In the first decades of this century, American movements for social reform included a programme, somewhat belated perhaps, for cultural renewal. Disaffected from their society, lamenting a split between the nation's commercial-industrial genius, so visibly institutionalized, and its creative cultural talent, so individual and so isolated, analysts like Van Wyck Brooks undertook to search for what he entitled “ a usable past.” The phrase implied, however, that much or even most of that past, as commonly understood, was unusable: a witness to the split, or, in relation to the literary culture itself, a congeries of intellectual and artistic activity passive in the presence of social change, oblivious to its realities, merely acquiescent in relation to the institutions of a developing modern industrial society. Culture in America, Brooks and his allies felt, had no institutions. Without them the seeds of genius would not germinate, for there was no nurturing process, no method of transmission.

When “ progressive ” literary intellectuals sifted the past for its neglected, potentially alternative, tradition, they rightly did not think to look back to any earlier American dramatist for inspiration, much less to a “ usable ” dramatic tradition. Yet when the whole Progressive attempt to reformulate the social and cultural basis of American life faltered and foundered in the years of the First World War, a modest theatrical venture undertaken just as the wider movements suffered their first setbacks preserved something of Progressive social vision — focussed it, prompted it, and passed it on as a legacy to later artists and to the intellectual community, and to the public.

In early 1975 the world of Chicago politics was stunned by the news that former Cook County State's Attorney Benjamin S. Adamowski had endorsed Mayor Richard J. Daley for a sixth term of office. Adamowski and Daley had long been opponents and their rivalry had dominated Chicago politics from the mid-1950s through the mid-1960s. In 1960 it had even spilled over into the arena of presidential politics where it affected the closest and most controversial presidential election of the twentieth century.

It should no longer be necessary to speak with careful qualification of Ezra Pound's “ alleged ” fascism, or “ alleged ” anti-Semitism. The man who saw in Mussolini the greatest European leader since Napoleon (and believed that both were brought down by Jewish usurers), who in his wartime broadcasts praised Mein Kampf for its “ keen historical analysis ” and advised his hearers to read the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, who in those same broadcasts spoke of “ kikes, sheenies and oily people ” and referred to American “ Jewspapers,” who in his Cantos quotes approvingly a forged statement by Franklin warning Americans to keep out the Jews, who gave most of his energies during the last year and a half of the war to propagandizing for Mussolini's Salo Republic and was described by its officials as “ the collaborator Ezra Pound ” — that man can accurately be termed a fascist.

There is no comprehensive study of Federalist opposition to the War of 1812. The fragmentary studies that exist suggest a party divided between New England extremists on the one hand and moderates in the Middle and Southern States on the other. In this interpretative framework, Federalists to the south and west are invariably portrayed as “good” Federalists, that is, as patriots who consciously and decisively rejected New England's leadership in order to support the war or at least maintain a discreet neutrality. A closer examination of the subject, however, suggests that this view is largely false.

When Cotton Mather's Magnalia Christi Americana was finally published in London in 1702, the anxious historian set a day of thanksgiving to God, “ for His watchful and gracious Providence over that Work, and for the Harvest of so many Prayers, and Cares, and Tears, and Resignations.” From 1693 to 1697, Mather had labored over the seven books of his immense ecclesiastical history of New England. Readers of the Magnalia have often dismissed the work as unwieldy, pedantic, incomprehensible. As one anonymous critic complained in 1818, it is “ a chaotick mass of history, biography, obsolete creeds, witchcraft, and Indian wars, interspersed with bad puns, and numerous quotations in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, which rise up like so many decayed, hideous stumps to arrest the eye and deform the surface.”

Despite the difficulties presented by the Magnalia, however, American colonial historians have recognized Mather's history as the “ greatest effort in the century to organize the experience of this people.” Cotton Mather was one of the many second- and third-generation ministers who feared that the New England people were declining in piety and descending into moral corruption.

In his poem to the hesitating purchaser of Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson names Cooper among the great romancers he has emulated, describing him as “ Cooper of the wood and wave.” That phrase names both the aspect of Cooper's work which interests me, the adventure novels, and the major subdivision of that aspect. I am not, that is, going to discuss the non-fiction, and among the fiction I am not going to discuss the Effingham or the Littlepage novels, nor even the historical novels as such. I'm going to concentrate upon the Leatherstocking saga, seen as forest books, and upon sea fiction like Afloat and Ashore, The Pilot, and The Sea Lions. I want to point out differences between the two sub-genres in fictional art and fictional success, and to try to explain those differences in terms of social and political forces. But I also want to stress the unity of the two, which is to say Cooper's identity as an adventure novelist. Because we lack a critical vocabulary for that genre, critics have, it seems to me, failed to take proper account of one of the major forms and forces of our literature. And this is particularly unfortunate in American Studies, because adventure has been so large a part of American culture.

Early on a December morning in 1848, long before anyone else stirred, two slaves, a man and woman, made their bid for freedom from a plantation, just outside Macon, Georgia. She, almost white, was dressed as a slave master, he as her valet. In four days they were in Philadelphia; three weeks later they moved to the safer city of Boston where they remained until the passing of the infamous Fugitive Slave Bill in September 1850 forced them to flee to England. Nineteen years were spent under the “ mane of the British lion ” free from the “ claws of the American eagle.” Finally, after the Civil War they returned as farmers to their native Georgia. Their bold odyssey in 1848 brought them fame and renown. It was a story of love, determination and resilience, the virtues of frontier America, conquering all odds. No other escape, with the possible exception of Frederick Douglass' and Josiah Henson's, created such a stir in ante-bellum America as did the Crafts'.

“ Never in all past ages did a prospect so glorious rise to the view of any nation, as that which is disclosed to our own.” So wrote a reviewer in the years following the War of 1812, and he echoed the millennial feelings of his countrymen. Awash in a surge of post-war nationalism, and buffeted by the revivals of the Second Great Awakening, Americans struck out in search of themselves, their culture, and their future. Within a generation, the same reviewer proclaimed, “ fifty or sixty millions of men will have poured themselves over our country, carrying civilization and the arts to the extreme corner.”

This spirit energized people in all sections, and in the Northeast missionary activity grew to significant proportions. Numerous state missionary societies formed, and by 1812 a larger body — the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions (ABCFM) — had been organized to carry this spirit across the country and throughout the world. Board organizers had as their vision a world transformed, but one transformed along the lines of an idealized New England community. Religion would guide men's lives, and a spirit of morality would infuse the operations of government. They saw before them the dawning of a new age.

Robert Munford, the eighteenth-century Virginia squire and litterateur, has long served as both a symbol and subject of analysis for students of colonial American history and culture. In the nearly-barren ground of eighteenth-century American drama, Munford's plays, The Candidates and The Patriots, while never actually produced on stage during his lifetime, stand out as two of the most important attempts by a colonial American to use traditional dramatic techniques to illustrate distinctively American characters and themes. And for historians, these same two plays, which grew out of Munford's own experience in Virginia politics, have served as rich and evocative sources from which to reconstruct the operation and ethos of the political culture of revolutionary Virginia.

Sergei Eisenstein, the Russian film-maker, called An American Tragedy “ as broad and shoreless as the Hudson … as immense as life itself.” It allowed, he wrote, “ almost any point of view of itself.” This rare quality of multi-faceted massiveness has fathered a large number of critical studies, which all vary in their reading of the text and the significance they attribute to Dreiser's protagonist, Clyde Griffiths. For Irving Howe, Clyde represents “ the passivity, rootlessness and self-alienation of urban man,” while for F. O. Matthiessen, he is “ a victim of the contemporary American dream.” Richard Lehan views him deterministically as “ a young man … caught in and finally destroyed by the crush of conflicting forces,” while Ellen Moers generalizes him into “ the Everyman of desire.” These interpretations acknowledge Clyde's representative stature, but make only imprecise gestures towards its origins. The vagueness they suffer from has its root in an individualist emphasis upon the character and fate of the protagonist and a corresponding lack of specificity in describing the social framework with which that character interacts. Eisenstein regarded Clyde's crime as “ the sum total of those social relations, the influence of which he was subjected to at every stage of his unfolding biography and character.” An analysis of these “ social relations,” particularly as elaborated in the closely integrated themes of youth, class, and consumerism, is a prerequisite to a more exact identification of Clyde's social representativeness.

“ What is he? ” murmurs one gray shadow of my forefathers to the other. “ A writer of story-books ! What kind of business in life, what mode of glorifying God, or being serviceable to mankind in his day and generation, may that be? ” (Hawthorne, “ The Custom-House”

In 1865, when Americans asked, “ What shall be done about the freed Negro? ” few of them realized that the question was a fragment of a larger one, “ What shall be done to define and secure the rights of all Americans? ” For despite its regional variations, slavery had a more coherent legal identity than freedom. There were as many different standards of citizenship as there were state and local laws regulating the ownership of property, personal mobility, the criminal code, family relationships, and court procedures. Travel from one state to another could considerably alter a person's legal standing. Even in the one state there was no unitary concept of citizenship and many Americans knew a kind of freedom which would not serve the freed slave well as a model. Married women were severely restricted in their contractual capacity and hence in their freedom to earn a living or own and dispose of property. In some states they had few custodial rights over their children and in others none. They were limited in their access to judicial remedies by laws and customs which prevented them bringing suit in some instances, restricted their right to testify, prohibited their service on juries, and even “ protected ” them from answering for some crimes for which the law held their husbands responsible. Free Negroes in the ante-bellum North, paupers of all races in all states, and Chinese settlers on the West Coast could all have furnished examples of the way in which discriminatory state legislative classifications deprived them of rights. The states operated a sliding scale of citizenship rights which routinely placed some and potentially could place all Americans at a considerable distance from what Republicans argued in 1866 were the rights of all.

When William Ferguson, an English botanist and entomologist, called at the Detroit home of General Lewis Cass in June 1855, it was natural that during “ a very lengthened and interesting conversation,” the veteran American politician should mention “ the absurd books ” written by British travellers about the United States. “ They come over here,” said Cass, “ run over the country for three months, and think they understand it.” Such sentiments, of course, were commonplace by this time and Ferguson could not have been surprised by the frankness with which they were elucidated. Cass had reached political maturity during a period in which the British traveller became the focus for intense and hostile speculation in the United States. There was no more appropriate target for Jacksonian wrath, for example, than Mrs. Frances Trollope. Her Domestic Manners of the Americans, published in 1832 and widely extracted in American newspapers, helped give broad popular legitimacy to the bitter critical dialogues which pervaded the Anglo-American intellectual community after 1815. During the Jacksonian period, therefore, the British traveller could claim an important role in the development of Atlantic perceptions and attitudes.

The use of American Indian oral literature as a source of inspiration or as a guide to composition, and the continuing attempts at translation from this literature have grown rapidly in the past ten years. While there have been efforts at direct translation of Indian songs and poems for many years, it is only a comparatively recent development which has seen some contemporary American poets not only beginning to formulate new approaches to translation but also discovering the possibilities of using some aspects of American Indian oral culture in their own original poetry. Ethnopoetics has emerged as a general term to describe a poetic movement of sorts dedicated to the exploration of the potential of primitive oral literature and its translation into English. Like many general labels, it is an incomplete and unsatisfactory term with which to describe the wide variety, and varying quality, of work being produced by poets associated with the movement; however it is a term adopted by the poets themselves and is respected as such.

When Liberty Hall, as it came to be called, the ancestral home of the Kenan family, was being restored some years ago in Kenansville (Duplin County), North Carolina, among the many books left in the library was discovered an accounts ledger used by two members of the Chauncey Graham family. The most significant feature of this complex book is the obscurely-entered, first-hand account of a supposed slave insurrection and its consequences. The author is Dr. Stephen Graham, and the uprising that he depicts in Kenansville can be linked to the furor unleashed by the Nat Turner rebellion.

The ledger is approximately fifteen inches long and six inches wide. Its dark binding remains intact; but the front and back, both of which contain longhand notations and arithmetical calculations, are practically illegible now.

Inside, the owner is identified as Chauncey Graham [Jr.]; and the book is said to have been started in January 1800 in Murfreesboro, North Carolina. Dr. Graham recorded his patients' names, the work he did for them (e.g., extracting teeth), and prescriptions he gave them, as well as the ways by which he was paid (e.g., four pounds of butter; one cord of wood; or, less frequently, by cash).