James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “GEO: WASHINGTON.”

  It was the SPY OF THE NEUTRAL GROUND, who died as he had lived, devoted to his country, and a martyr to her liberties.

  LIONEL LINCOLN;

  or, The Leaguer of Boston

  “First let me talk with this Philosopher.”

  Lear

  To William Jay,

  Of Bedford, West-Chester,

  ESQUIRE.

  MY DEAR JAY,

  An unbroken intimacy of four-and-twenty years may

  justify the present use of your name. A man of

  readier wit than myself, might, on such a subject,

  find an opportunity of saying something clever,

  concerning the exalted services of your father. No

  weak testimony of mine, however, can add to a fame

  that belongs already to posterity—And one like

  myself, who has so long known the merits, and has so

  often experienced the friendship of the son, can find

  even better reasons for offering these Legends to

  your notice.

  Very truly and constantly,

  Yours,

  THE AUTHOR.

  Preface

  [1825]

  * * *

  THE MANNER in which the author became possessed of the private incidents, the characters, and the descriptions, contained in these tales, will, most probably, ever remain a secret between himself and his publisher. That the leading events are true, he presumes it is unnecessary to assert; for should inherent testimony, to prove that important point, be wanting, he is conscious that no anonymous declaration can establish its credibility.

  But while he shrinks from directly yielding his authorities, the author has no hesitation in furnishing all the negative testimony in his power.

  In the first place, then, he solemnly declares, that no unknown man, nor woman, has ever died in his vicinity, of whose effects he has become the possessor, by either fair means or foul. No dark-looking stranger, of a morbid temperament, and of inflexible silence, has ever transmitted to him a single page of illegible manuscript. Nor has any landlord furnished him with materials to be worked up into a book, in order that the profits might go to discharge the arrearages of a certain consumptive lodger, who made his exit so unceremoniously as to leave the last item in his account, his funeral charges.

  He is indebted to no garrulous tale-teller for beguiling the long winter evenings; in ghosts he has no faith; he never had a vision in his life; and he sleeps too soundly to dream.

  He is constrained to add, that in no “puff,” “squib,” “notice,” “article,” nor “review,” whether, in daily, weekly, monthly, or quarterly publication, has he been able to find a single hint that his humble powers could improve. No one regrets this fatality more than himself; for these writers generally bring such a weight of imagination to their several tasks, that, properly improved, might secure the immortality of any book, by rendering it unintelligible.

  He boldly asserts that he has derived no information from any of the learned societies—and without fear of contradiction; for why should one so obscure be the exclusive object of their favours!

  Notwithstanding he occasionally is seen in that erudite and abstemious association, the “Bread-and-Cheese Lunch,” where he is elbowed by lawyers, doctors, jurists, poets, painters, editors, congressmen, and authors of every shade and qualification, whether metaphysical, scientific, or imaginative, he avers, that he esteems the lore which is there culled, as far too sacred to be used in any work less dignified than actual history.

  Of the colleges it is necessary to speak with reverence; though truth possesses claims even superior to gratitude. He shall dispose of them by simply saying, that they are entirely innocent of all his blunders; the little they bestowed having long since been forgotten.

  He has stolen no images from the deep, natural poetry of Bryant; no pungency from the wit of Halleck; no felicity of expression from the richness of Percival; no satire from the caustic pen of Paulding; no periods, nor humour from Irving; nor any high finish from the attainments exhibited by Verplanck.

  At the “soirées” and “coteries des bas bleus” he did think he had obtained a prize, in the dandies of literature, who haunt them. But experiment and analysis detected his error; as they proved these worthies unfit for any better purpose than that which their own instinct had already dictated.

  He has made no impious attempt to rob Joe Miller of his jokes; the sentimentalists of their pathos; nor the newspaper Homers of their lofty inspirations.

  His presumption has not even imagined the vivacity of the eastern states; he has not analyzed the homogeneous character of the middle; and he has left the south in the undisturbed possession of all their saturnine wit.

  In short—he has pilfered from no black-letter book, nor any six-penny pamphlet; his grandmother unnaturally refused her assistance to his labors; and, to speak affirmatively, for once, he wishes to live in peace, and hopes to die in the fear of God.

  Preface to Lionel Lincoln

  [1825]

  * * *

  IN THIS TALE there are one or two slight anachronisms; which, if unnoticed, might, with literal readers, draw some unpleasant imputations on its veracity.—They relate rather to persons than to things. As they are believed to be quite in character, connected with circumstances much more probable than facts, and to possess all the harmony of poetic colouring, the author is utterly unable to discover the reason why they are not true.

  He leaves the knotty point to the instinctive sagacity of the critics.

  The matter of this “Legend” may be pretty equally divided into that which is publicly, and that which is privately certain. For the authorities of the latter, the author refers to the foregoing preface; but he cannot dispose of the sources whence he has derived the former, with so little ceremony.

  The good people of Boston are aware of the creditable appearance they make in the early annals of the confederation, and they neglect no commendable means to perpetuate the glories of their ancestors. In consequence, the inquiry after historical facts, is answered, there, by an exhibition of local publications, that no other town in the union can equal. Of these means the author has endeavoured to avail himself; collating with care, and selecting, as he trusts, with some of that knowledge of men and things which is necessary to present a faithful picture.

  Wherever he may have failed, he has done it honestly.

  He will not take leave of the ‘cradle of liberty,’ without expressing his thanks for the facilities which have been so freely accorded to his undertaking. If he has not been visited by aerial beings, and those fair visions that poets best love to create, he is certain he will not be misconceived when he says, that he has been honoured by the notice of some resembling those, who first inspired their fancies.

  Preface

  [1832]

  * * *

  PERHAPS THERE IS no other country, whose history is so little adapted to poetical illustration as that of the United States of America. The art of printing has been in general use since the earliest settlement, and the policy of both the Provinces and the States has been to encourage the dissemination of accurate knowledge. There is consequently neither a dark, nor even an obscure, period in the American annals: all is not only known, but so well and generally known, that nothing is left for the imagination to embellish. It is true that the world has fallen into its usual errors on the subject of individual character; taking those parts which are the most conspicuous and the best understood, as guides in establishing a harmony that it almost always insists on; while he who thoroughly understands human nature is not to learn that the most opposite qualities are frequently the inhabitants of the same breast. But it is the part of the poet to humour these mistakes; for there is no blunder more sure to be visited by punishment, than that which tempts a writer to inst
ruct his readers when they wish only to be amused. The author has had these truths forced upon him by experience, and in no instance more obviously than in the difficulties he encountered in writing this his only historical tale, and in its reception by the world. That he has not disregarded the opinion of the latter, is proved by his having discontinued attempts of whose uselessness he has been so clearly, though so delicately, admonished.

  When a writer of fiction is permitted to violate the order of time, and to select customs and events from different ages, as his legitimate means, he has no right to throw the blame of his failure on any thing but his own incompetency; but when circumstances are opposed to his success, he may be permitted to say, in his own justification, more especially when he admits his error by recantation, that his principal mistake was in attempting to do that which was not to be done well at all.

  Notwithstanding the unequivocal admission, that Lionel Lincoln is not what its author hoped it would have been, when he commenced his task, he still thinks it is not without some claim to the reader’s attention. The battles of Lexington and Bunker’s Hill, and the movement on Prospect Hill, are believed to be as faithfully described as is possible to have been done by one who was not an eye-witness of those important events. No pains were spared in examining all the documents, both English and American; and many private authorities were consulted, with a strong desire to ascertain the truth. The ground was visited and examined, and the differing testimony was subjected to a close comparison between the statements and the probability. Even a journal of the state of the weather was procured, and its entries were rigidly respected; so that he who feels sufficient interest in these details may rest assured that he will obtain facts on all these particulars, by reading this book. It may serve as an admonition to reviewers to mention, that Lionel Lincoln, on its appearance, was attacked for a supposed indifference, on the part of its author, to the laws of nature, because he introduced a moon so often! The critic, in his zeal to reprove, overlooked the material fact, that the time advanced from month to month, and he is now informed that the above-mentioned diary of the weather lay before the writer the whole time he was engaged on the work!

  Writers of imaginative books are not always understood, even by those who assume the ability as well as the right to dissect the workings of their minds. A liberal, and certainly a favourable, criticism of this book, considering its demerits, contained a remark, that the conception and delineation of the characters of the idiot and the madman must have given great trouble to its author. It may be well, therefore, to add, that both Job Pray and Ralph were drawn from life, and with as rigid an adherence even to language, as the course of the narrative would allow.

  Lionel Lincoln, like most of the works of the same author, was originally printed from an uncopied manuscript, subject to all the imperfections of keeping the pen and press at work pari passu. In this edition, many of the faults inseparable from so ill-advised a course have been corrected, and it is hoped some of the offences against good taste have been expunged.

  Paris, September, 1832.

  Chapter I

  “My weary soul they seem to soothe,

  And, redolent of joy and youth,

  To breathe a second spring.”

  Gray.

  * * *

  NO AMERICAN can be ignorant of the principal events that induced the parliament of Great Britain, in 1774, to lay those impolitic restrictions on the port of Boston, which so effectually destroyed the trade of the chief town in her western colonies. Nor should it be unknown to any American, how nobly, and with what devotedness to the great principles of the controversy, the inhabitants of the adjacent town of Salem refused to profit by the situation of their neighbours and fellow-subjects. In consequence of these impolitic measures of the English government, and of the laudable unanimity among the capitalists of the times, it became a rare sight to see the canvass of any other vessels than such as wore the pennants of the king, whitening the forsaken waters of Massachusetts bay.

  Towards the decline of a day in April, 1775, however, the eyes of hundreds had been fastened on a distant sail, which was seen rising from the bosom of the waves, making her way along the forbidden track, and steering directly for the mouth of the proscribed haven. With that deep solicitude in passing events which marked the period, a large group of spectators was collected on Beacon-Hill, spreading from its conical summit, far down the eastern declivity, all gazing intently on the object of common interest. In so large an assemblage, however, there were those excited by very different feelings, and who were indulging in wishes directly opposite to each other. While the decent, grave, but wary citizen was endeavouring to conceal the bitterness which soured his mind, under the appearance of a cold indifference, a few gay young men, bearing about their persons the trappings of their martial profession, who mingled in the throng, were loud in their exultations, and hearty in their congratulations on the prospect of hearing from their distant homes and absent friends. But the long, loud rolls of the drums, ascending from the adjacent common, called these idle spectators from the spot, when the hill was left to the quiet possession of those who claimed the strongest right to its enjoyment. It was not, however, a period for open and unreserved communications. Long before the mists of evening succeeded the shadows thrown from the setting sun, the hill was entirely deserted; the remainder of the spectators having descended from the eminence, and held their several courses, singly, silent, and thoughtful, towards the rows of dusky roofs that covered the lowland, along the eastern side of the peninsula. Notwithstanding this appearance of apathy, rumour, which, in times of great excitement, ever finds means to convey its whisperings, when it dare not proclaim its information, was busy in circulating the unwelcome intelligence, that the stranger was the first of a fleet, bringing stores and reinforcements to an army already too numerous, and too confident of its power, to respect the law. No tumult or noise succeeded this unpleasant annunciation, but the doors of the houses were sullenly closed, and the windows darkened, as if the people intended to express their dissatisfaction by these silent testimonials of disgust.

  In the mean time the ship had gained the rocky entrance to the harbour, where, deserted by the breeze, and met by an adverse tide, she lay inactive, as if conscious of the unwelcome reception she must receive. The fears of the inhabitants of Boston had, however, exaggerated the danger; for the vessel, instead of exhibiting the throng of licentious soldiery which would have crowded a transport, was but thinly peopled, and her orderly decks were cleared of every incumbrance that could interfere with the comfort of those she did contain. There was an appearance, in the arrangements of her external accommodations, which would have indicated to an observant eye, that she carried those who claimed the rank, or possessed the means, of making others contribute largely to their comforts. The few seamen who navigated the ship, lay extended on different portions of the vessel, watching the lazy sails as they flapped against the masts, or indolently bending their looks on the placid waters of the bay; while several menials, in livery, crowded around a young man who was putting eager questions to the pilot, that had just boarded the vessel off the Graves. It was evident, by the laboured elegance and the air of the principal speaker, that he was one of those who acquire their civilisation at second hand. From the place where this inquisitive party stood, nigh the main-mast, a wide sweep of the quarter-deck was untenanted; but nearer to the spot where the listless seaman hung idly over the tiller of the ship, stood a being of altogether different mould and fashion. He was a man who would have seemed in the very extremity of age, had not his quick, vigorous steps, and the glowing, rapid glances from his eyes, as he occasionally paced the deck, appeared to deny the usual indications of years. His form was bowed, and attenuated nearly to emaciation. His hair, which fluttered a little wildly around his temples, was thin, and silvered to the whiteness of at least eighty winters. Deep furrows, like the lines of great age and long endured cares united, wrinkled
his hollow cheeks, and rendered the bold outline of prominent features still more remarkable. He was clad in a simple and somewhat tarnished suit of modest gray, which bore about it the ill-concealed marks of long and neglected use. Whenever he turned his piercing look from the shores, he moved swiftly along the deserted quarter deck, and seemed entirely engrossed with his own thoughts, his lips moving rapidly, though no sounds were heard to issue from a mouth that was habitually silent. He was under the influence of one of those sudden impulses in which the body, apparently, sympathized so keenly with the restless activity of the mind, when another young man ascended from the cabin, and took his stand among the gazers at the land, on the upper deck. The age of this gentleman might have been five and twenty. He wore a military cloak, thrown carelessly across his form, which, in addition to such parts of his dress as were visible through its open folds, sufficiently announced his profession was that of arms. There was an air of ease and high fashion about his person, though his countenance, at times, seemed melancholy. On gaining the deck, this young officer, encountering the eyes of the aged and restless being who trod its planks, bowed courteously before he turned away to the view, and in his turn became deeply absorbed in studying its fading beauties.

  The heights of Dorchester were radiant with the rays of the luminary that had just sunk behind their crest, and streaks of paler light were playing along the waters, and gilding the green summits of the islands which clustered across the mouth of the estuary. Far in the distance were to be seen the tall spires of the churches, rising out of the shadows of the town, with their vanes glittering in the sun-beams, while a few rays of light were dancing about the black beacon, which reared itself high above the conical peak that took its name from the circumstance of supporting this instrument of alarms. Several large vessels were anchored among the islands and before the town, their dark hulls, at each moment, becoming less distinct through the haze of evening, while the summits of their long lines of masts were yet glowing with the marks of day. From each of these sullen ships, from the low fortification which rose above a small island deep in the bay, and from various elevations in the town itself, the broad folds of the flag of England were yet waving. The young man was suddenly aroused from gazing at this scene, by the quick reports of the evening guns, and while his eyes were tracing the descent of the proud symbols of the British power, from their respective places of display, he felt his arm convulsively pressed by the hand of his aged fellow-passenger.