The Cavalcade of America presented by DuPont. This evening DuPont presents episodes in the life of America's first great novelist, James Fenimore Cooper. In the ranks of the Cavalcade of America march many sturdy pioneers in all fields of endeavor, exploration, business, commerce, statecraft, art and science. Possibly no other nation over the same span of years can point to so many splendid achievements of her sons and daughters. Among these pioneers are also the research chemists to whom we owe many of the comforts and conveniences we enjoy today. Their contributions are aptly summed up in the DuPont pledge, better things for better living through chemistry. As an overture Don Voorhees and his DuPont Cavalcade Orchestra join two unrelated subjects, James Fenimore Cooper's Indian Legend and St. Patrick's Day by playing an excerpt from Natoma, the American Indian Opera by the great Irish American composer Victor Herbert. James Fenimore Cooper was born in 1789. During his youth, which was passed in western New York, then a wilderness, he showed no aptitude for books or writing. After two years at Yale, at the age of 19, he secured a commission as midshipman in the United States Navy. In 1811 he resigned, married Susan Delancey of Westchester, and settled down to the domestic life of a country gentleman. One evening in 1820 in his Westchester home near Mamaroneck, we find Cooper reading aloud to his wife from an English novel which has just been received in America. I beg your forgiveness, my fair Lady Beaver. The manly form of Lord Edmund knelt by the side of the beautiful but proud heiress of Rosewood Manor. His dark eyes besought hers. James throwing a book on the floor. Just trash. In our eight years of marriage I've never seen you display such temper. The book seems to me as entertaining as any of Mrs. Opie's other novels. Attaining, Sue? Why, I could write a better book myself. Oh, James. I mean it. You write a book? Why, you who admit being the worst penman in America. James, you told me the principal reason you agreed to live here in Westchester was so you'd be spared the need of writing to me when I came home to visit my parents. Well, there's some truth in that, my dear Sue. But I still maintain I could write a better book than this trash from England. James Cooper. All right, I challenge you to do it. Why, I had not meant that I'd actually said about the writing of a book, Sue. Then you shouldn't make empty bows. Well, there'd be no harm in trying. The most difficult part of writing a novel must be to start it. Well then, I accept your challenge. For your private amusement, Susan, I'll write one novel. But no one must ever know. James Spenimore Cooper would never have completed that first novel if his wife had not continued to challenge him. And solely to please her, he printed a few hundred copies at his own expense. In the tradition of the early 19th century, it was a story of English high society. And it appeared without the author's name. One evening a few weeks after the book is printed, Cooper and his wife dine at the Westchester home of their intimate friend, Judge John Jay. In the drawing room after dinner, Cooper is startled to hear one of the guests, Miss McDonald, discussing his book. Have you read the new novel called Precaution, Mr. Jay? Yes, Miss McDonald, I have. Interesting book. Interesting enough. But I am indignant with the booksellers. Say that American gentlemen wrote it. I can say it emphatically. It was written by an English woman. Why do you suppose the booksellers state that an American wrote it, Miss McDonald? Oh, I can't answer that, Mr. Jay. But I'm sure it's a fraudulent statement. That book was undoubtedly written by the English novelist, Mrs. Opie. One of her poorer books, of course. One of her poorer books, Miss McDonald. Why, I thought it a better novel than any Mrs. Opie ever wrote. Well, each of us to a taste. Gracious, is that nine o'clock? My coach must be at the door. It has been a delightful evening, Mr. Jay. And it has been a pleasure, Mrs. Cooper, to see you and Mr. Cooper again. Thank you and good night, Miss McDonald. Oh, Mr. Cooper, when you have read this new book, Precaution, please let me know if you do not agree that Mrs. Opie wrote it. I'll read it with interest, Miss McDonald, and let you know my opinion. Good night. Good night. I shall escort you to your carriage, Miss McDonald. Be back in just a moment, Mrs. Cooper. Well. James, please don't be distressed. Before Mr. Jay gets back, I want to tell you, it really is a compliment, Miss McDonald, thinking Mrs. Opie wrote your book. One of Mrs. Opie's poorer novels, she said. And I set out to do a better one. I think it's an admirable book, James. No other Westchester gentleman could have done as well. But don't you see what I've done? I've imitated those atrocious novels of Mrs. Opie with her English society and lords and ladies. I've never been in London, yet I tried to write about it. But all English novels are about society, people. Not these new Waverly novels, Sue. Oh, but you couldn't write books like those, James. You've never been to Scotland, either. No. The only country I know is America. Westchester. Cooperstown. Lake Otsego. Yes, and no one ever writes about America. It's too rough, too crude, too new. But there's nothing in America to interest readers. I wonder. Sue, dearest, I'm ashamed of myself. I wrote Precaution because of a night of boast, and I failed. I'm so angry with myself, I'm going to have to write one more book. And this time I'll write about something I really know. Challenged by failure, James Fenimore Cooper now challenged himself to write a book. At last it was completed, and in the hands of his bookseller and publisher friend, Charles Wiley, Cooper has made the long trip from Westchester to New York City to visit Wiley and to hear the verdict on his second book entitled The Spy. He greets Wiley hopefully. Well, Wiley, have you read it? Cooper, you've been my friend for several years. I wish there were a gentle way of telling you what I must tell you today. Wiley, you mean you don't like the book? This is the strangest book I've read in all my years as a bookseller and publisher. I'm sorry, but it's not worth wasting paper to print and bind it. You found no merit in the book whatsoever. Well, can't you yourself see the faults of the book? You're an intelligent man, Cooper. Surely you must know no book like this has ever been written. A book whose setting is the American wilderness. Is it your honest judgment that no American would read a book about his own country? Well, it's the judgment of any sane man, Cooper. Americans want to read of life and manners in polished European circles. I know too much about Indians and rough frontiersmen already. I'm afraid you're right, Wiley. My wife's enthusiasm led me to be too hopeful of the book. And to think, I'd come here today intending to offer you the copyright at a small price. Well, I'm sorry, Cooper, but I don't dare gamble on it. I understand, Wiley. I appreciate your frankness. It's a funny thing. After I completed two chapters, I would have burned them. My wife begged me to finish the book. And now she tells me it's her dream to see it printed. I think to please her, I'll print it myself. ["The Star-Spangled Banner"] Charles Wiley lived to regret his refusal to buy the copyright of The Spy. Despite the fact that books were distributed slowly in those days of stagecoaches and packetboats, scarcely a year had passed before The Spy had been declared a remarkable piece of fiction. James Fenimore Cooper was hailed in this country and even in London as America's first novelist. Encouraged this time by success, Cooper wrote one more novel, The Pioneer, and still another, The Pilot. But his most famous book was yet to be written. In the year 1825, James Cooper is at home recovering slowly from a serious illness. One afternoon, his devoted wife Sue hurries to his bedside as he calls in a feeble voice, Sue dear. Yes, Jane. Please bring me a paper and pen. Oh, but Jane, you're not strong enough to hold a pen. And the doctor said that- Don't bother the doctor. There's something I must set on paper this minute. There, there, Jane. Now please don't excite yourself, dear. Your favorite pen is here, right on this table. And I have Martha bring the paper. Martha? Yes, Miss Susan? Will you please bring some sheets of paper at once to Mr. Cooper? They're on the desk in the drawing room. Yes, Miss Susan. I'll fetch them directly. Glens Falls. The cave on the rocky island. A perfect hiding place for Indians. The ideal setting. Yes, dear. I remember you told me about your trip to Glens Falls last summer. It must have been a beautiful sight. Uncas. The last of his tribe, the Mohegans. That's it. The last of the Mohegans. Susan, where is that paper? I'll fetch me the paper you write for Mr. Cooper. Here, dear. And the pen? It's here, Jane, dear. Oh, please, you must not sit up, dear. You're not strong enough. I can help pull Mr. Cooper up into bed. Oh, that seems to break him too, I can't do it. I can't hold a pen. I have an idea, Jane. You tell me what it is you want to say and I'll write it. I write a fairly legible hand. Well, how more legible than mine. Are you ready to write, Sue? Just a moment, dear. There, I'm ready. The breach of Hawkeye's rifle fell on the naked head of his adversary, whose muscles... But we're not quite so fast, are we? ...whose muscles appeared to wither under the shock. Yes. When Uncas had brained his first antagonist, he turned like a hungry lion to seek another. Suddenly, darting at each other, the two combatants closed and came to the earth. Twisting together like... like twining serpents implying in subtle poles. Almost. Covered as they were with dust and blood, the swift evolution of the two men seemed to incorporate their bodies into one. Oh, Lord. The fiery eyes of Magwa were seen glittering like the fabled organs of the basilisk. Jane, dear, are you sure you're strong enough to do this today? Yes, Martha, Cooper, pull me out of here. Just a second, Jane. I need another sheet of paper. Martha, yes. Then for the doctor at once. The word that Cooper's telling me to write sounds like a nightmare. I'm afraid he's delirious again. Oh, man. He sure is waving, Miss Sue. Well, I'd go on like we Latin for that doctor. Susan. Yes? Where are you going? I'm not finished. I must get this one scene on paper. I'm right here, dear. What... what was the last thing I gave you? Wait. The fiery eyes of Magwa were seen glittering like the fabled organs of the basilisk. Yes, yes. The Mohegan now found an opportunity to make a powerful thrust for this night. Magwa suddenly fell backward without a motion. Victory to the Mohegan, cried Hawkeye, elevating the foot of his long and fatal right hand. And in this manner was born the book which was to assure James Fennimore Cooper's immortality, the last of the Mohegans. Let us turn the pages and recall some of its stirring scenes. Its hero, the noble Indian Uncas, soon ranked in popularity here in the broad with Sir Walter Scott's Ivanhoe. The setting of this dramatic narrative of frontier and Indian life is the wilderness of northern New York State. Now as our scene opens, Uncas with ear to the ground warns his friend, the white hunter Hawkeye, that men are approaching. Your ears are coppered mine, Uncas. I hear nothing. The horses of white men are close to us. It is true. The leader comes in sight. The two young ladies riding close behind. Fools to venture into these woods infested as they are of Hurons. Who comes? Two young ladies and an English officer who journeyed since the rising sun and are sadly weary. Whoa, whoa. You're lost then? We're here, sir. Oh boy. Then. I'm Major Hayward. These two young ladies are the daughters of Colonel Monroe, commanding officer of the English fort called William Henry. Know you're the distance to the fort? Yeah, then you are lost if you seek William Henry. Oh, I've said it much. We trusted a friendly Indian guide, but he seems to have lost his way. An Indian lost in the woods? Not possible. What tribe is he? The tribe called Hurons. Hurons. Do you hear that, Uncas? They're a thievish tribe. Where is your guide? I ordered him to ride behind because I suspected he was leading us in the wrong direction. Magwa. Magwa. William is gone, Duncan. He slipped away in the woods at the very moment. I told you, the Hurons are a lion, treacherous bunch of armuts. And these woods are full of them, all in the war pants. If we don't leave this spot at once and cover our tracks with Indian cunning, our scalps will be drying in that wind before this hour tomorrow. Oh, Duncan, are we truly in such danger? You have no fear, Alex. I'm sure these kind friends will guide us part of the way to the fort. We must reach it before nightfall. Before nightfall? Look at the sky. Darkness will soon be on us. Then heaven help us. Hawkeye. We take pale face, officer, and squawse to cave. Conkers, have you taken leave of your senses? The island cave is our only hiding place, a secret known only to us. It would be fatal to take such a large party there. The Hurons are precious to Red Lake. These young ladies are in my care. Their father awaits them anxiously. He and I will be glad to reward you with gold. Plenty of gold when we reach the fort. Conkers does not want gold. Conkers will not leave pale face squawse to tomahawks of Hurons. We take them to cave, Hawkeye. As Hawkeye fears, the winning of the girls' horses betrays the secret hiding place on the island of Glens Falls. But thanks to the skill of Uncus and Hawkeye and the last of their powder, the Hurons are repulsed temporarily. Uncus, who has been scouting, returns to the cave where Hawkeye, the English travelers, and Uncus' father Chingagook are waiting. You return from the river and return to the cave. Yes, sir. I'm going to go to the cave. I'll be back in a minute. I'll be back in a minute. I'll be back in a minute. I'll be back in a minute. I'll be back in a minute. I'll be back in a minute. I'll be back in a minute. I'll be back in a minute. You return from the river empty-handed, Uncus. Bad news, Hawkeye. Can you float away? One of them rascally Hurons guided it. They were lost. You mean that the Hurons discovered your canoe and sent it to drift? Their end has come. But Tagamore, my father, has spoken. A sorry end for a man who's passed 30 years in the forest, to be taken without being able to fire a shot in self-defense. Is it really true? Are we surrounded by hostile Indians? Only too true, Miss Alice. Is there nothing that we can do? The end has come. Oh, how grateful. He, the old chief of the father, has laid down his knife on Tomahawk. He's preparing for death. Oh, I swore to Colonel Monroe I'd escort his daughter safely to the fort. Oh, Hawkeye, surely there's hope yet. We may prevent the Hurons landing on the island. Prevent their landing? With what? The arrows of Uncut or the tears of the women. Tinglegoo, my brother, and Uncut, my boy, we fought our last battle together. Oh, no. Why prepare for death? The path is open on every side. Go, brave men. You're remaining only to protect my sister and me. You know but little of the craft of the Huron, Miss Cora, if you believe the vomits have left the path open to the woods. In a downstream current, it is true, I assume, sweepers beyond the reach of their rifles. Then try the river. Why linger to add to the number of their victims? Go to my father at the fort and bring gunpowder and men to our rescue. There's reason in her words. Tinglegoo conquers. Hear you the words of the Dark-eyed woman? Her word, good. Tinglegoo, go river. Bring warriors. It is good. You see, the Older Chief is going. Oh, won't you all go, please? You can't help us here. Cora's right, Hawkeye. Why don't you go too? I shall remain here with the young ladies. That's enough. Wisdom is sometime given to the young and the women as well as men. I'll join the Mohican chief. Swim down the river and try to bring a rescue party. Goodbye, and God go with you. We're grateful for all you've done, Hawkeye. Farewell. Had our powder held out, this disgrace could never have befallen. Goodbye, and God willing, we shall meet again in this or another world. But Uncas is still here. Uncas, go quickly before it is too late. Your father has not been seen. He's safe. It's time for you to follow. Uncas will stay, oh dark-haired one. Uncas, I beg you. Go to my father at the fort. My father and Hawkeye go to the fort. Uncas will stay. But hear me, Uncas. You are younger, three to a foot, than your father or Hawkeye. My sister and I will feel more hopeful if we know that you're on your way to the fort. Uncas will go. If Yolans carry you away, great tweaks, then Bushes make trail, and Uncas will follow. I'm sure of it, Uncas. Go now quickly, and our gratitude and our prayers will go with you. The Three Whites Within a few hours, the treacherous Huron Magwa and a band of savages capture the Three Whites and force them to ride many miles through the forest. Now in the encampment, Alice, Cora, and Duncan Hayward, closely guarded by several warriors, listen anxiously as some distance away the wily Magwa makes an impassioned speech to the Indians. Uncle Duncan, what is Magwa saying? It is easy to guess. He's settling our fate. I can read our fortunes in their faces. There's no hope. And I am to blame. If only I hadn't trusted that scoundrel Magwa to guide us. You could not go, Duncan. Until this moment, I believed Uncas would find our trail. Uncas and Hawkeye are many miles away. They swam down the river toward the fort, and Magwa led us in the opposite direction. Uncas begged us to mark our trail. I did try to break one of the hanging branches, but Magwa was watching me. Oh, it wouldn't have mattered, Cora. See, the scoundrel Magwa is approaching. The savages are starting their war down. It's too late to expect Uncas now. Oh, Duncan! Stand back, Alice. I don't intend that any of us will be bound without a struggle. Light-haired, poor weep. She is young to die, but you're unlike pale-haired girls. Don't you dare touch her, you bar-bearin'. You scum! My dear, my dearest! Cora, I can't watch them! Tell me they're being gone, Cora! Alice, you love him, don't you? With all my heart, Cora, I should not conface him. Were we not so close to death, he'd love you too. You may go to your grave and show him that. They bound him to that tree. Oh, he's still alive! Thank heaven! But Magwa's coming this way again. Cora, I wish I was as brave as you are. I'm frightened. Let us pray to God it will be over quickly. Alice, did you hear that? A crow! You mean the sound with which Uncas signaled Hawkeye lost most yet. Listen! Go! Go! I hear it! I hear it! We can only hope Alice can pray. Meanwhile, let us face these barbarians with unconcern. Let us show them that white women as well as white men know how to die. I'll try to be brave, Cora. Ah, light-haired Scalfandock will soon hang in Magwa's wigwam. Ah! Don't touch me! Don't touch me! Kill me quickly! I beg you! Light-haired Scalfandock want to die. Magwa, kill him! Alice, they're coming! They're coming! Uncas, take them to the tree! Come on! Exterminate the violets! No quarter to the front yard! Cora! Cansons! Is the white hat the reaction? We're saved! Oh, I pretend to hold Cartaid one. Uncas, oh, I knew you'd come. Our prayers have been answered. Thus, in James Benamor Cooper's famous novel, The Last of the Mohicans, the noble and romantic Indian hero Uncas, who dies at length in a final valiant attempt to save Cora, became part of the life and language of almost every American and European of the 19th century. As the first great American novelist, and the first novelist to believe that the American scene merited perpetuation in fiction, James Benamor Cooper is accorded a high place of honor among the illustrious men and women enrolled in the cavalcade of America. On Sunday, March 21st, winter is officially over, despite snow underfoot in many sections of the country. The Easter season is just about here, and America will soon be stepping out in its new spring wardrobe. Shop windows from coast to coast are bright with new things. Spring fashion shows are attracting audiences in many communities, and one of the most unusual fashion shows I ever heard about is going to be held next week from Tuesday, March 23rd, through Saturday, March 27th, in the DuPont exhibit on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Why a fashion show in the DuPont exhibit, you may ask. The answer is that this show depicts how chemistry walks hand in hand with fashion in the modern Easter parade, even creating new styles in many cases. For instance, DuPont chemists developed yarns from which new and better fabrics have been woven for women's gowns. They have found ways to treat these and other fabrics so they are water repellent and crush resistant. In work with dyes, chemists develop new colors that brighten up a hat, a dress, gloves, or any other part of the spring costume. The smartest washable handbags are made of coated fabrics and plastics. Many a dainty feminine shoe is colored by special leather dyes to match costumes. And the scuffless heels that add so much to the looks and life of feminine foot gear are developments of chemistry. So is much of the costume jewelry and decorative buttons, buckles, and other embellishments made of DuPont plastics. And there are hats made partly or entirely of colorful cellophane cellulose film. These and a great many other chemical products that play their part in the creation of new and interesting fashions were unknown to you and me a few years ago. They were in the research and experimental stage then. Today we take them for granted as part of our equipment for more enjoyable living. In style shows and Easter parades and throughout the years, the results of DuPont chemical research are represented by new products and improved products, as practical as they are smart and gay. So you see even in this field as in so many others, research chemistry is doing its part to bring us, as DuPont expresses it, better things for better living through chemistry. The House of Glass, incidents in the romantic and colorful life of Henry William Stegall, first American manufacturer of glass, will be the subject of the broadcast when next week at the same time, DuPont again presents the Cavalcade of America. This is the Columbia Broadcasting System. Music
