James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels

by James Fenimore Cooper

  Mr. —— took the necessary means to summon his agent to a personal interview. They met in a wood, at midnight. Here Mr. —— complimented his companion on his fidelity and adroitness; explained the necessity of their communications being closed; and finally tendered the money. The other drew back, and declined receiving it. “The country has need of all its means,” he said; “as for myself, I can work, or gain a livelihood in various ways.” Persuasion was useless, for patriotism was uppermost in the heart of this remarkable individual; and Mr. —— departed, bearing with him the gold he had brought, and a deep respect for the man who had so long hazarded his life, unrequited, for the cause they served in common.

  The writer is under an impression that, at a later day, the agent of Mr. —— consented to receive a remuneration for what he had done; but it was not until his country was entirely in a condition to bestow it.

  It is scarcely necessary to add, that an anecdote like this, simply but forcibly told by one of its principal actors, made a deep impression on all who heard it. Many years later, circumstances, which it is unnecessary to relate, and of an entirely adventitious nature, induced the writer to publish a novel, which proved to be, what he little foresaw at the time, the first of a tolerably long series. The same adventitious causes which gave birth to the book, determined its scene and its general character. The former was laid in a foreign country; and the latter embraced a crude effort to describe foreign manners. When this tale was published, it became matter of reproach among the author’s friends, that he, an American in heart as in birth, should give to the world a work which aided perhaps, in some slight degree, to feed the imaginations of the young and unpractised among his own countrymen, by pictures drawn from a state of society so different from that to which he belonged. The writer, while he knew how much of what he had done was purely accidental, felt the reproach to be one that, in a measure, was just. As the only atonement in his power, he determined to inflict a second book, whose subject should admit of no cavil, not only on the world, but on himself. He chose patriotism for his theme; and to those who read this introduction and the book itself, it is scarcely necessary to add, that he took the hero of the anecdote just related as the best illustration of his subject.

  Since the original publication of “The Spy,” there have appeared several accounts of different persons who are supposed to have been in the author’s mind while writing the book. As Mr. —— did not mention the name of his agent, the writer never knew any more of his identity with this or that individual, than has been here explained. Both Washington and Sir Henry Clinton had an unusual number of secret emissaries; in a war that partook so much of a domestic character, and in which the contending parties were people of the same blood and language, it could scarcely be otherwise.

  The style of the book has been revised by the author in this edition. In this respect, he has endeavored to make it more worthy of the favor with which it has been received; though he is compelled to admit there are faults so interwoven with the structure of the tale that, as in the case of a decayed edifice, it would cost perhaps less to reconstruct than to repair. Five-and-twenty years have been as ages with most things connected with America. Among other advances, that of her literature has not been the least. So little was expected from the publication of an original work of this description, at the time it was written, that the first volume of “The Spy” was actually printed several months, before the author felt a sufficient inducement to write a line of the second. The efforts expended on a hopeless task are rarely worthy of him who makes them, however low it may be necessary to rate the standard of his general merit.

  One other anecdote connected with the history of this book, may give the reader some idea of the hopes of an American author, in the first quarter of the present century. As the second volume was slowly printing, from manuscript that was barely dry when it went into the compositor’s hands, the publisher intimated that the work might grow to a length that would consume the profits. To set his mind at rest, the last chapter was actually written, printed and paged, several weeks before the chapters which precede it were even thought of. This circumstance, while it cannot excuse, may serve to explain the manner in which the actors are hurried off the scene.

  A great change has come over the country since this book was originally written. The nation is passing from the gristle into the bone, and the common mind is beginning to keep even pace with the growth of the body politic. The march from Vera Cruz to Mexico was made under the orders of that gallant soldier who, a quarter of a century before, was mentioned with honor, in the last chapter of this very book. Glorious as was that march, and brilliant as were its results in a military point of view, a stride was then made by the nation, in a moral sense, that has hastened it by an age, in its progress toward real independence and high political influence. The guns that filled the valley of the Aztecs with their thunder, have been heard in echoes on the other side of the Atlantic, producing equally hope or apprehension.

  There is now no enemy to fear, but the one that resides within. By accustoming ourselves to regard even the people as erring beings, and by using the restraints that wisdom has adduced from experience, there is much reason to hope that the same Providence which has so well aided us in our infancy, may continue to smile on our manhood.

  COOPERSTOWN, March 29, 1849.

  Chapter I

  “And though amidst the calm of thought entire,

  Some high and haughty features might betray

  A soul impetuous once—’twas earthly fire

  That fled composure’s intellectual ray,

  As Etna’s fires grow dim before the rising day.”

  Gertrude of Wyoming.

  * * *

  IT WAS NEAR the close of the year 1780, that a solitary traveller was seen pursuing his way through one of the numerous little valleys of West-Chester.* The easterly wind, with its chilling dampness and increasing violence, gave unerring notice of the approach of a storm, which as usual might be expected to continue for several days: and the experienced eye of the traveller was turned in vain, through the darkness of the evening, in quest of some convenient shelter, in which, for the term of his confinement by the rain that already began to mix with the atmosphere in a thick mist, he might obtain such accommodations as his purposes required. Nothing however, offered but the small and inconvenient tenements of the lower order of the inhabitants, with whom, in that immediate neighbourhood, he did not think it either safe or politic to trust himself.

  The county of West-Chester, after the British had obtained possession of the island of New-York,† became common ground, in which both parties continued to act for the remainder of the war of the revolution. A large proportion of its inhabitants, either restrained by their attachments, or influenced by their fears, affected a neutrality they did not feel. The lower towns were, of course, more particularly under the dominion of the crown, while the upper, finding a security from the vicinity of the continental troops, were bold in asserting their revolutionary opinions, and their right to govern themselves. Great numbers, however, wore masks, which even to this day have not been thrown aside; and many an individual has gone down to the tomb, stigmatized as a foe to the rights of his countrymen, while, in secret, he has been the useful agent of the leaders of the revolution; and, on the other hand, could the hidden repositories of divers flaming patriots have been opened to the light of day, royal protections would have been discovered, concealed under piles of British gold.

  At the sound of the tread of the noble horse ridden by the traveller, the mistress of the farm house he was passing at the time, might be seen cautiously opening the door of the building to examine the stranger; and, perhaps, with an averted face, communicating the result of her observations to her husband, who, in the rear of the building, was prepared to seek, if necessary, his ordinary place of concealment in the adjacent woods. The valley was situated about mid-way in the length of the cou
nty, and was sufficiently near to both armies to make the restitution of stolen goods no uncommon occurrence in that vicinity. It is true, the same articles were not always regained, but a summary substitute was generally resorted to, in the absence of legal justice, which restored to the loser the amount of his loss, and frequently with no inconsiderable addition for the temporary use of his property. In short, the law was momentarily extinct in that particular district, and justice was administered subject to the bias of personal interests and the passions of the strongest.

  The passage of a stranger, with an appearance of somewhat doubtful character, and mounted on an animal, which, although unfurnished with any of the ordinary trappings of war, partook largely of the bold and upright carriage that distinguished his rider, gave rise to many surmises among the gazing inmates of the different habitations; and, in some instances, where conscience was more than ordinarily awake, to no little alarm.

  Tired with the exercise of a day of unusual fatigue, and anxious to obtain a speedy shelter from the increasing violence of the storm, that now began to change its character to large drops of driving rain, the traveller determined, as a matter of necessity, to make an application for admission to the next dwelling that offered. An opportunity was not long wanting; and, riding through a pair of neglected bars, he knocked loudly at the outer door of a building, of a very humble exterior, without quitting his saddle. A female of middle age, with an outward bearing but little more prepossessing than that of her dwelling, appeared to answer the summons. The startled woman half closed her door again, in affright, as she saw, by the glare of a large wood fire, a mounted man so unexpectedly near its threshold; and an expression of terror, mingled with her natural curiosity, as she required his pleasure.

  Although the door was too nearly closed to admit of a mi­nute scrutiny of the accommodations within, enough had been seen to cause the horseman to endeavour, once more, to penetrate the gloom, with longing eyes, in search of a more promising roof, before, with an ill-concealed reluctance, he stated his necessities and wishes. His request was listened to with evident unwillingness, and while yet unfinished, it was eagerly interrupted by the reply.

  “I can’t say I like to give lodgings to a stranger in these ticklish times,” said the female in a pert sharp key; “I’m nothing but a forlorn lone body; or, what’s the same thing, there’s nobody but the old gentleman at home; but a half mile further up the road, is a house, where you can get entertainment, and that for nothing—I am sure ’twill be much convenienter to them, and more agreeabler to me; because, as I said before, Harvey is away—I wish he’d take advice, and leave off wandering; he’s well to do in the world, by this time; and he ought to leave off his uncertain courses, and settle himself, handsomely, in life, like other men of his years and property.—But Harvey Birch will have his own way, and die a vagabond after all!”

  The horseman did not wait to hear more than the advice to pursue his course up the road; but he had slowly turned his horse towards the bars, and was gathering the folds of an ample cloak around his manly form, preparatory to facing the storm again, when something in the speech of the female suddenly arrested the movement.

  “Is this, then, the dwelling of Harvey Birch?” he inquired, in an involuntary manner—apparently checking himself, as he was about to utter more.

  “Why, one can hardly say it is his dwelling,” replied the other, drawing a hurried breath, like one eager to answer; “he is never in it, or so seldom, that I hardly remember his face, when he does think it worth his while to show it to his poor old father and me. But it matters little to me, I’m sure, if he ever comes back again, or not—turn in the first gate on your left;—no, I care but little, for my part, whether Harvey ever shows his face again or not—not I;”—and she closed the door abruptly on the horseman, who gladly extended his ride a half mile further, to obtain lodgings, which promised both more comfort and greater security.

  Sufficient light yet remained to enable the traveller to distinguish the improvements‡ which had been made in the cultivation, and in the general appearance of the grounds around the building to which he was now approaching. The house was of stone, long, low, and with a small wing at each extremity. A piazza, extending along the front, with neatly turned pillars of wood, together with the good order and preservation of the fences and out buildings, gave the place an air altogether superior to the common farm houses of the country. After leading his horse behind an angle of the wall, where it was in some degree protected from the wind and rain, the traveller threw his valisse over his arm, and knocked loudly at the entrance of the building for admission. An aged black soon appeared; and, without seeming to think it necessary, under the circumstances, to consult his superiors—first taking one prying look at the applicant, by the light of the candle in his hand—he acceded to the request for accommodations. The traveller was shown into an extremely neat parlour, where a fire had been lighted, to cheer the dulness of an easterly storm, and an October evening. After giving the valisse into the keeping of his civil attendant, and politely repeating his request to the old gentleman who arose to receive him, and paying his compliments to the three ladies who were seated at work with their needles, the stranger commenced laying aside some of the outer garments which he had worn in his ride.

  On taking an extra handkerchief from his neck, and removing a cloak of blue cloth, with a surtout of the same material, he exhibited, to the scrutiny of the observant family party, a tall and extremely graceful person, of apparently fifty years of age—. His countenance evinced a settled composure and dignity; his nose was straight, and approaching to Grecian; his eye, of a gray colour, was quiet, thoughtful, and rather melancholy; the mouth and lower part of his face being expressive of decision and much character. His dress, being suited to the road, was simple and plain, but such as was worn by the higher class of his countrymen; he wore his own hair, dressed in a manner that gave a military air to his appearance, and which was rather heightened by his erect and conspicuously graceful carriage. His whole appearance was so impressive and so decidedly that of a gentleman, that as he finished laying aside the garments, the ladies arose from their seats, and, together with the master of the house, they received anew, and returned, the complimentary greetings which were again offered.

  The host was by several years the senior of the traveller, and by his manner, dress, and every thing around him, showed he had seen much of life and the best society. The ladies were—a maiden of forty, and two much younger, who did not seem, indeed, to have reached half those years. The bloom of the elder of these ladies had vanished, but her eyes and fine hair, gave an extremely agreeable expression to her countenance; and there was a softness and an affability in her deportment, that added a charm many more juvenile faces do not possess. The sisters—for such the resemblance between the younger females denoted them to be—were in all the pride of youth; and the roses, so eminently the property of the West-Chester fair, glowed on their cheeks, and lighted their deep blue eyes with that lustre which gives so much pleasure to the beholder, and which indicates so much internal innocence and peace. There was much of that feminine delicacy in the appearance of the three, which distinguishes the sex in this country; and, like the gentleman, their demeanor proved them to be women of the higher order of life.

  After handing a glass of excellent Madeira to his guest, Mr. Wharton, for so was the owner of this retired estate called, resumed his seat by the fire, with another in his own hand. For a moment he paused, as if debating with his politeness, but, at length, threw an inquiring glance on the stranger, as he inquired—

  “To whose health am I to have the honor of drinking?”

  The traveller had also seated himself, and he sat, unconsciously gazing on the fire, while Mr. Wharton spoke; turning his eyes slowly on his host, with a look of close observation, he replied, while a faint tinge gathered on his features—

  “Mr. Harper.”

  “Mr. Harper,”
resumed the other, with the formal precision of that day, “I have the honor to drink your health, and to hope you will sustain no injury from the rain to which you have been exposed.”

  Mr. Harper bowed in silence to the compliment, and he soon resumed the meditations from which he had been interrupted, and for which the long ride he had that day made, in the wind, might seem a very natural apology.

  The young ladies had again taken their seats beside the work-stand, while their aunt, Miss Jeanette Peyton, withdrew, to superintend the preparations necessary to appease the hunger of their unexpected visitor. A short silence prevailed, during which Mr. Harper was apparently enjoying the change in his situation, when Mr. Wharton again broke it, by inquiring whether smoke was disagreeable to his companion; to which receiving an answer in the negative, he immediately resumed the pipe which had been laid aside at the entrance of the traveller.

  There was an evident desire on the part of the host to enter into conversation, but either from an apprehension of treading on dangerous ground, or an unwillingness to intrude upon the rather studied taciturnity of his guest, he several times hesitated, before he could venture to make any further remark. At length, a movement from Mr. Harper, as he raised his eyes to the party in the room, encouraged him to proceed.

  “I find it very difficult,” said Mr. Wharton, cautiously avoiding, at first, such subjects as he wished to introduce, “to procure that quality of tobacco for my evenings’ amusement, to which I have been accustomed.”

  “I should think the shops in New-York might furnish the best in the country,” calmly rejoined the other.

  “Why—yes,” returned the host, in rather a hesitating manner, lifting his eyes to the face of Harper, and lowering them quickly, under his steady look, “there must be plenty in town, but the war has made any communications with the city, however innocent, too dangerous to be risked for so trifling an article as tobacco.”