wn Centennial celebration was remarkable for its great
success in calm defiance of the fact that the year of its observance was
not really the centennial of anything worth commemorating in the history
of the village. The psychological moment seemed to have arrived when the
people of the village were resolved to devote themselves to some high
effort in praise of Cooperstown, and so they gloriously celebrated, in
1907, the centennial which a former generation had neglected, and which
succeeding generations might indolently ignore. A disused act of village
incorporation passed in 1807 was seized upon as suggesting a convenient
antiquity, but there was no slavish conformity to mere accidents of
date, and the whole history of Cooperstown was included in this elastic
centenary. The entire community was united in the desire and effort to
make the celebration a success, and the sticklers for historical
propriety became quite as enthusiastic as the others. The commemoration
was planned and carried out on a really dignified scale, with an
avoidance of tawdriness; and the elements of the celebration, with
religious, historical, literary exercises, and pageantry, were well
proportioned in their appeal to the mind, to the romantic emotions, and
to the love of the spectacular. Some of the addresses such as that of
Brander Matthews on Fenimore Cooper, were valuable contributions to the
literary annals of America. Throngs of spectators were attracted to
Cooperstown by the celebration, and in one day there were at least
15,000 people in the village which included only about 2,500 in its
normal population. The old village and lake offered an effective
background to the scenes of carnival. Natty Bumppo at home in his log
cabin, Chingachgook with his canoe, appeared in living representation in
the line of floats that paraded the village to set forth the historic
and romantic memories of the place. A chorus of village schoolgirls
dressed in white, and with flowing hair, presented an exquisite scene
at Cooper's grave in Christ churchyard, bringing their tribute of
flowers, and singing the lyric written by Andrew B. Saxton to the music
of Andrew Allez. Otsego Lake offered a superb spectacle in the calm
summer night, reflecting the glare of rockets and the bursting into
bloom of aerial gardens of flame. There were moments of utter darkness
suddenly dispelled by dazzling cataracts of fire that made one aware of
thousands of pallid faces thronging