novelist. Cooper was born in Burlington, New Jersey, the son of a wealthy
father, who settled on the shores of Lake Otsego in New York. After
attending Yale College for three years, Cooper entered the United States
navy as a common sailor. He was promoted after some time to the rank of
midshipman and eventually to that of lieutenant. On his marriage in 1811 he
left the service, and soon began his career as an author. His first novel,
"Precaution," was not promising. In "The Spy," which appeared in 1821, he
gave the first indications of his peculiar originality. It made Cooper's
reputation as an American author. The knowledge that Cooper had acquired in
his father's estate on the borders of the wilderness and later on the sea
was turned to account in his many tales of Indian life and sea stories,
which took his contemporaries by storm. Most famous among them are:
"Deerslayer," "The Last of the Mohicans," "Pathfinder," "Pioneers,"
"Prairie," and the sea tales "The Pilot" and "Red Rover." His strictures on
American customs in "Homeward Bound" and "Home as Found" brought upon him
much newspaper abuse. About the time of Cooper's death, Francis Parkman
published his "Conspiracy of Pontiac," Longfellow his "Golden Legend,"
while Nathaniel Hawthorne brought out "The House of the Seven Gables."

[Sidenote: Tennyson, poet laureate]

In England, Alfred Tennyson had been selected as the worthiest successor of
William Wordsworth in the office of Poet Laureate. He showed his
appreciation of the honor by his famous dedication to Queen Victoria in
"The Keepsake."

Revered, beloved--O you that hold
A nobler office upon earth
Than arms, or power of brain, or birth
Could give the warrior kings of old,

Victoria--since your Royal grace
To one of less desert allows
This laurel greener from the brows
Of him that utter'd nothing base:

And should your greatness, and the care
That yokes with empire, yield you time
To make demand of modern rhyme
If aught of ancient worth be there;

Then--while a sweeter music wakes,
And thro' wild March the throstle calls,
Where all about your palace walls
The sunlit almond-blossom shakes--

Take, Madam, this poor book of song;
For tho' the faults were thick as dust
In vacant chambers, I could trust
Your kindness. May you rule us long,

And leave us rulers of your blood
As noble till the latest day!
May children of our childr