eat man, but a good
man." Balzac held it to be "_un beau livre_" and thought Cooper owed his
high place in modern literature to painting of the sea and seamen, and
idealizing the magnificent landscapes of America. It was of Cooper and
his works that Balzac wrote: "With what amazing power has he painted
nature! How all his pages glow with creative fire!"

[Illustration: J.W. TRUMBULL.]

Concerning Cooper's innate love for his home-country scenery, Dr.
Francis gives this incident: "It was a gratifying spectacle to see
Cooper with old Colonel Trumbull, the historical painter, discanting on
Cole's pencil in delineating American forest-scenery--a theme richest in
the world for Cooper. The venerable Colonel with his patrician
dignity, and Cooper with his aristocratic bearing, yet democratic
sentiment. Trumbull was one of the many old men I knew who delighted in
Cooper's writings, and in conversation dwelt upon his captivating
genius."

[Illustration: JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.]

Personally, Mr. Cooper was a noble type of our race. He was of massive,
compact form, a face of strong intelligence and glowing with masculine
beauty, in his prime. His portraits, though imposing, by no means do
justice to the impressive and vivacious presence of the man. This pen
picture is by one who knew the author well.

[Illustration: CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS.]

[Illustration: COLUMBUS' FLEET.]

On July 8, of this year, Cooper was made a member of the Georgia
Historical Society, and the following autumn "Mercedes of Castile" came
from his pen. It relates the first voyage of Columbus, and "with
special knowledge of a seaman, the accuracy of an historian, and with
something of the fervor of a poet."

Gleaning Miss Cooper's "Pages and Pictures," one reads, as to "The
Deerslayer": "One pleasant summer evening the author of 'The
Pathfinder,' driving along the shady lake shore, was, as usual, singing;
not, however, a burst of Burns's 'Scots wha ha' wi' Wallace bled!' or
Moore's 'Love's Young Dream,'--his favorites,--but this time a political
song of the party opposing his own. Suddenly he paused as a woods'
opening revealed to his spirited gray eye an inspiring view of Otsego's
poetical waters." When the spell was broken he turned to his beloved
daughter and exclaimed: "I must write one more book, dearie, about our
little lake!" Another far-seeing look was taken, to people this
beautiful scene with the creatures of his fancy, followed by a moment of