"The legend is purely fiction," reads the preface of one
of the Leatherstocking tales, "no authority existing for any
of its facts, characters, or other peculiarities, beyond that
which was thought necessary to secure the semblance of reality."
It is difficult to say that the author would have agreed with
the statement between the years 1823-1841, the tales' seedtime. But
what Cooper does in his tale, The Pathfinder, is give a brilliant
image of the first rude settlements in North America, referring to
the story as our legend. If he did invent, it was in terms
of what he actually had learned during a visit to a region of the
country.
The underlying motive of his novel, from beginning to end,
was to move and capture the reader by what he once identified
as a "stoicism which (Pathfinder) imbibed from long association
with the Indians." This is a naturally compact dependent clause
for a concept of philosophical submission, and Cooper's observation
of its existence cunningly changed many times in the unfoldment
of his story,- mostly in the direction that would
awaken those who were practised in the ways of the world.
At the heart of the observation, nevertheless, the interpreter can
monotonously perceive the play of three observable realities:
position; time; and the quantities, such as energy and growth,
that are attributed to them.
The first of the plotting instruments, conspicuously a solitary
sign with Cooper and his characters is the bearing of position.
Once place, environment, is known, the sergeant tells another character,
'it will be something gained to learn our position.' Unless
you have it, the place will be too dark to reveal the color of
nature's pristine appearance. Like the woodsman's, the reader's
patience is a virtue as he changes position. Few writers have traced
so diligently the trails found in the American forest while
managing to evade the mentality that believed so convincingly that
sharks inhabited the wilderness. Few, antithetically, have been
skillful enoug