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American Heros

The Battle Of Trenton
And such they are--and such they will be found: No...

King's Mountain
Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the ...

Charles Russell Lowell
Wut's wurds to them whose faith an' truth On war'...

The Battle Of New Orleans
The heavy fog of morning Still hid the plain from...

The Death Of Stonewall Jackson
Like a servant of the Lord, with his bible and his sword...

John Quincy Adams And The Right Of Petition
He rests with the immortals; his journey has been long: ...

Bennington
We are but warriors for the working-day; Our gayne...

George Rogers Clark And The Conquest Of The Northwest
Have the elder races halted? Do they droop and end the...

Sheridan At Cedar Creek
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, And taught...

Lieutenant Cushing And The Ram Albemarle
God give us peace! Not such as lulls to sleep, But...

Washington
The brilliant historian of the English people [*] has written...

Gouverneur Morris
GOUVERNEUR MORRIS. PARIS. AUGUST 10, 1792. Justum et ...

The Flag-bearer
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;...

Daniel Boone And The Founding Of Kentucky
... Boone lived hunting up to ninety; And, what's s...

Remember The Alamo
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier'...

General Grant And The Vicksburg Campaign
What flag is this you carry Along the sea and sho...

Hampton Roads
Then far away to the south uprose A little feathe...

The Charge At Gettysburg
For the Lord On the whirlwind is abroad; I...

The Burning Of The Philadelphia
And say besides, that in Aleppo once, Where a mali...

Francis Parkman
(1822-1893) He told the red man's story; far and wide...



Francis Parkman






(1822-1893)

He told the red man's story; far and wide
He searched the unwritten annals of his race;
He sat a listener at the Sachem's side,
He tracked the hunter through his wild-wood chase.

High o'er his head the soaring eagle screamed;
The wolfs long howl rang nightly; through the vale
Tramped the lone bear; the panther's eyeballs gleamed;
The bison's gallop thundered on the gale.

Soon o'er the horizon rose the cloud of strife,
Two proud, strong nations battling for the prize:
Which swarming host should mould a nation's life;
Which royal banner flout the western skies.

Long raged the conflict; on the crimson sod
Native and alien joined their hosts in vain;
The lilies withered where the lion trod,
Till Peace lay panting on the ravaged plain.

A nobler task was theirs who strove to win
The blood-stained heathen to the Christian fold;
To free from Satan's clutch the slaves of sin;
These labors, too, with loving grace he told.

Halting with feeble step, or bending o'er
The sweet-breathed roses which he loved so well,
While through long years his burdening cross he bore,
From those firm lips no coward accents fell.

A brave bright memory! His the stainless shield
No shame defaces and no envy mars!
When our far future's record is unsealed,
His name will shine among its morning stars.
--Holmes.


The stories in this volume deal, for the most part, with single actions,
generally with deeds of war and feats of arms. In this one I desire
to give if possible the impression, for it can be no more than
an impression, of a life which in its conflicts and its victories
manifested throughout heroic qualities. Such qualities can be shown in
many ways, and the field of battle is only one of the fields of human
endeavor where heroism can be displayed.

Francis Parkman was born in Boston on September 16, 1822. He came of
a well-known family, and was of a good Puritan stock. He was rather a
delicate boy, with an extremely active mind and of a highly sensitive,
nervous organization. Into everything that attracted him he threw
himself with feverish energy. His first passion, when he was only about
twelve years old, was for chemistry, and his eager boyish experiments in
this direction were undoubtedly injurious to his health. The interest in
chemistry was succeeded by a passion for the woods and the wilderness,
and out of this came the longing to write the history of the men of the
wilderness, and of the great struggle between France and England for the
control of the North American continent. All through his college career
this desire was with him, and while in secret he was reading widely to
prepare himself for his task, he also spent a great deal of time in the
forests and on the mountains. To quote his own words, he was "fond of
hardships, and he was vain of enduring them, cherishing a sovereign
scorn for every physical weakness or defect; but deceived, moreover, by
the rapid development of frame and sinew, which flattered him into the
belief that discipline sufficiently unsparing would harden him into an
athlete, he slighted the precautions of a more reasonable woodcraft,
tired old foresters with long marches, stopped neither for heat nor for
rain, and slept on the earth without blankets." The result was that his
intense energy carried him beyond his strength, and while his muscles
strengthened and hardened, his sensitive nervous organization began to
give way. It was not merely because he led an active outdoor life. He
himself protests against any such conclusion, and says that "if any pale
student glued to his desk here seek an apology for a way of life whose
natural fruit is that pallid and emasculate scholarship, of which New
England has had too many examples, it will be far better that this
sketch had not been written. For the student there is, in its season, no
better place than the saddle, and no better companion than the rifle or
the oar."

The evil that was done was due to Parkman's highly irritable organism,
which spurred him to excess in everything he undertook. The first
special sign of the mischief he was doing to himself and his health
appeared in a weakness of sight. It was essential to his plan of
historical work to study not only books and records but Indian life from
the inside. Therefore, having graduated from college and the law-school,
he felt that the time had come for this investigation, which would
enable him to gather material for his history and at the same time
to rest his eyes. He went to the Rocky Mountains, and after great
hardships, living in the saddle, as he said, with weakness and pain, he
joined a band of Ogallalla Indians. With them he remained despite his
physical suffering, and from them he learned, as he could not have
learned in any other way, what Indian life really was.

The immediate result of the journey was his first book, instinct with
the freshness and wildness of the mountains and the prairies, and called
by him "The Oregon Trail." Unfortunately, the book was not the only
outcome. The illness incurred during his journey from fatigue and
exposure was followed by other disorders. The light of the sun became
insupportable, and his nervous system was entirely deranged. His
sight was now so impaired that he was almost blind, and could neither
read nor write. It was a terrible prospect for a brilliant and ambitious
man, but Parkman faced it unflinchingly. He devised a frame by which
he could write with closed eyes, and books and manuscripts were read to
him. In this way he began the history of "The Conspiracy of Pontiac,"
and for the first half-year the rate of composition covered about six
lines a day. His courage was rewarded by an improvement in his health,
and a little more quiet in nerves and brain. In two and a half years he
managed to complete the book. He then entered upon his great subject of
"France in the New World." The material was mostly in manuscript, and
had to be examined, gathered, and selected in Europe and in Canada.
He could not read, he could write only a very little and that with
difficulty, and yet he pressed on. He slowly collected his material and
digested and arranged it, using the eyes of others to do that which he
could not do himself, and always on the verge of a complete breakdown
of mind and body. In 1851 he had an effusion of water on the left knee,
which stopped his outdoor exercise, on which he had always largely
depended. All the irritability of the system then centered in the head,
resulting in intense pain and in a restless and devouring activity
of thought. He himself says: "The whirl, the confusion, and strange,
undefined tortures attending this condition are only to be conceived
by one who has felt them." The resources of surgery and medicine were
exhausted in vain. The trouble in the head and eyes constantly recurred.
In 1858 there came a period when for four years he was incapable of the
slightest mental application, and the attacks varied in duration from
four hours to as many months. When the pressure was lightened a little
he went back to his work. When work was impossible, he turned to
horticulture, grew roses, and wrote a book about the cultivation of
those flowers which is a standard authority.

As he grew older the attacks moderated, although they never departed.
Sleeplessness pursued him always, the slightest excitement would deprive
him of the power of exertion, his sight was always sensitive, and at
times he was bordering on blindness. In this hard-pressed way he fought
the battle of life. He says himself that his books took four times as
long to prepare and write as if he had been strong and able to use his
faculties. That this should have been the case is little wonder, for
those books came into being with failing sight and shattered nerves,
with sleeplessness and pain, and the menace of insanity ever hanging
over the brave man who, nevertheless, carried them through to an end.

Yet the result of those fifty years, even in amount, is a noble one, and
would have been great achievement for a man who had never known a sick
day. In quality, and subject, and method of narration, they leave little
to be desired. There, in Parkman's volumes, is told vividly, strongly,
and truthfully, the history of the great struggle between France and
England for the mastery of the North American continent, one of the
most important events of modern times. This is not the place to give
any critical estimate of Mr. Parkman's work. It is enough to say that it
stands in the front rank. It is a great contribution to history, and
a still greater gift to the literature of this country. All Americans
certainly should read the volumes in which Parkman has told that
wonderful story of hardship and adventure, of fighting and of
statesmanship, which gave this great continent to the English race and
the English speech. But better than the literature or the history is
the heroic spirit of the man, which triumphed over pain and all other
physical obstacles, and brought a work of such value to his country
and his time into existence. There is a great lesson as well as a lofty
example in such a career, and in the service which such a man rendered
by his life and work to literature and to his country. On the tomb of
the conqueror of Quebec it is written: "Here lies Wolfe victorious."
The same epitaph might with entire justice be carved above the grave of
Wolfe's historian.





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