Fenimore Cooper's Literary Offenses
by Mark Twain
"The Pathfinder" and "The Deerslayer" stand at the
head of Cooper's novels as artistic creations. There are others of
his works which contain parts as perfect as are to be found in these,
and scenes even more thrilling. Not one can be compared with either of
them as a finished whole. The defects in both of these tales are
comparatively slight. They were pure works of art.
The five tales reveal an extraordinary fullness of invention. ...
One of the very greatest characters in fiction, Natty Bumppo... The
craft of the woodsman, the tricks of the trapper, all the delicate art
of the forest were familiar to Cooper from his youth up.
Cooper is the greatest artist in the domain of romantic fiction in
It seems to me that it was far from right for the Professor of
English Literature at Yale, the Professor of English Literature in
Columbia, and Wilkie Collins to deliver opinions on Cooper's
literature without having read some of it. It would have been much
more decorous to keep silent and let persons talk who have read
Cooper's art has some defects. In one place in "Deerslayer," and
in the restricted space of two-thirds of a page, Cooper has scored
114 offenses against literary art out of a possible 115. It breaks
There are nineteen rules governing literary art in domain of
romantic fiction — some say twenty-two. In "Deerslayer," Cooper
violated eighteen of them. These eighteen require:
1. That a tale shall accomplish something and arrive
somewhere. But the "Deerslayer" tale accomplishes nothing and
arrives in air.
2. They require that the episodes in a tale shall be necessary
parts of the tale, and shall help to develop it. But as the
"Deerslayer" tale is not a tale, and accomplishes nothing and arrives
nowhere, the episodes have no rightful place in the work, since there
was nothing for them to develop.
3. They require that the personages in a tale shall be alive,
except in the case of corpses, and that always the reader shall be
able to tell the corpses from the others. But this detail has often
been overlooked in the "Deerslayer" tale.
4. They require that the personages in a tale, both dead and
alive, shall exhibit a sufficient excuse for being there. But this
detail also has been overlooked in the "Deerslayer" tale.
5. The require that when the personages of a tale deal in
conversation, the talk shall sound like human talk, and be talk such
as human beings would be likely to talk in the given circumstances,
and have a discoverable meaning, also a discoverable purpose, and a
show of relevancy, and remain in the neighborhood of the subject at
hand, and be interesting to the reader, and help out the tale, and
stop when the people cannot think of anything more to say. But this
requirement has been ignored from the beginning of the "Deerslayer"
tale to the end of it.
6. They require that when the author describes the character of a
personage in the tale, the conduct and conversation of that personage
shall justify said description. But this law gets little or no
attention in the "Deerslayer" tale, as Natty Bumppo's case will amply
7. They require that when a personage talks like an illustrated,
gilt-edged, tree-calf, hand-tooled, seven- dollar Friendship's
Offering in the beginning of a paragraph, he shall not talk like a
negro minstrel in the end of it. But this rule is flung down and
danced upon in the "Deerslayer" tale.
8. They require that crass stupidities shall not be played upon
the reader as "the craft of the woodsman, the delicate art of the
forest," by either the author or the people in the tale. But this
rule is persistently violated in the "Deerslayer" tale.
9. They require that the personages of a tale shall confine
themselves to possibilities and let miracles alone; or, if they
venture a miracle, the author must so plausibly set it forth as to
make it look possible and reasonable. But these rules are not
respected in the "Deerslayer" tale.
10. They require that the author shall make the reader feel a deep
interest in the personages of his tale and in their fate; and that he
shall make the reader love the good people in the tale and hate the
bad ones. But the reader of the "Deerslayer" tale dislikes the good
people in it, is indifferent to the others, and wishes they would all
get drowned together.
11. They require that the characters in a tale shall be so clearly
defined that the reader can tell beforehand what each will do in a
given emergency. But in the "Deerslayer" tale, this rule is vacated.
In addition to these large rules, there are some little ones.
These require that the author shall:
12. Say what he is proposing to say, not merely
come near it.
13. Use the right word, not its second cousin.
14. Eschew surplusage.
15. Not omit necessary details.
16. Avoid slovenliness of form.
17. Use good grammar.
18. Employ a simple and straightforward style.
Even these seven are coldly and persistently violated in the
Cooper's gift in the way of invention was not a rich endowment; but
such as it was he liked to work it, he was pleased with the effects,
and indeed he did some quite sweet things with it. In his little box
of stage-properties he kept six or eight cunning devices, tricks,
artifices for his savages and woodsmen to deceive and circumvent each
other with, and he was never so happy as when he was working these
innocent things and seeing them go. A favorite one was to make a
moccasined person tread in the tracks of a moccasined enemy, and thus
hide his own trail. Cooper wore out barrels and barrels of moccasins
in working that trick. Another stage-property that he pulled out of
his box pretty frequently was the broken twig. He prized his broken
twig above all the rest of his effects, and worked it the hardest. It
is a restful chapter in any book of his when somebody doesn't step on
a dry twig and alarm all the reds and whites for two hundred yards
around. Every time a Cooper person is in peril, and absolute silence
is worth four dollars a minute, he is sure to step on a dry twig.
There may be a hundred other handier things to step on, but that
wouldn't satisfy Cooper. Cooper requires him to turn out and find a
dry twig; and if he can't do it, go and borrow one. In fact, the
Leatherstocking Series ought to have been called the Broken Twig
I am sorry that there is not room to put in a few dozen instances
of the delicate art of the forest, as practiced by Natty Bumppo and
some of the other Cooperian experts. Perhaps we may venture two or
three samples. Cooper was a sailor — a naval officer; yet he
gravely tells us how a vessel, driving toward a lee shore in a gale,
is steered for a particular spot by her skipper because he knows of an
undertow there which will hold her back against the gale and save
her. For just pure woodcraft, or sailorcraft, or whatever it is,
isn't that neat? For several years, Cooper was daily in the society
of artillery, and he ought to have noticed that when a cannon-ball
strikes the ground it either buries itself or skips a hundred feet or
so; skips again a hundred feet or so — and so on, till finally it
gets tired and rolls. Now in one place he loses some "females" — as
he always calls women — in the edge of a wood near a plain at night
in a fog, on purpose to give Bumppo a chance to show off the delicate
art of the forest before the reader. These mislaid people are hunting
for a fort. They hear a cannon-blast, and a cannon-ball presently
comes rolling into the wood and stops at their feet. To the females
this suggests nothing. The case is very different with the admirable
Bumppo. I wish I may never know peace again if he doesn't strike out
promptly and follow the track of that cannon-ball across the
plain in the dense fog and find the fort. Isn't it a daisy? If
Cooper had any real knowledge of Nature's ways of doing things, he had
a most delicate art in concealing the fact. For instance: one of his
acute Indian experts, Chingachgook (pronounced Chicago, I think), has
lost the trail of a person he is tracking through the forest.
Apparently that trail is hopelessly lost. Neither you nor I could
ever have guessed the way to find it. It was very different with
Chicago. Chicago was not stumped for long. He turned a running
stream out of its course, and there, in the slush in its old bed,
were that person's moccasin tracks. The current did not wash them
away, as it would have done in all other like cases — no, even the
eternal laws of Nature have to vacate when Cooper wants to put up a
delicate job of woodcraft on the reader.
We must be a little wary when Brander Matthews tells us that
Cooper's books "reveal an extraordinary fullness of invention." As a
rule, I am quite willing to accept Brander Matthews's literary
judgments and applaud his lucid and graceful phrasing of them; but
that particular statement needs to be taken with a few tons of salt.
Bless you heart, Cooper hadn't any more invention than a horse; and
don't mean a high-class horse, either; I mean a clothes- horse. It
would be very difficult to find a really clever "situation" in
Cooper's books, and still more difficult to find one of any kind which
has failed to render absurd by his handling of it. Look at the
episodes of "the caves"; and at the celebrated scuffle between Maqua
and those others on the table-land a few days later; and at Hurry
Harry's queer water-transit from the castle to the ark; and at
Deerslayer's half-hour with his first corpse; and at the quarrel
between Hurry Harry and Deerslayer later; and at — but choose for
yourself; you can't go amiss.
If Cooper had been an observer his inventive faculty would have
worked better; not more interestingly, but more rationally, more
plausibly. Cooper's proudest creations in the way of "situations"
suffer noticeably from the absence of the observer's protecting gift.
Cooper's eye was splendidly inaccurate. Cooper seldom saw anything
correctly. He saw nearly all things as through a glass eye, darkly.
Of course a man who cannot see the commonest little every-day matters
accurately is working at a disadvantage when he is constructing a
"situation." In the "Deerslayer" tale Cooper has a stream which is
fifty feet wide where it flows out of a lake; it presently narrows to
twenty as it meanders along for no given reason, and yet when a stream
acts like that it ought to be required to explain itself. Fourteen
pages later the width of the brook's outlet from the lake has suddenly
shrunk thirty feet, and become "the narrowest part of the stream."
This shrinkage is not accounted for. The stream has bends in it, a
sure indication that it has alluvial banks and cuts them; yet these
bends are only thirty and fifty feet long. If Cooper had been a nice
and punctilious observer he would have noticed that the bends were
often nine hundred feet long than short of it.
Cooper made the exit of that stream fifty feet wide, in the first
place, for no particular reason; in the second place, he narrowed it
to less than twenty to accommodate some Indians. He bends a "sapling"
to form an arch over this narrow passage, and conceals six Indians in
its foliage. They are "laying" for a settler's scow or ark which is
coming up the stream on its way to the lake; it is being hauled
against the stiff current by rope whose stationary end is anchored in
the lake; its rate of progress cannot be more than a mile an hour.
Cooper describes the ark, but pretty obscurely. In the matter of
dimensions "it was little more than a modern canal boat." Let us
guess, then, that it was about one hundred and forty feet long. It
was of "greater breadth than common." Let us guess then that it was
about sixteen feet wide. This leviathon had been prowling down bends
which were but a third as long as itself, and scraping between banks
where it only had two feet of space to spare on each side. We cannot
too much admire this miracle. A low- roofed dwelling occupies
"two-thirds of the ark's length" — a dwelling ninety feet long and
sixteen feet wide, let us say — a kind of vestibule train. The
dwelling has two rooms — each forty- five feet long and sixteen feet
wide, let us guess. One of them is the bedroom of the Hutter girls,
Judith and Hetty; the other is the parlor in the daytime, at night it
is papa's bedchamber. The ark is arriving at the stream's exit now,
whose width has been reduced to less than twenty feet to accommodate
the Indians — say to eighteen. There is a foot to spare on each side
of the boat. Did the Indians notice that there was going to be a
tight squeeze there? Did they notice that they could make money by
climbing down out of that arched sapling and just stepping aboard when
the ark scraped by? No, other Indians would have noticed these
things, but Cooper's Indian's never notice anything. Cooper thinks
they are marvelous creatures for noticing, but he was almost always in
error about his Indians. There was seldom a sane one among them.
The ark is one hundred and forty-feet long; the dwelling is ninety
feet long. The idea of the Indians is to drop softly and secretly
from the arched sapling to the dwelling as the ark creeps along under
it at the rate of a mile an hour,and butcher the family. It will take
the ark a minute and a half to pass under. It will take the
ninety-foot dwelling a minute to pass under. Now, then, what did the
six Indians do? It would take you thirty years to guess, and even
then you would have to give it up, I believe. Therefore, I will tell
you what the Indians did. Their chief, a person of quite
extraordinary intellect for a Cooper Indian, warily watched the
canal-boat as it squeezed along under him and when he had got his
calculations fined down to exactly the right shade, as he judge, he
let go and dropped. And missed the boat! That is actually
what he did. He missed the house, and landed int he stern of the
scow. It was not much of a fall, yet it knocked him silly. He lay
there unconscious. If the house had been ninety-seven feet long he
would have made the trip. The error lay in the construction of the
house. Cooper was no architect.
There still remained in the roost five Indians. The boat has
passed under and is now out of their reach. Let me explain what the
five did — you would not be able to reason it out for yourself. No.
1 jumped for the boat, but fell in the water astern of it. Then No. 2
jumped for the boat, but fell in the water still further astern of it.
Then No. 3 jumped for the boat, and fell a good way astern of it.
Then No. 4 jumped for the boat, and fell in the water away
astern. Then even No. 5 made a jump for the boat — for he was
Cooper Indian. In that matter of intellect, the difference between a
Cooper Indian and the Indian that stands in front of the cigar-shop is
not spacious. The scow episode is really a sublime burst of
invention; but it does not thrill, because the inaccuracy of details
throw a sort of air of fictitiousness and general improbability over
it. This comes of Cooper's inadequacy as observer.
The reader will find some examples of Cooper's high talent for
inaccurate observation in the account of the shooting-match in "The
A common wrought nail was driven lightly into the
target, its head having been first touched with paint.
The color of the paint is not stated — an
important omission, but Cooper deals freely in important omissions.
No, after all, it was not an important omission; for this nail-head
is a hundred yards from the marksmen, and could not be seen at
that distance, no matter what its color might be. How far can the
best eyes see a common housefly? A hundred yards? It is quite
impossible. Very well; eyes that cannot see a house-fly that is a
hundred yards away cannot see an ordinary nail-head at that distance,
for the size of the two objects is the same. It takes a keen eye to
see a fly or a nail-head at fifty yards — one hundred and fifty-feet.
Can the reader do it?
The nail was lightly driven, its head painted, and game called.
Then the Cooper miracles began. The bullet of the first marksman
chipped an edge of the nail-head; the next man's bullet drove the
nail a little way into the target — and removed all the paint.
Haven't the miracles gone far enough now? Not to suit Cooper; for
the purpose of this whole scheme is to show off his prodigy,
before the ladies.
"Be all ready to clench it, boys!" cried out
Pathfinder, stepping into his friend's tracks the instant they were
vacant. "Never mind a new nail; I can see that, though the paint is
gone, and what I can see I can hit at a hundred yards, though it were
only a mosquito's eye. Be ready to clench!"
There, you see, is a man who could hunt flies with a
rifle, and command a ducal salary in a Wild West show to-day if we had
him back with us.
The rifle cracked, the bullet sped its way, and the head of the
nail was buried in the wood, covered by the piece of flattened lead.
The recorded feat is certainly surprising just as it stands; but it
is not surprising enough for Cooper. Cooper adds a touch. He has
made Pathfinder do this miracle with another man's rife; and not only
that, but Pathfinder did not have even the advantage of loading it
himself. He had everything against him, and yet he made that
impossible shot; and not only made it, but did it with absolute
confidence, saying, "Be ready to clench." Now a person like that
would have undertaken that same feat with a brickbat, and with Cooper
to help he would have achieved it, too.
Pathfinder showed off handsomely that day before the ladies. His
very first feat a thing which no Wild West show can touch. He was
standing with the group of marksmen, observing — a hundred yards
from the target, mind; one Jasper rasper raised his rifle and drove
the center of the bull's-eye. Then the Quartermaster fired. The
target exhibited no result this time. There was a laugh. "It's a
dead miss," said Major Lundie. Pathfinder waited an impressive
moment or two; then said, in that calm, indifferent, know-it-all way
of his, "No, Major, he has covered Jasper's bullet, as will be seen if
any one will take the trouble to examine the target."
Wasn't it remarkable! How could he see that little pellet
fly through the air and enter that distant bullet-hole? Yet that is
what he did; for nothing is impossible to a Cooper person. Did any
of those people have any deep-seated doubts about this thing? No;
for that would imply sanity, and these were all Cooper people.
The respect for Pathfinder's skill and for his
quickness and accuracy of sight [the italics are mine] was so
profound and general, that the instant he made this declaration the
spectators began to distrust their own opinions, and a dozen rushed to
the target in order to ascertain the fact. There, sure enough, it was
found that the Quartermaster's bullet had gone through the hole made
by Jasper's, and that, too, so accurately as to require a minute
examination to be certain of the circumstance, which, however, was
soon clearly established by discovering one bullet over the other in
the stump against which the target was placed.
They made a "minute" examination; but never mind,
how could they know that there were two bullets in that hole without
digging the latest one out? for neither probe nor eyesight could prove
the presence of any more than one bullet. Did they dig? No; as we
shall see. It is the Pathfinder's turn now; he steps out before the
ladies, takes aim, and fires.
But, alas! here is a disappointment; in incredible, an unimaginable
disappointment — for the target's aspect is unchanged; there is
nothing there but that same old bullet hole!
"If one dared to hint at such a thing," cried Major
Duncan, "I should say that the Pathfinder has also missed the target."
As nobody had missed it yet, the "also" was not
necessary; but never mind about that, for the Pathfinder is going to
"No, no, Major," said he, confidently, "that would
be a risky declaration. I didn't load the piece, and can't say what
was in it; but if it was lead, you will find the bullet driving down
those of the Quartermaster and Jasper, else is not my name Pathfinder."
Is the miracle sufficient as it stands? Not for
Cooper. The Pathfinder speaks again, as he "now slowly advances
toward the stage occupied by the females":
A shout from the target announced the truth of this assertion.
"That's not all, boys, that's not all; if you find
the target touched at all, I'll own to a miss. The Quartermaster cut
the wood, but you'll find no wood cut by that last messenger."
The miracle is at last complete. He knew —
doubtless saw — at the distance of a hundred yards — this his
bullet had passed into the hole without fraying the edges.
There were now three bullets in that one hole — three bullets
embedded processionally in the body of the stump back of the target.
Everybody knew this — somehow or other — and yet nobody had dug
any of them out to make sure. Cooper is not a close observer, but he
is interesting. He is certainly always that, no matter what happens.
And he is more interesting when he is not noticing what he is about
than when he is. This is a considerable merit.
The conversations in the Cooper books have a curious sound in our
modern ears. To believe that such talk really ever came out of
people's mouths would be to believe that there was a time when time
was of no value to a person who thought he had something to say; when
it was the custom to spread a two-minute remark out to ten; when a
man's mouth was a rolling-mill, and busied itself all day long in
turning four-foot pigs of thought into thirty-foot bars of
conversational railroad iron by attenuation; when subjects were
seldom faithfully stuck to, but the talk wandered all around and
arrived nowhere; when conversations consisted mainly of
irrelevancies, with here and there a relevancy, a relevancy with an
embarrassed look, as not being able to explain how it got there.
Cooper was certainly not a master in the construction of dialogue.
Inaccurate observation defeated him here as it defeated him in so
many other enterprises of his life. He even failed to notice that
the man who talks corrupt English six days in the week must and will
talk it on seventh, and can't help himself. In the "Deerslayer"
story, he lets Deerslayer talk the showiest kind of book-talk
sometimes, and at other times the basest of base dialects. For
instance, when some one asks him if he has a sweetheart, and if so,
where she abides, this is his majestic answer:
"She's in the forest — hanging from the boughs of
the trees, in a soft rain — in the dew on the open grass — the
clouds that float about in the blue heavens — the birds that sing in
the woods — the sweet springs where I slake my thirst — and in all
the other glorious gifts that come from God's Providence!"
And he preceded that, a little before, with this:
"It consarns me as all things that touches a friend
consarns a friend."
And this is another of his remarks:
"If I was Injin born, now, I might tell of this, or
carry in the scalp and boast of the expl'ite afore the whole tribe;
of if my inimy had only been a bear" — [and so on]
We cannot imagine such a thing as a veteran Scotch
Commander-in- Chief comporting himself like a windy melodramatic
actor, but Cooper could. On one occasion, Alice and Cora were being
chased by the French through a fog in the neighborhood of their
"Point de quartier aux coquins!" cried an
eager pursuer, who seemed to direct the operations of the enemy.
Cooper's word-sense was singularly dull. When a
person has a poor ear for music he will flat and sharp right along
without knowing it. He keeps near the tune, but is not the
tune. When a person has a poor ear for words, the result is a
literary flatting and sharping; you perceive what he is intending to
say, but you also perceive that he does not say it. This is
Cooper. He was not a word-musician. His ear was satisfied with the
approximate words. I will furnish some circumstantial evidence in
support of this charge. My instances are gathered from half a dozen
pages of the tale called "Deerslayer." He uses "Verbal" for "oral";
"precision" for "facility"; "phenomena" for "marvels"; "necessary" for
"predetermined"; "unsophisticated" for "primitive"; "preparation" for
"expectancy"; "rebuked" for "subdued"; "dependent on" for "resulting
from"; "fact" for "condition"; "fact" for "conjecture"; "precaution"
for "caution"; "explain" for "determine"; "mortified" for
"disappointed"; "meretricious" for "factitious"; "materially" for
"considerably"; "decreasing" for "deepening"; "increasing" for
"disappearing"; "embedded" for "inclosed"; "treacherous" for
"hostile"; "stood" for "stooped"; "softened" for "replaced";
"rejoined" for "remarked"; "situation" for "condition"; "different"
for "differing"; "insensible" for "unsentient"; "brevity" for
"celerity"; "distrusted" for "suspicious"; "mental imbecility" for
"imbecility"; "eyes" for "sight"; "counteracting" for "opposing";
"funeral obsequies" for "obsequies."
"Stand firm and be ready, my gallant 60ths!" suddenly exclaimed a
voice above them; "wait to see the enemy, fire low, and sweep the
"Father! father" exclaimed a piercing cry from out the mist. "It
is I! Alice! thy own Elsie! spare, O! save your daughters!"
"Hold!" shouted the former speaker, in the awful tones of
parental agony, the sound reaching even to the woods, and rolling back
in a solemn echo. "'Tis she! God has restored me my children! Throw
open the sally- port; to the field, 60ths, to the field! pull not a
trigger, lest ye kill my lambs! Drive off these dogs of France with
There have been daring people in the world who claimed that Cooper
could write English, but they are all dead now — all dead but
Lounsbury. I don't remember that Lounsbury makes the claim in so
many words, still he makes it, for he says that "Deerslayer" is a
"pure work of art." Pure, in that connection, means faultless —
faultless in all details — and language is a detail. If Mr.
Lounsbury had only compared Cooper's English with the English he
writes himself — but it is plain that he didn't; and so it is likely
that he imagines until this day that Cooper's is as clean and compact
as his own. Now I feel sure, deep down in my heart, that Cooper wrote
about the poorest English that exists in our language, and that the
English of "Deerslayer" is the very worst that even Cooper ever wrote.
I may be mistaken, but it does seem to me that "Deerslayer" is not
a work of art in any sense; it does seem to me that it is destitute
of every detail that goes to the making of a work of art; in truth,
it seems to me that "Deerslayer" is just simply a literary
A work of art? It has no invention; it has no order, system,
sequence, or result; it has no lifelikeness, no thrill, no stir, no
seeming of reality; its characters are confusedly drawn, and by their
acts and words they prove that they are not the sort of people the
author claims that they are; its humor is pathetic; its pathos is
funny; its conversations are — oh! indescribable; its love-scenes
odious; its English a crime against the language.
Counting these out, what is left is Art. I think we must all admit