s gradually on till it
strikes the icy barriers of the deep at the south pole. The spread of
Cooper's reputation is not confined within narrower limits. The _Spy_ is
read in all the written dialects of Europe, and in some of those of Asia.
The French, immediately after its first appearance, gave it to the
multitudes who read their far-diffused language, and placed it among the
first works of its class. It was rendered into Castilian, and passed into
the hands of those who dwell under the beams of the Southern Cross. At
length it passed the eastern frontier of Europe, and the latest record I
have seen of its progress towards absolute universality, is contained in a
statement of the _International Magazine_, derived, I presume, from its
author, that in 1847 it was published in a Persian translation at Ispahan.
Before this time, I doubt not, they are reading it in some of the
languages of Hindostan, and, if the Chinese ever translated anything, it
would be in the hands of the many millions who inhabit the far Cathay.

I have spoken of the hesitation which American critics felt in admitting
the merits of the _Spy_, on account of crudities in the plot or the
composition, some of which, no doubt, really existed. An exception must be
made in favor of the _Port Folio_, which, in a notice written by Mrs.
Sarah Hall, mother of the editor of that periodical, and author of
_Conversations on the Bible_, gave the work a cordial welcome; and Cooper,
as I am informed, never forgot this act of timely and ready kindness.

It was perhaps favorable to the immediate success of the _Spy_, that
Cooper had few American authors to divide with him the public attention.
That crowd of clever men and women who now write for the magazines, who
send out volumes of essays, sketches, and poems, and who supply the press
with novels, biographies, and historical works, were then, for the most
part, either stammering their lessons in the schools, or yet unborn. Yet
it is worthy of note, that just about the time that the _Spy_ made its
appearance, the dawn of what we now call our literature was just breaking.
The concluding number of Dana's _Idle Man_, a work neglected at first, but
now numbered among the best things of the kind in our language, was issued
in the same month. The _Sketch Book_ was then just completed; the world
was admiring it, and its author was meditating _Bracebridge Hall_. Miss
Sedgwick, about the same time, made her first essay in that c