Spaniards, the
Alhambra retained much of its original magnificence. The great courts,
with their pavements of white marble, and fountains bordered with
roses, the archways, balconies, and halls decorated with fretwork and
filigree and incrusted with tiles of the most exquisite design;
the gilded cupolas and panels of lapis lazuli, and the carved lions
supporting the alabaster basins of the fountains, all appealed to
Irving so strongly that when he first entered the palace it seemed, he
relates, as if he had been transported into the past and was living in
an enchanted realm.

Irving remained some months in the Alhambra, living over again the
scenes of Moorish story, and so catching the spirit of the lost
grandeur of the old palace, that his descriptions read like a bit of
genuine Arabian chronicle, which had been kept safe until then in the
grim guardianship of the past.

The chapters of the _Alhambra_ are also full of delightful legends,
the fairy tales which time had woven around the beautiful ruin, and
which the custodians of the place related gravely to Irving as genuine
history. It calls up a pleasant picture to think of Irving sitting
in the stately hall or in his balcony, listening to one of these old
tales from the lips of his tattered but devoted domestic, while the
twilight was gathering and the nightingale singing in the groves and
gardens beneath.

He himself said that it was the realization of a day-dream which he
had cherished since the time when, in earliest boyhood on the banks of
the Hudson, he had pored over the story of Granada.

In his work, _The Conquest of Granada_, Irving relates the story of
the retaking of Granada by Ferdinand and Isabella, during a war which
lasted ten years and which held nothing but disaster for the Moors.
Ferdinand and Isabella took the field with an army composed of
the nobles of Spain and their followers, and which represented the
chivalry of Europe, for all Christendom hastened to espouse the
holy cause of driving the infidel from the land. The Spanish camps
glittered with the burnished armor and gold-embroidered banners of
foreign knights; and whether on the march, in the field, or in camp,
the whole pageant of the war as depicted by Irving passes before our
eyes like a brilliant panorama. We see the Moorish king looking
down from the towers of the Alhambra upon the plains once green
and blooming but now desolate with fire and sword by the hand of
Ferdinand. We follow the Moors as they rush from their walls in one of
their splendid but hopeless sallies, to return discomfited, and hear
the wail of the women and old men--"Woe! woe! to Granada, for its
strong men shall fall by the sword and its maidens be led into
captivity." We watch the Spaniards, tireless in endeavor, building the
fortified city of Santa Fé, the city of holy faith, to take the place
of the camp destroyed by fire, and which has remained famous as the
place where Columbus received from Isabella his commission to sail
westward until India was reached. And in the end we see the Moors in
their retreat looking sadly from the hill which is called to this day,
The Last Sigh of the Moor, upon the beautiful valley and mountains
lost to them forever. So graphically is the scene described that
Irving must ever remain the historian of the Moors of Spain, whose
spirit seemed to inspire the beautiful words in which he celebrated
their conquests, their achievements, and their defeats.

A favorite among Irving's books was the _Life of Washington_, based
upon the correspondence of the great statesman. It is an appreciative
story of the life work of Washington, written by one whose own work
connected the past and present, and who, as a child, had felt the hand
of the nation's hero laid upon his head in blessing.

In the _Chronicle of Wolfert's Roost_ Irving follows in imagination
old Diedrich Knickerbocker into the famous region of Sleepy Hollow,
where much of the material for the celebrated Knickerbocker's History
was said to have been collected. This chronicle, it was claimed, was
written upon the identical old Dutch writing desk that Diedrich used;
the elbow chair was the same that he sat in; the clock was the very
one he consulted so often during his long hours of composition. In
these pages old Diedrich walks as a real person and Irving follows him
with faithful step through the region that he loved so fondly all his
life.

Everything here is dwelt upon with lingering touch; the brooks and
streams, the meadows and cornfields, the orchards and gardens, and the
groves of beech and chestnut have each their tribute from the pen of
one who found their charms ever fresh, who sought in them rest and
happiness, and who came back to them lovingly to spend the last days
of his life in their familiar companionship.

Irving died in 1859 and was buried at Sunnyside, in sight of the
Hudson whose legends he had immortalized and whose beauty never ceased
to charm him from the moment it first captivated his heart in his
boyhood days.

CHAPTER IV

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER

1789-1851

The region of Otsego Lake, New York, was at the last of the eighteenth
century a wilderness. Here and there rose a little clearing, the
birthplace of a future village, but westward the primeval forest
extended for miles around the little lake, which reflected the shadows
of wooded hills on every side. Here roved deer, wolves, panthers, and
bears unmolested in the green depths and following the same runways
which their species had trodden for centuries. Here also lurked the
red man, suspicious and cautious and ever ready to revenge on the
white man the wrongs of his race.

In this beautiful spot lived the boy, James Fenimore Cooper, in the
family mansion built by his father and named Otsego Hall, the starting
point of the now famous village of Cooperstown. It was a fitting home
for the boy who was hereafter to immortalize the Indian race in the
pages of fiction. His life was almost as simple as that of the Indian
lads who roamed through the forest fishing and hunting and knowing no
ambition beyond.

The little hamlet lay far away from the highways of travel. The
nearest villages were miles distant and only to be reached on foot or
on horseback through miles of unbroken forest. A visitor was rare,
and meant perhaps a warning that the Indians were on the war-path.
Occasionally a new settler drifted into the little valley, and the
village grew slowly through the lad's boyhood, Otsego Hall keeping its
dignity as the Manor House. Sometimes a visitor of note brought news
of the great political troubles in Europe, and thus Cooper met many
men of distinction whose visits seemed to bring the great world very
close to the little settlement. This glimpse of a broader life, with
attendance at the village school and an intimate companionship with
nature, made up his early education. It was not bad training for the
future novelist. The acquaintanceship of celebrated men widened his
horizon and fed his imagination; his daily life kept his mind fresh
and active with the spirit that was fast turning the uninhabited
regions of the frontier into busy settlements; and the familiar
intercourse with nature kept pure the springs of poetry that lie in
every child's heart. He learned wood-lore as the young Indian learned
it, face to face with the divinities of the forest. He knew the calls
of the wild animals far across the gloomy wilderness. He could follow
the deer and bear to their secluded haunts. He could retrace the path
of the retreating wolf by the broken cobwebs glistening in the early
sunlight; and the cry of the panther high overhead in the pines and
hemlocks was a speech as familiar as his own tongue. When he was
thirsty he made a hunter's cup of leaves and drank in the Indian
fashion. When fatigued he lay down to rest with that sense of security
that comes only to the forest bred. When thoughtful he could learn
from the lap of the waves against the shore, the murmur of leaves, and
the rustle of wings, those lessons which nature teaches in her quiet
moods.

These experiences and impressions sank into Cooper's heart, and were
re-lived again long after in the pages of his romances.

While still a boy Cooper went to Albany to study, and in 1803 entered
Yale College, at the age of thirteen.

He played as much and studied as little as he possibly could, and
the first year's preparation perhaps accounts for his dismissal from
college in his junior year. This in turn led to a life much more to
his liking. His father took his part in the trouble at Yale, but was
now anxious to see his son embarked on the serious business of life.
Both father and son liked the idea of a naval career for the boy, and
it was decided that Cooper should go to sea. He left New York in the
autumn of 1806 on a vessel of the merchant marine. There was then no
Naval Academy in America, and a boy could fit himself for entering the
navy as an officer only by serving before the mast. Cooper was away
nearly a year, his ship, the Sterling, visiting London, Portugal,
and Spain, carrying cargoes from one port to another in the leisurely
manner of the merchant sailing-vessels of that day. It was a time of
peculiar interest to all seamen, and his mind was keenly alive to the
new life around him. The English were expecting a French invasion, and
the Channel was full of ships of war, while every southern port was
arming for defence. The Mediterranean was terrorized by the Barbary
pirates, who, under cover of night, descended upon any unprotected
merchant vessel, stole the cargo, scuttled the ship, and sold the crew
into slavery, to Tripolitan and Algerine husbandmen, whose orchards of
date and fig were cultivated by many an American or English slave.

Cooper saw all this and remembered it, being even then a student of
men and events. His work was hard and dangerous; he was never admitted
to the cabin of the ship; in storm or wind his place was on the
deck among the rough sailors, who were his only companions. But this
training developed the good material that was in him, and when in 1808
he received his commission as midshipman he was well equipped for his
duties.

Cooper remained in the navy three years and a half. He spent part
of this time at the port of Oswego, Lake Ontario, superintending the
building of a war vessel, the Oneida, intended for the defence of the
Canadian frontier in case of a war with England. The days passed in
this wild region were not fruitless, for here in the solitude of the
primeval forest Cooper found later the background of a famous story.
It was the land of the red man, and during the long winter months
of his residence there Cooper dwelt in spirit with the wild natives,
though he little dreamed that he was to be the historian that would
give the story of their lives to a succeeding generation. Cooper saw
no active service during the time, and resigned his commission on his
marriage.

Several succeeding years were passed partly in Westchester County,
his wife's former home, and partly in Cooperstown. Here he began
the erection of a stone dwelling, in Fenimore, a suburb of the old
village. While living at Scarsdale, Westchester County, N. Y., he had
produced his first book. Already thirty years old, a literary career
was far from his thoughts. This first novel was merely the result of a
challenge springing from a boast. Reading a dull tale of English life
to his wife, he declared that he could write a better story himself,
and as a result produced a tale in two volumes, called _Precaution_.
It was founded upon English society life, and it obtained some
favorable notices from English papers. But it showed no real talent.
But in the next year, 1821, he published a story foreshadowing his
fame and striking a new note in American literature. At that time
Americans still cherished stirring memories of the Revolution. Men and
women could still recall the victories of Bunker Hill and Trenton, and
the disasters of Monmouth and Long Island.

Cooper's own first impressions of life were vivid with the patriotism
that beat at fever heat during his youth, when the birth of American
independence was within the recollection of many. In choosing a
subject for fiction Cooper therefore naturally turned to the late
struggle, and American literature owes him a large debt for thus
throwing into literary form the spirit of those thrilling times. This
novel, _The Spy_, was founded upon the story of a veritable spy who
had been employed by the Revolutionary officer who related to Cooper
some of his daring adventures. Taking this scout for a hero Cooper
kept the scene in Westchester and wove from a few facts the most
thrilling piece of fiction that had yet appeared in the United States.
The novel appeared in December, 1821, and in a few months it had made
Cooper famous both in America and Europe. It was published in England
by the firm which had brought out Irving's _Sketch Book_, and it
met with a success that spoke highly for its merit, since the story
described English defeat and American triumphs. The translator of
the Waverley novels made a French version, and before long the book
appeared in several other European tongues, while its hero, Harvey
Birch, won and has kept for himself an honorable place in literature.

Cooper had now found his work, and he continued to illustrate American
life in fiction. His most popular books are the _Leather Stocking
Tales_ and his novels of the sea. The _Leather Stocking Tales_ consist
of five stories, _The Deerslayer_, _The Last of the Mohicans_, _The
Pathfinder_, _The Pioneers_, and _The Prairie_, concerning the same
hero, Leatherstocking.

In _The Deerslayer_ the hero of the series makes his appearance as a
youth of German descent whose parents had settled near a clan of the
Mohegans on the Schoharie River. At a great Indian feast he receives
the name Deerslayer from the father of Chingachgook, his Indian boy
friend, and the story is an account of his first war-path. The tale
was suggested to the author one afternoon as he paused for a moment
while riding to gaze over the lake he so loved, and whose shores,
as he looked, seemed suddenly to be peopled with the figures of a
vanished race. As the vision faded he turned to his daughter and said
that he must write a story about the little lake, and thus the idea of
Deerslayer was born. In a few days the story was begun. The scene
is laid on Otsego Lake, and in the tale are incorporated many tender
memories of Cooper's own boyhood. It portrays Leatherstocking as a
young scout just entering manhood, and embodies some of the author's
best work. Perhaps no one was so well-fitted to illustrate the ideal
friendship between Deerslayer and Chingachgook as he, who in his
boyhood stood many a time beside the lakeside as the shadows fell
over the forest, not knowing whether the faint crackling of the bushes
meant the approach of the thirsty deer, or signalled the presence of
some Indian hunter watching with jealous eye the white intruder.

In _The Last of the Mohicans_, Leatherstocking, under the name
Hawkeye, is represented in the prime of manhood, his adventures
forming some of the most exciting events of the series. Here his old
friend Chingachgook and the latter's son Uncas follow Deerslayer hand
in hand, and make, next to the hero, the principal characters of
the story, the scene of which is laid near Lake Champlain during the
trouble between the French and English for the possession of Canada.

In _The Pathfinder_ the famous scout, under the name which gives the
title to the book, is carried still further in his adventurous career.
The scene is laid near Lake Ontario where Cooper spent some months
while in the navy. These three tales are not only the finest of the
series from a literary standpoint, but they illustrate as well the
life of those white men of the forest who lived as near to nature
as the Indian himself and whose deeds helped make the history of the
country in its beginnings.

_The Pioneers_ finds Leatherstocking an old hunter living on Otsego
Lake at the time of its first settlement by the whites. The character
was suggested by an old hunter of the regions who in Cooper's boyhood
came frequently to the door of his father's house to sell the game he
had killed. The hero is in this book called Natty Bumppo and the story
is one of the primitive life of the frontiersmen of that period.
Their occupations, interests and ambitions form the background to the
picture of Leatherstocking, the rustic philosopher, who has finished
the most active part of his career, and who has gathered from nature
some of her sweetest lessons. Many of the scenes in the book are
transcriptions from the actual life of those hardy pioneers who joined
Cooper's father in the settlement of Cooperstown, while the whole is
tinged with that tender reminiscence of the author's youth which sets
it apart from the rest though it is, perhaps, the least perfect story
of the series.

Leatherstocking closes his career in _The Prairie_, a novel of the
plains of the great West, whither he had gone to spend his last days.
It is the story of the lonely life of the trapper of those days,
whose love of solitude has led him far from the frontier, and whose
dignified death fitly closes his courageous life. It is supposed that
the actual experiences of Daniel Boone suggested this ending to the
series.

The story of the war of the frontiersmen with nature, with
circumstances and with the red man is told in these books. It is the
romance of real history and Leatherstocking was but the picture
of many a brave settler whose deeds were unrecorded and whose name
remains unknown. Side by side with Leatherstocking stand those Indian
characters which the genius of Cooper immortalized and which have
passed into history as typical.

Cooper began the tales without any thought of making a series, but the
overwhelming success of _The Pioneers_, the first which appeared, led
him to produce book after book until the whole life of the hero was
illustrated.

Cooper's series of sea novels began with _The Pilot_, published
in 1824. It followed _The Pioneers_, and showed the novelist to be
equally at home on sea and land. In his stories of frontier life,
Cooper followed the great Scott, whose thrilling tales of Border life
and of early English history had opened a new domain to the novelist.
Cooper always acknowledged his debt to the great _Wizard of the
North_, and, indeed, spoke of himself as a chip of Scott's block. But
in his sea stories Cooper was a creator. He was the first novelist to
bring into fiction the ordinary, every-day life of the sailor afloat,
whether employed on a peaceful merchant vessel or fighting hand
to hand in a naval battle. And it is interesting to know that the
creation of the sea story was another debt that he owed to Scott,
though in a far different way. Scott's novel, _The Pirate_, had been
criticised by Cooper as the work of a man who had never been at sea.
And to prove it the work of a landsman he began his own story, _The
Pilot_. The time chosen is that of the Revolution, and the hero is the
famous adventurer John Paul Jones, introduced under another name.
It was so new a thing to use the technicalities of ship life, and to
describe the details of an evolution in a naval battle, that, familiar
as he was with ocean life, Cooper felt some doubts of his success.
To test his power he read one day to an old shipmate that now famous
account of the passage of the ship through the narrow channel. The
effect was all that Cooper hoped. The old sailor fell into a fury of
excitement, paced up and down the room, and in his eagerness for a
moment lived over again a stormy scene in his own life. Satisfied with
this experiment Cooper finished the novel in content.

_The Pilot_ met with an instant success both in America and Europe.
As it was his first, so it is, perhaps, his best sea story. Into it
he put all the freshness of reminiscence, all the haunting memories
of ocean life that had followed him since his boyhood. It was
biographical in the same sense as _The Pioneers_. A part of the
romance of childhood drafted into the reality of after life.

_The Red Rover_, the next sea story, came out in 1828. By that time
other novelists were writing tales of the sea, but they were mere
imitations of _The Pilot_. In _The Red Rover_ the genuine adventures
of the sailor class were again embodied in the thrilling narrative
that Cooper alone knew how to write, and this book has always been one
of the most popular of novels.

The Red Rover, so called because of his red beard, and whose name
gives the title to the book, is a well born Englishman who has turned
pirate, and whose daring adventures have made him famous along the
coasts of America, Europe and Africa. The scene opens in the harbor of
Newport in the days when that town was the most important port of the
Atlantic coast, and from there is carried to the high seas, whereon is
fought that famous last sea fight of the Red Rover, the description of
which forms one of Cooper's best efforts.

_Wing and Wing_ is a tale of the Mediterranean during the exciting
days of privateers and pirates in the latter part of the eighteenth
century. The great admiral, Nelson, is introduced in this book, which
abounds with incidents of the tropical seas and reflects much of
Cooper's experience during his apprenticeship on the Sterling. The
story is one of Cooper's masterpieces, and, like so much of his work,
has preserved in literature a phase of life that has forever passed
away.

In _The Two Admirals_ is introduced, for the first time in fiction, a
description of the evolution of great fleets in action. The scene
is taken from English history, and in many instances the story shows
Cooper at his best.

_The Water Witch_, and _Ned Myers, or Life Before the Mast_, a
biography almost of Cooper's own early life at sea, must be included
among the tales which illustrate the author's genius as a writer of
tales of the sea.

Nothing can be more different than the picture of Leatherstocking and
his Indian friends in the forest retreats of nature and that of the
reckless sailor race which found piracy and murder the only outcome
for their fierce ambitions. Yet both are touched with the art of a
master, and both illustrate Cooper's claim as one of the greatest
masters of fiction.

Besides his _Leather Stocking Tales_ and the sea stories Cooper
wrote novels, sketches of travel, essays on the social and political
condition of America, and innumerable pamphlets in answer to attacks
made upon him by adverse critics. But his rank in American literature
will ever be determined by the _Leather Stocking Tales_ and his
best sea stories. His place is similar to that of Scott in English
literature, while he enjoys also the reputation of having opened a new
and enchanted realm of fiction.

Next to Hawthorne, he will long be held, probably, the greatest
novelist that America has produced. With the exception of seven years
abroad, Cooper spent his life in his native land. While in Europe
he wrote some of his best novels, and though he grew to love the old
world he never wavered in his devotion to America.

Cooper's popularity abroad was equalled only by that of Scott. His
works were translated and sold even in Turkey, Persia, Egypt and
Jerusalem in the language of those countries. It was said by a
traveller that the middle classes of Europe had gathered all their
knowledge of American history from Cooper's works and that they had
never understood the character of American independence until revealed
by this novelist. In spite of defects of style and the poor quality of
some of his stories, Cooper has given to fiction many creations that
must live as long as literature endures.

He died in his sixty-second year at Cooperstown.

CHAPTER V

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

1794-1878

William Cullen Bryant was born in 1794 in a log farmhouse in the
beautiful Berkshire Hills of Western Massachusetts. His father was the
country doctor and the child was named after a celebrated physician.
He began his school days in a log school-house beside a little brook
that crept down from the hills and went singing on its way to the
valley.

All around stood the great forest-covered hills, haunted by wolves,
bears, deer and wild-cats, which occasionally crept down even to the
settlements carrying terror to the hearts of the women and children.
Wherever the slopes were cleared, the farm lands had taken possession,
the forest often creeping up close to the little homes.

From the door-yard of the Bryant homestead the whole world seemed to
be made up of hills and forest, and fertile fields, while in the woods
grew the exquisite New England wild flowers, the laurel and azalea,
the violet, the tiger lily, and the fringed gentian. Here also lived
the summer birds of New England, the robins, the blue bird and the
thrush, haunting the woods from early spring until late autumn.

All these sights and sounds sunk into the boy's heart and made
themselves into a poem which he wrote down in words many years after,
and which is as clear and fresh as the voice of the little brook
itself after which it was named. This poem is called _The Rivulet_ and
it shows the poet-child standing upon the banks of the little stream
listening to the song of the birds or gathering wild flowers.

It was his first lesson in that wonder-book of nature from which he
translated so much that was beautiful that he became the distinctive
poet of the woods and streams.

Lessons from books he learned in the little log school-house,
preparing himself for ordeals when the minister came to visit the
school. At these times the pupils were dressed in their best and sat
in solemn anxiety while the minister asked them questions out of the
catechism and made them a long speech on morals and good behavior. On
one of these occasions the ten-year-old poet declaimed some of his own
verses descriptive of the school.

In Bryant's boyhood New England farm life was very simple. The farmers
lived in log or slab houses, whose kitchens formed the living room,
where the meals were generally taken. Heat was supplied by the great
fireplaces that sometimes filled one whole side of the kitchen and
were furnished with cranes, spits, and pothooks. Behind the kitchen
door hung a bundle of birch rods with which mischievous boys were kept
in order, and in the recess of the chimney stood the wooden settle
where the children sat before bed-time to watch the fire or glance up
through the wide chimney at the stars.

Here, when three years old, Bryant often stood book in hand and with
painful attention to gesture repeated one of Watts's hymns, while his
mother listened and corrected. Here he prepared his lessons, and wrote
those first childish poems so carefully criticised by his father,
who was his teacher in the art of composition. In the poem called
_A Lifetime_ Bryant long afterward described many incidents of his
childhood and the influence of his father and mother upon his art,
one developing his talent for composition, and the other directing his
imagination to and enlisting his sympathies with humanity. This poem
shows the boy by his mother's knee, reading the story of Pharaoh and
the Israelites, of David and Goliath, and of the life of Christ. As he
grew older Bryant shared the usual amusements of country life. In
the spring he took his turn in the maple-sugar camp; in the autumn he
attended the huskings when the young people met to husk the corn in
each neighborhood barn successively, until all was done. He helped at
the cider-making bees, and the apple parings, when the cider and apple
sauce were prepared for the year's need; and at the house raisings,
when men and boys raised the frame of a neighbor's house or barn. In
those times the farmers depended upon each other for such friendly
aid, and the community seemed like one great family.

On Sunday everyone went three times to meeting, listened to long
sermons, and sang out of the old Bay Psalm Book. If any unlucky child
fell asleep he was speedily waked up by the tithingman, who would
tickle his nose with a hare's-foot attached to a long pole. Once in a
while a boy might be restless or noisy, and then he was led out of
the meeting-house and punished with the tithingman's rod, a terrible
disgrace.

Throughout his childhood Bryant wrote verses upon every subject
discussed in the family, and in those days New England families
discussed all the great events of the time. The listening children
became public-spirited and patriotic without knowing it. At thirteen
Bryant wrote a most scathing satire upon the policy of Thomas
Jefferson, intended to make the President hang his head in shame. It
was quoted in all the newspapers opposed to Jefferson, and a second
edition of this pamphlet was called for in a few months. Bryant
here prophesies the evils in store for the country if the President
insisted on the embargo that was then laid upon American vessels, and
advises him to retire to the bogs of Louisiana and search for horned
frogs; advice which Jefferson did not feel called upon to follow. It
was Bryant's first introduction to the reading public, but it was not
that path in literature that he was destined to follow. Only one or
two of his earliest verses give any hint of the poet of nature,
though it was during this time that he absorbed those influences that
directed his whole life. It is from the retrospective poem, _Green
River_, that we really know the boy Bryant to whom the charm of sky
and wood and singing brook was so unconscious that it seemed a part of
life itself. In _Green River_, written after he became a man, we hear
the echoes of his young days, and we know that the boy's soul had
already entered into a close communion with nature.

But Bryant had not yet reached manhood when the true voice of his
heart was heard in the most celebrated poem that he ever wrote,
and one of the most remarkable ever written by a youth. This was
_Thanatopsis_, which his father discovered among his papers and sent
to the _North American Review_ without his son's knowledge, so little
did the poet of eighteen, who five years before had published the
tirade against Jefferson, realize that he had produced the most
remarkable verses yet written in America.

_Thanatopsis_ attracted instant attention in this country and in
England. It had appeared anonymously, and American critics insisted
that it could not be the work of an American author as no native poet
approached it either in sublimity of thought or perfection of style.
But _Thanatopsis_ bears no trace of English influence, nor was it
strange that an heir of the Puritan spirit, who had lived in daily
communion with nature, should thus set to the music of poetry the
hopes and inspirations of his race.

_Thanatopsis_ is the first great American poem, and it divides by a
sharp line the poetry hitherto written on our soil from that which was
to follow. Henceforth the poets of the newer England ceased to find
their greatest inspiration in the older land. At the time of the
publication of the poem Bryant was studying law in Great Barrington,
Mass., having been obliged by poverty to leave college after a two
years' course. It was in the brief interval before beginning his
office studies that he wrote _Thanatopsis_ putting it aside for future
revision.

He was already hard at work upon his profession when his sudden
literary success changed all his plans. Destined by nature to be a man
of letters, he poured forth verse and prose during the whole time he
was studying and practising law. Six months after the publication of
_Thanatopsis_ the poem entitled _To a Waterfowl_, suggested by the
devious flight of a wild duck across the sunset sky, appeared.

It is a perfect picture of the reedy river banks, the wet marshes, and
the lonely lakes over which the bird hovered, and it is full of
the charm of nature herself. From this time on Bryant's touch never
faltered. He was the chosen poet of the wild beauty of his native
hills and valleys, and his own pure spirit revealed the most sacred
meanings of this beauty.

In 1821 he published his first volume of poems under the title,
_Poems by William Cullen Bryant_. It was a little book of forty pages,
containing _Thanatopsis_, _Green River_, _To a Waterfowl_, and other
pieces, among which was the charming, _The Yellow Violet_, a very
breath of the spring. This little book was given to the world in the
same year in which Cooper published _The Spy_ and Irving completed
_The Sketch Book_.

In 1825 Bryant removed to New York to assume the editorship of a
monthly review, to which he gave many of his best-known poems. A year
later he joined the staff of the _Evening Post_, with which he was
connected until his death.

From this time his life was that of a literary man. He made of the
_Evening Post_ a progressive, public-spirited newspaper, whose field
embraced every phase of American life. When he became its editor five
days were required for the reports of the Legislature at Albany
to reach New York, these being carried by mail coach. The extracts
printed from English newspapers were a month old, and even this was
considered enterprising journalism. All the despatches from different
cities of the United States bore dates a fortnight old, while it
was often impossible to obtain news at all. The paper contained
advertisements of the stage lines to Boston, Philadelphia, and the
West; accounts of projects to explore the centre of the earth by means
of sunken wells; reports of the possibility of a railroad being built
in the United States; advertisements of lottery tickets; a list of
the unclaimed letters at the post-office, and usually a chapter of
fiction. Such was the newspaper of 1831.

During the fifty-two years of his editorship the United States were
developed from a few struggling colonies bound together by common
interests into one of the greatest of modern nations. And through all
the changes incident to this career Bryant stood always firm to the
principles which he recognized as the true foundations of a country's
greatness.

When he was born the United States consisted of a strip of land lying
between the Atlantic and the Alleghany Mountains, of which more than
half was unbroken wilderness. At his death the Republic extended from
the Atlantic to the Pacific and from the Gulf to Canada. His life-time
corresponded with the growth of his country, and his own work was
a noble contribution to the nation's prosperity. In all times of
national trouble the _Evening Post_ championed the cause of justice,
and Bryant was everywhere respected as a man devoted above all to the
"cause of America and of human nature."

The conduct of the _Evening Post_ did not, however, interfere with his
work as a poet, and in 1832 he published in one volume all the
poems which he had written, most of which had previously appeared in
magazines. A few months later an edition appeared in London with
an introduction by Irving. It was this volume which gave Bryant
an English reputation as great as that he enjoyed in America. Like
Cooper, he revealed an unfamiliar nature as seen in American forests,
hills, and streams, taking his readers with him into those solitary
and quiet places where dwelt the wild birds and wild flowers. The very
titles of his poems show how closely he lived to the life of the world
around him. _The Walk at Sunset_, _The West Wind_, _The Forest Hymn_,
_Autumn Woods_, _The Death of the Flowers_, _The Fringed Gentian_,
_The Wind and Stream_, _The Little People of the Snow_, and many
others disclose how Bryant gathered from every source the beauty which
he translated into his verses.

Among the poems which touch upon the Indian traditions are _The
Indian Girl's Lament_, _Monument Mountain_, and _An Indian at the
Burial-place of his Father_. In these he lingers upon the pathetic
fate of the red man driven from the home of his race and forced into
exile by the usurping whites. They are full of sadness, seeming to
wake once again the memories of other times when the forest was alive
with the night-fires of savage man and the days brought only the
gladness of freedom.

Besides his original work Bryant performed a noble task in the
translation of the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ of Homer. He was over seventy
when he began this work, and was five years in completing it. The
poems are put into blank verse, of which Bryant was a master, and they
have caught the very spirit of the old Greek bard; so faithfully
did the modern poet understand that shadowy past that he might have
watched with Helen the burning of Troy, or journeyed with Ulysses
throughout his wanderings in the perilous seas.

The light of Bryant's imagination burned steadily to the end. In his
eighty-second year he wrote his last important poem, _The Flood of
Years_. It is a beautiful confession of faith in the nobility of life
and the immortality of the soul, and a fitting crown for an existence
so beneficent and exalted.

His last public work was to participate in unveiling a monument to the
Italian statesman Mazzini in Central Park, when he was the orator of
the day. On the same evening he was seized with his last illness. He
died on June 12, 1878, and was buried at Roslyn, Long Island, one of
his favorite country homes.

CHAPTER VI

WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT

1796-1859

One of the stories that mankind has always liked to believe is that of
the existence of a marvellous country whose climate was perfect, whose
people were happy, whose king was wise and good, and where wealth
abounded. The old travellers of the Middle Ages dreamed of finding
this land somewhere in the far East. Many books were written about it,
and many tales told by knight and palmer of its rivers of gold, mines
of precious stones, and treasure vaults of inexhaustible riches. But,
although from time to time some famous traveller like Marco Polo or
Sir John Mandeville described the great wealth of Ormus or Cathay, yet
no one ever found the real country of his imagination, and the dream
passed down from generation to generation unfulfilled. The Spaniards
called this country _El Dorado_, and perhaps their vision of it was
the wildest of all, for not only were they to find inexhaustible
riches, but trees whose fruit would heal disease, magic wells which
yielded happiness, and fountains of immortal youth. Thus dreamed the
Spaniard of the fifteenth century, and when Columbus found the new
world it was believed that it included El Dorado. Leader after leader
mustered his knights and soldiers and sought the golden country. They
traversed forests, climbed mountains, forded rivers, and waded through
swamps and morasses; they suffered hunger, thirst, and fever, and the
savage hostility of the Indians; they died by hundreds and were buried
in unmarked graves, and expedition after expedition returned to Spain
to report the fruitlessness of their search. But the hope was not
given up. New seekers started on the quest, and it seemed that the
ships of Spain could hardly hold her eager adventurers.

In a strange way this dream of El Dorado was realized. Two soldiers
of fortune, bolder, hardier, luckier than the rest, actually found not
one country but two, which were in part at least like the golden world
they sought. High upon the table-land of Mexico and guarded by its
snow-capped mountains they found the kingdom of the Aztecs, with their
vast wealth of gold and silver. Safe behind the barrier of the Andes
lay the land of the Incas, whose riches were, like those of Ophir
or Cathay, not to be measured. Both of these countries possessed a
strange and characteristic civilization. In fact, even to this day,
scholars are puzzled to know the source of the knowledge which these
people possessed.

In Mexico Hernando Cortez found a government whose head was the king,
supported by a tribunal of judges who governed the principal cities.
If a judge took a bribe he was put to death. In the king's tribunal
the throne was of gold inlaid with turquoises. The walls were hung
with tapestry embroidered with figures of birds and flowers. Over the
throne was a canopy flashing with gold and jewels. There were
officers to escort prisoners to and from court, and an account of the
proceedings was kept in hieroglyphic paintings. All the laws of the
kingdom were taught by these paintings to the people. The Aztecs
had orders of nobility and knighthood; they had a military code and
hospitals for the sick. Their temples glittered with gold and jewels,
and they had ceremonies of baptism, marriage, and burial. They had
monastic orders, astrologists and astronomers, physicians,
merchants, jewellers, mechanics, and husbandmen. Their palaces were
treasure-houses of wealth. In fact, they were as unlike the Indians of
the eastern coast of America as the Englishman of to-day is unlike
the half-naked savage who in the early ages roamed through England,
subsisting upon berries and raw flesh.

In Peru Francisco Pizarro found a great and powerful empire, ruled
over by a wise sovereign. In the whole length and breadth of the land
not one poor or sick person was left uncared for by the state. Great
highways traversed mountain passes and crossed ravines and precipices
to the most distant parts of the kingdom. Huge aqueducts of stone
carried the mountain streams for hundreds of miles to the plains
below. Massive fortresses, whose masonry was so solid that it seemed
part of the mountain itself, linked the cities together, and a postal
system extended over the empire composed of relays of couriers who
wore a peculiar livery and ran from one post to another at the rate
of one hundred and fifty miles a day. The walls of temples and palaces
were covered with plates of gold encrusted with precious stones. The
raiment of the king and nobles was embroidered with jewels. The lakes
in the royal court-yards were fringed with wild flowers brought from
every corner of the empire and representing every degree of climate.
In a word, it was the dream of El Dorado fulfilled.

Although these two countries were alike peopled by races who had lived
there since remote antiquity, neither had ever heard of the existence
of the other, and thus we have the picture of two civilizations, very
similar, springing up independently.

The conquest of Mexico by Cortez in 1521 changed the entire life of
the people. Their forts and cities were ruined; three of their kings
had fallen during the struggle; the whole country had been divided
among the conquerors, and the Aztecs were made slaves. Cortez
rebuilt the City of Mexico and filled the country with cathedrals and
convents. He tried to convert the natives to Christianity, and Mexico
became Spanish in its laws and institutions.

But the old civilization had passed away; there was no more an Aztec
nation; and though in time the Indians and Spaniards formed together a
new race, it did not partake of the spirit of the old.

What Cortez did for Mexico, Pizarro accomplished twelve years later
in Peru. On the death of their monarch, the Inca, the Peruvians lost
spirit and were more easily conquered than the Aztecs. Peru became a
Spanish province, and, like Mexico, was considered by the crown only
as a treasure-house from which to draw endless wealth. No regret was
felt for the two great and powerful nations that had ceased to exist.

In the meantime the settlement of America went on rapidly. Florida,
the valley of the Mississippi, Canada, and New England became powerful
colonies forming the nucleus of new countries, which had never heard
of the civilizations of Mexico and Peru, and whose only knowledge
of Indians was gathered from the savage tribes from which they had
wrested the soil. In 1610 the Spanish historian Solis wrote an account
of the subjugation of Mexico, in which the conquerors were portrayed
in glowing colors. This work was read chiefly by scholars. In 1779 the
English historian Robertson gave in his _History of the New World_ a
brilliant sketch of the Spanish conquests in America. But not until
1847 was the world offered the detailed narrative of the conquest and
ruin of the Aztec empire.

This work was from the pen of the American scholar, William H.
Prescott, who was already known as the author of a history of
Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, a work which had brought him a
European reputation.

Prescott was born in Salem, Mass., in 1796, in an old elm-shaded
house. From his earliest years he was a teller of stories, and had a
high reputation among his boy friends as a romancer. Walking to and
from school with his companions he invented tale after tale, sometimes
the narrative being continued from day to day, lessons and home duties
being considered but tiresome interruptions to the real business
of life. Very often one of these stories begun on Monday would
be continued through the whole week, and the end be celebrated on
Saturday by a visit to the Boston Athenæum, into whose recesses he
would beguile his fellows, while they buckled on the old armor found
there, and played at joust and tournament, imagining themselves to be
Lancelot, Ronsard, or Bayard, as the case might be.

A life of Gibbon which Prescott read in his teens led to an
enthusiastic study of history and to the resolve to become if possible
a historian himself. While a student at Harvard one of his eyes was so
injured by the carelessness of a fellow pupil that he lost the entire
use of it; but he kept to the resolution to fulfil the task he had set
for himself. His fame began with the publication of the _History of
Ferdinand and Isabella_, which was published almost simultaneously in
Germany, France, Spain, Italy, and Russia. It covers the history of
Spain from the Moorish invasion through the period of national glory
which illumined the reign of Isabella. The civil wars, the Jewish
persecutions, the discovery of the New World, the expulsion of the
Moors, the Italian wars, and the social life of the people, their arts
and pursuits, their amusements, and the literature of that age, are
vividly presented.

The recognition of his merits was welcome to Prescott. While doubting
which subject to choose for his labors he had heard several lectures
upon Spanish literature, prepared for delivery at Harvard College, and
at once applied himself to the study of the Spanish language, history,
and romance as a preparation for his life work, and two years after
began his celebrated work. The book was eleven years in preparation,
and is full of enthusiasm for the romance and chivalry of the Old
World. Prescott's _History of the Conquest of Mexico_ began with a
sketch of the ancient Aztec civilization, proceeded to a description
of the conquest by Cortez, and concluded with an account of the after
career of the great commander, the whole work seeming a brilliant
romance rather than sober history.

The materials for Prescott's work were gathered from every known
available source. The narratives of eye-witnesses were brought
forth from their hiding-places in the royal libraries of Spain, and
patiently transcribed; old letters, unpublished chronicles, royal
edicts, monkish legends, every scrap of information attainable, was
transmitted to the worker across the sea, who because of his partial
blindness had to depend entirely upon others in the collection of his
authorities. These documents were read to Prescott by a secretary, who
took notes under the author's direction; these notes were again read
to him, and then after sifting, comparing and, retracing again and
again the old ground, the historian began his work. He wrote upon a
noctograph with an ivory stylus, as a blind man writes, and because of
great physical weakness he was able to accomplish only a very little
each day. But week by week the work grew. His marvellous memory
enabled him to recall sixty pages of printed matter at once. His
wonderful imagination enabled him to present the Mexico of the
sixteenth century as it appeared to the old Spanish cavaliers, and as
no historian had ever presented it before. He made of each episode of
the great drama a finished and perfect picture. In fact, the _History
of the Conquest of Mexico_ is more than anything else a historical
painting wrought to perfection by the cunning of the master hand.

Prescott spent six years over this work, which enhanced his fame as
a historian and kept for American literature the high place won by
Irving. Indeed, Irving himself had designed to write the history of
the conquest of Mexico, but withdrew in favor of Prescott.

Three months after the publication of his work on Mexico, Prescott
began the _History of the Conquest of Peru_, the materials for which
had already been obtained. But these documents proved much more
complete than those describing the Mexican conquest.

The conquest of Mexico was achieved mainly by one man, Cortez; but
while Pizarro was virtually the head of the expedition against Peru,
he was accompanied by others whose plans were often opposed to his
own, and whose personal devotion could never be counted upon. Each
of these men held regular correspondence with the court of Spain, and
Pizarro never knew when his own account of the capture of a city or
settlement of a colony would be contradicted by the statement of one
of his officers. After the capture and death of the Inca, which was
the real conquest of the country from the natives, Pizarro was obliged
to reconquer Peru from his own officers, who quarrelled with him and
among themselves continually.

The conquest is shown to be a war of adventurers, a crusade of
buccaneers, who wanted only gold. The sieges and battles of the
Spaniards read like massacres, and the story of the death of the Inca
like an unbelievable horror of the Dark Ages. This scene, contrasted
with the glowing description of the former magnificence of the Inca,
shows Prescott in his most brilliant mood as a writer. Perhaps his
greatest gift is this power of reproducing faithfully the actual
spirit of the conquest, a spirit which, in spite of the glitter of
arms and splendor of religious ceremonial, proves to have been one of
greed and lowest selfishness.

_The Conquest of Peru_, published in 1847, when Prescott was
fifty-two years old, was the last of his historical works. These three
histories, with three volumes of an uncompleted life of Philip
II., which promised to be his greatest work, and a volume of essays
comprise Prescott's contribution to American literature, and begin
that series of brilliant historical works of which American letters
boast.

Prescott, during the most of his literary life, was obliged to sit
quietly in his study, leaving to other hands the collection of the
materials for his work. For, besides the accident which during
his college life deprived him of one eye, he was always delicate.
Sometimes he would be kept for months in a darkened room, and at best
his life was one of seclusion. The strife of the world and of action
was not for him. In his library, surrounded by his books and assisted
by his secretary, he sought for truth as the old alchemists sought for
gold. Patient and tireless he unravelled thread after thread of
the fabric from which he was to weave the history of the Spanish
conquests.

If Prescott had had access to documents which have since come to
light, if he had been able to visit the places he described, and to
study their unwritten records, his work would have been a splendid
and imperishable monument to the dead civilization of the Aztec and
Peruvian.

As it is, it must serve as a guiding light pointing to the right way,
one which shed lustre on the new literature of his country and opened
an unexplored region to the American writer.

CHAPTER VII

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

1807-1892

In an old New England farm-house kitchen, a barefoot boy, dressed in
homespun, one day sat listening to a lazy Scotch beggar who piped the
songs of Burns in return for his meal of bread and cheese and cider.
The beggar was good-natured, and the boy was an eager listener, and
_Bonnie Doon_, _Highland Mary_, and _Auld Lang Syne_ were trilled
forth as the master himself may have sung them among the Scottish
"banks and braes." Never before had the farmer boy heard of the famous
peasant, and a new door was opened through which he passed into an
undreamed of world. A few months later the school-master gave him
a copy of Burns's poems, and with this gift the boy became a poet
himself. For these songs of roadsides and meadows, of ploughed fields
and wet hedgerows, were to him familiar pictures of every-day life,
whose poetry, once revealed, had to express itself in words.

The boy was the son of John and Abigail Whittier, Quaker farmers
owning a little homestead in the valley of the Merrimac, near the town
of Haverhill, Mass. In honor of an ancestor he had been named John
Greenleaf Whittier, the Greenleaf, as he tells us in one of his poems,
having become Americanized from the French _feuille verte_, _green
leaf_, a suggestion, perhaps, of far away days in which the family
might have been men of the wood, keepers of the deer or forest
guarders in France during feudal ages. In his boyhood, life in the
Merrimac valley was primitive enough. The house was small and plain,
the kitchen being the living room, and the parlor dedicated to Sunday
and holiday use only. The floor was sanded and on the wide fire-place
benches the men and children of the family sat at night to whittle
axe-handles, mend shoes, crack nuts, or learn the next day's lessons.
Often a stranger was found among them; some Quaker travelling on
business, or a stranger on his way to some distant town, or perhaps
a professional beggar to whom the hospitality of the place was well
known. Once when the mother had refused a night's shelter to an
unprepossessing vagabond, John was sent out to bring him back. He
proved to be an Italian artisan, and after supper he told them of the
Italian grape gatherings and festivals, and of the wonderful beauty
of Italy, paying for his entertainment by presenting to the mother a
recipe for making bread from chestnuts.

Sometimes the visitor would be an uncanny old crone who still believed
in witches and fairies, and who told how her butter refused to come,
or how her candle had been snuffed out by a witch in the form of a
big black bug. One old woman in the neighborhood was renowned for
her tales of ghosts, devils, fairies, brownies, sprenties, enchanted
towers, headless men, haunted mills that were run at night by ghostly
millers and witches riding on broom-sticks by the light of the full
moon, and descending unguarded chimneys to lay their spells upon
cream-pot and yeast-bowl.

After such an evening's entertainment the boy needed courage to leave
the bright kitchen fire and climb up the narrow stairs to the loft
where he slept, and where the sound of the night-wind crept through
the frosty rafters, and the voice of the screech-owl came dismally
from the trees outside.

Haverhill boasted at that time its village conjurer, who could remove
the spells of those wicked spirits, and whose gaunt form could be seen
any day along the meadows and streams gathering herbs to be stewed
and brewed into love-potions, cures for melancholy, spells against
witchcraft, and other remedies for human ills. He was held in great
respect by the inhabitants, and feared almost as much as the witches
themselves.

An ever-welcome guest at the Whittiers was the school-master, whose
head was full of the local legends, and whose tales of Indian raids
and of revolutionary struggles were regarded as authentic history.
This Yankee pedagogue, moreover, could, with infinite spirit and zest,
retell the classic stories of the Greek and Latin poets.

Twice a year came to the little homestead the Yankee pedler, with his
supply of pins, needles, thread, razors, soaps, and scissors for the
elders, and jack-knives for the boys who had been saving their pennies
to purchase those treasures. He had gay ribbons for worldly minded
maids, but these were never bought for Quaker Whittier's daughters.
But to Poet John's thinking the pedler's choicest wares were the songs
of his own composing, printed with wood-cuts, which he sold at an
astonishingly low price, or even, upon occasions, gave away. These
songs celebrated earthquakes, fires, shipwrecks, hangings, marriages,
deaths, and funerals. Often they were improvised as the pedler sat
with the rest around the hearth fire. If a wedding had occurred during
his absence he was ready to versify it, and equally ready to lament
the loss of a favorite cow. To Whittier this gift of rhyming seemed
marvellous, and in after years he described this wandering minstrel as
encircled, to his young eyes, with the very nimbus of immortality.

Such was the home-life of this barefooted boy, who drove the cows
night and morning through the dewy meadows, and followed the oxen,
breaking the earth into rich brown furrows, whose sight and smell
suggested to him always the generous bounty of nature. From early
spring, when the corn was planted in fields bordered by wild
rose-bushes, to late autumn, when the crop lay bound into glistening
sheaves, his life was one of steady toil, lightened sometimes by a
day's fishing in the mountain streams or by a berrying excursion up
among the hills.

In cold weather he went to school in the little school-house that he
celebrates in one of his poems, and very often, as he confessed, he
was found writing verses instead of doing sums on his slate.

This old phase of New-England life has now passed away, but he has
preserved its memory in three poems, which are in a special sense
biographical. These poems are, _The Barefoot Boy_, _My Schoolmaster_,
and _Snow-Bound_. The first two are simple, boyish memories, but
the last is a description not only of his early home, but of the
New-England farm life, and is a Puritan idyl.

All are full of the idealization of childhood, for the poet could
never break loose from the charm which had enthralled him as a boy.
The poetry of common life which lay over the meadow lands and fields
of grain, which gave a voice to the woodland brook, and glorified
the falling rain and snow, was felt by Whittier, when, as a child, he
paused from his work to listen to the robin's song among the wheat or
watch the flocks of clouds making their way across the summer sky.

When he was nineteen years of age the country-side mail-carrier one
day rode up to the farm and took from his saddle-bags the weekly
paper, which he tossed to the boy, who stood mending a fence. With
trembling eagerness Whittier opened it, and saw in the "Poet's Corner"
his first printed poem. He had sent it with little hope that it would
be accepted, and the sight of it filled him with joy, and determined
his literary career. A few months later the editor of the paper,
William Lloyd Garrison, drove out to the homestead to see the young
verse-maker. Whittier was called from the field where he was hoeing,
and in the interview that followed Garrison insisted that such talent
should not be thrown away, and urged the youth to take a course of
study at some academy. But, although the farm supplied the daily needs
of the family, money was scarce, and the sum required for board and
tuition was impossible to scrape together. A young farm assistant,
however, offered to teach Whittier the trade of shoemaking, and his
every moment of leisure was thereafter spent in learning this craft.
During the following winter the lad furnished the women of the
neighborhood with good, well-made shoes, and with the money thus
earned he entered Haverhill Academy in April, 1827, being then in his
twentieth year. For the next six months his favorite haunts in field
and wood were unvisited, except on the Saturdays and Sundays
spent with his family. He gained some reputation as a poet by the
publication of the ode which he wrote in honor of the new academy,
and although he returned to the farm after six months of study, it was
only to earn more money for further schooling.

His poems and sketches now began to appear in the different newspapers
and periodicals, and he did some editing for various papers. This
work brought him into notice among literary people, but it was his
political convictions that first gave him a national reputation.

From the first Whittier stood side by side with William Lloyd Garrison
in his crusade against slavery, and many of his best poems appeared in
the _Liberator_, Garrison's own paper. These poems, with others, were
collected in a volume called _Voices of Freedom_. It was these songs,
which rushed onward like his own mountain brooks, that made Whittier
known from one end of the country to the other as an apostle of
liberty. All Whittier's poems of this period belong to the political
history of the country, of which they are as much a part as the war
records.

In all this work there is no trace of bitterness or enmity. His songs
of freedom were but the bugle-notes calling the nation to a higher
humanity. Like the old Hebrew prophets, he spared not his own, and
many of his most burning words are a summons to duty to his brothers
in the North. If he could remind the South that the breath of slavery
tainted the air

  "That old Dekalb and Sumter drank,"

he could also, in _Barbara Frietchie_, pay loving tribute to the noble
heart of one of her best-loved sons. His was the dream of the great
nation to be--his spirit that of the preacher who saw his people
unfaithful to the high trust they had received as guardians of the
land which the world had been taught to regard as the home of liberty.
It was this high conception that gave to his work its greatest power,
and that made Whittier, above all others, the poet of freedom; so that
although the mission of these poems has ceased, and as literature they
will not appeal to succeeding generations as forcibly as they did to
their own, as a part of national history they will be long preserved.

Whittier's other poems deal so largely with the home-life of his
day that he is called the poet of New England. All its traditions,
memories, and beliefs are faithfully recorded by him. In _Snow-Bound_
we have the life of the New-England farmer. In _Mabel Martin_ we
see again the old Puritan dogmatism hunting down witches, burning or
hanging them, and following with relentless persecution the families
of the unhappy wretches who thus came under the ban. In _Mogg Megone_
is celebrated in beautiful verse one of those legends of Indian life
which linger immortally around the pines of New England, while the
_Grave by the Lake_, the _Changeling_, the _Wreck of Rivermouth_,
the _Dead Ship of Harpswell_, and others in the collection called the
_Tent on the Beach_, revive old traditions of those early days when
history mingled with legend and the belief in water-spirits and
ghostly warnings had not yet vanished.

In some exquisite ballads, such as _School Days_, we have the memory
of the past, fresh as the wild violets which the poet culled as a boy,
while _Maud Muller_ is a very idyl of a New-England harvest-field in
the poet's youth. In _Among the Hills_ we have some of Whittier's best
poems of country life, while many minor poems celebrate the hills and
streams of which he was so fond. Whittier wrote, also, many beautiful
hymns, and his poems for children, such as _King Solomon and the Ants_
and _The Robin_, show how easy it was for his great heart to enter
into the spirit of childhood. _Child Life_, his compilation of
poems for childhood, is one of the best ever made, while another
compilation, called _Songs of Three Centuries_, shows his wide
familiarity and appreciation of all that is great in English poetry.

After the sale of the old home of his childhood Whittier lived in the
house at Amesbury, which for many years his sister shared. His last
collection of poems, called _Sundown_, was published in 1890, for
some friends only, as a memento of his eightieth birthday. He died two
years later, and was buried in the yard of the Friends' meeting-house
in Amesbury, a short distance from his birthplace.

CHAPTER VIII

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

1804-1864

In 1804 the town of Salem, in Massachusetts, was the most important
seaport in America. With the regularity of the tides its ships sailed
to China, the East Indies, the Feejee Islands, South America, and the
West Indies, and its seamen were as well known in the harbors of these
distant places as in their native town. Throughout the Revolution
Salem, with some neighboring smaller ports, was the hope of the
colonists. No American navy existed; but the merchants and marines
turned their vessels into ships of war, and under the name of
privateers swept the seas of British cruisers, capturing in six years
over four hundred and fifty prizes. During the war of 1812, again,
the naval service was led by the hardy Salem captains, and the brave
little seaport gave generously to the cause of the nation. Salem
from the first was identified with American independence. Upon her
hillsides one memorable day the inhabitants gathered to watch the
fight between the Chesapeake and the Shannon, and through her streets,
a few weeks later, the body of the heroic Lawrence was borne in
state. Among the thronging crowds that day must have wandered the boy
Nathaniel Hawthorne, then in his tenth year. Born in Salem, he came of
a line of seafaring men who had fought their way to fame and fortune
in the teeth of wind and wave; his family having its American
beginning at the time when Indian and white man alike made their homes
in the shadowy aisles of the New-England forests. These ocean-roving
ancestors were among the first to take an American ship to St.
Petersburg, Sumatra, Australia, and Africa. They fought pirates,
overcame savages, suffered shipwreck and disaster, and many of them
found their graves in the waters of some foreign sea. Hawthorne's own
father was lost on a voyage.

From this race of hardy sailors Hawthorne inherited the patience,
courage, and endurance which were the basis of his character, a
character touched besides by that melancholy and love of solitude
which is apt to distinguish those born by the sea. It is this
combination, perhaps, of Puritan steadfastness of purpose and wild
adventurous life that descended to Hawthorne in the form of the most
exquisite imagination tinctured with the highest moral aspirations.
It was the sturdy, healthy plant of Puritanism blossoming into a
beautiful flower.

In this old town of Salem, with its quaint houses, with their carved
doorways and many windows, with its pretty rose-gardens, its beautiful
overshadowing elms, its dingy court-house and celebrated town-pump,
Hawthorne passed his early life, his picturesque surroundings forming
a suitable environment for the handsome, imaginative boy who was to
create the most beautiful literary art that America had yet known.
Behind the town stood old Witch Hill, grim and ghastly with memories
of the witches hanged there in colonial times. In front spread the
sea, a golden argosy of promise, whose wharves and warehouses held
priceless stores of merchandise. Between this haunting spirit of the
past and the broader, newer life of the future, Hawthorne walked
with the serene hope of the youth of that day. The old, intolerant
Puritanism had passed away. Only the fine gold remained as the
priceless treasure of the new generation.

Hawthorne's boyhood was much like that of any other boy in Salem town.
He went to school and to church, loved the sea and prophesied that he
should go away on it some day and never return, was fond of reading,
and ready to fight with any school-fellows who had, as he expressed
it, "a quarrelsome disposition." He was a healthy, robust lad, finding
life a good thing whether he was roaming the streets, sitting idly
on the wharves, or stretched on the floor at home reading a favorite
author.

Almost all boys who have become writers have liked the same books, and
Hawthorne, like his fellows, lived in the magic world of Shakespeare
and Milton, Spenser, Froissart, and Bunyan. _The Pilgrim's Progress_
was an especial favorite with him, its lofty spirit carrying his soul
into those spiritual regions which the child mind reverences without
understanding. For one year of his boyhood he was supremely happy in
the wild regions of Sebago Lake, Me., where the family lived for a
time. Here, he says, he led the life of a bird of the air, with no
restraint and in absolute freedom. In the summer he would take his
gun and spend days in the forest, doing whatever pleased his vagabond
spirit at the moment. In the winter he would follow the hunters
through the snow, or skate till midnight alone upon the frozen lake
with only the shadows of the hills to keep him company, and sometimes
pass the remainder of the night in a solitary log cabin, warmed by the
blaze of the fallen evergreens.

But he had to return to Salem to prepare for college, whither he went
in 1821, in his seventeenth year. He entered Bowdoin, and had among
his fellow-students Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and Franklin Pierce,
afterward President of the United States. Here Hawthorne spent happy
days, and long afterward, in writing to an old college friend, he
speaks of the charm that lingers around the memory of the place
when he gathered blueberries in study hours, watched the great
logs drifting down the current of the Androscoggin from the lumber
districts above, fished in the forest streams, and shot pigeons and
squirrels in hours which should have been devoted to the classics.

In this same letter, which forms the dedication to one of his books,
he adds that it is this friend, if any one, who is responsible for
his becoming a writer, as it was here, in the shadow of the tall pines
which sheltered Bowdoin College, that the first prophecy concerning
his destiny was made. He was to be a writer of fiction, the friend
said, little dreaming of the honors that were to crown one of the
great novelists of the world.

After leaving Bowdoin Hawthorne returned to Salem, where he passed the
next twelve years of his life. Here he produced, from time to time,
stories and sketches which found their way to the periodicals and won
for him a narrow reputation. But the years which a man usually devotes
to his best work were spent by Hawthorne in a contented half-dream of
a great future, for good as is some of the work produced at this time,
it never would have won for the author the highest place in American
literature. These stories and sketches were afterward collected and
published under the title _Twice-Told Tales_ and _The Snow Image_.
Full of the grace and beauty of Hawthorne's style, they were the best
imaginative work yet produced in America, but in speaking of them
Hawthorne himself says that in this result of twelve years there is
little to show for its thought and industry.

But the promise of his genius was fulfilled at last. In 1850, when
Hawthorne was forty-six years old, appeared his first great romance.
Hawthorne had chosen for his subject a picture of Puritan times in
New England, and out of the tarnished records of the past he created
a work of art of marvellous and imperishable beauty. In the days of
which he wrote, a Puritan town was exactly like a large family bound
together by mutual interests, the acts of each life being regarded as
affecting the whole community. Hawthorne has preserved this spirit of
colonial New England, with all its struggles, hopes, and fears, and
the conscience-driven Puritan, who lived in the new generation only
in public records and church histories, was given new life. In
Hawthorne's day this grim figure, stalking in the midst of Indian
fights, village pillories, town-meetings, witch-burnings, and
church-councils was already a memory. With his steeple-crowned hat and
his matchlock at his side he had left the pleasant New-England farm
lands and was found only in the court-houses, where his deeds were
recorded. Hawthorne brought him back from the past, set him in the
midst of his fellow-elders in the church, and showed him a sufferer
for conscience' sake.

This first romance, published under the title _The Scarlet Letter_,
revealed to Hawthorne himself, as well as to the world outside, the
transcendent power of his genius. Hawthorne, who was despondent of the
little popularity of his other books, told the publisher who saw the
first sketch of _The Scarlet Letter_, that he did not know whether
the story was very good or very bad. The publisher, however, at once
perceived its worth and brought it out one year from that time,
and the public saw that it had been entertaining a genius unawares.
Hawthorne's next book, _The House of the Seven Gables_, is a story
of the New England of his own day. A clever critic has called it an
impression of a summer afternoon in an elm-shadowed New-England town.
Through its pages flit quaint contrasting figures that one might find
in New England and nowhere else. The old spinster of ancient family,
obliged to open a toy and gingerbread shop, but never forgetting
the time when the house with seven gables was a mansion of limitless
hospitality, is a pathetic picture of disappointed hope and
broken-down fortune. So is her brother, who was falsely imprisoned
for twenty years, and who in his old age must lean upon his sister for
support; and the other characters are equally true to the life that
has almost disappeared in the changes of the half-century since its
scenes were made the inspiration of Hawthorne's romance.

_The House of the Seven Gables_ was followed by two beautiful volumes
for children, _The Wonder Book_ and _Tanglewood Tales_. In _The Wonder
Book_ Hawthorne writes as if he were a child himself, so simple is the
charm that he weaves around these old, old tales. Not content with
the Greek myths, he created little incidents and impossible characters
that glance in and out with elfin grace. One feels that these were
the very stories that were told by the centaurs, fauns, and satyrs
themselves in the shadows of the old Attic forests. Here we learn that
King Midas not only had his palace turned to gold, but that his
own little daughter, Marigold, a fancy of Hawthorne's own, was also
converted into the same shining metal. We learn, too, the secrets of
many a hero and god of this realm of fancy which had been unsuspected
by any other historian of their deeds. Every child who reads _The
Wonder Book_ doubts not that Hawthorne had hobnobbed many a moonlit
night with Pan and Bacchus in their vine-covered grottos by the
riverside. This dainty, ethereal touch appears in all his work for
children.

A like quality gives distinction to his fourth great novel, which
deals with a man supposed to be a descendant of the old fauns. This
creation, named Donatello, from his resemblance to the celebrated
statue of the Marble Faun, is not wholly human, although he has
human interests and feeling. Hawthorne makes Donatello ashamed of his
pointed ears, though his spirit is as wild and untamed as that of his
rude ancestors. In this book there is a description of a scene where
Count Donatello joins in a peasant dance around a public fountain. And
so vividly is his half-human nature here brought out that Hawthorne
seems to have witnessed somewhere the mad revels of the veritable
fauns and satyrs in the days of their life upon the earth. Throughout
this story Hawthorne shows the same subtle sympathy with uncommon
natures, the mystery of such souls having the same fascination for
him that the secrets of the earth and air have for the scientist and
philosopher.

The book coming between _The House of the Seven Gables_ and _The
Marble Faun_ is called _The Blithedale Romance_. It is in part the
record of a period of Hawthorne's life when he joined a community
which hoped to improve the world by combining healthy manual labor
with intellectual pursuits, and proving that self-interest and all
differences in rank must be hurtful to the commonwealth. This little
society lived in a suburb of Boston, and called their association
Brook Farm. Each member performed daily some manual labor on the
farm or in the house, hours being set aside for study. Here Hawthorne
ploughed the fields and joined in the amusements, or sat apart while
the rest talked about art and literature, danced, sang, or read
Shakespeare aloud. Some of the cleverest men and women of New England
joined this community, the rules of which obliged the men to
wear plaid blouses and rough straw hats, and the women to content
themselves with plain calico gowns.

These serious-minded men and women, who tried to solve a great problem
by leading the lives of Arcadian shepherds, at length dispersed,
each one going back to the world and working on as bravely as if the
experiment had been a great success. The experiences of Brook Farm
were shadowed forth in _The Blithedale Romance_, although it was not a
literal narrative.

Immediately after this Hawthorne was married and went to live in
Concord, near Boston, in a quaint old dwelling called The Manse. And
as all his work partakes of the personal flavor of his own life, so
his existence here is recorded in a delightful series of essays called
_Mosses from an Old Manse_. Here we have a description of the old
house itself, and of the author's family life, of the kitchen-garden
and apple-orchards, of the meadows and woods, and of his friendship
with that lover of nature, Henry Thoreau, whose writings form a
valuable contribution to American literature. The _Mosses from an Old