January 2011

The story of La Salle’s exploration was magnificently told in Francis Parkman’s The Discovery of the Great West. First published in 1860, this classic work was completely revised after Parkman gained access to a treasure trove of French manuscripts, and was republished in 1879. A selection from Parkman’s history, dealing with La Salle and the episodes which are shown in the Catlin paintings, begins below.

In 1643 was born at Rouen Robert Cavelier, better known by the designation of La Salle. His father Jean and his uncle Henri were wealthy merchants, living more like nobles than like burghers; and the boy received an education answering to the marked traits of intellect and character which he soon began to display. He showed an inclination for the exact sciences, and especially for the mathematics, in which he made great proficiency. At an early age, it is said, he became connected with the Jesuits; and, though doubt has been expressed of the statement, it is probably true.

The brave mortal who makes the teaching of history his profession labors under many of the disadvantages that beset the editor of a newspaper. There is no set formula for him to follow, which is just another way of saying that there is no one right way for him to behave because in the end so much of his effectiveness depends on his ability to play it by ear. He has to have a wide background of training and experience, yet the real value of all of this depends on his ability to add insights and perceptions of his own, in which nobody can instruct him. Finally, he is forever aware that many of his fellow citizens consider him a dull bungler and honestly believe that they themselves could do his job much better than he does if they just set their minds to it.

To observe Franklin D. Roosevelt across the barrier interposed between the President and the press was often to have the impression of a brilliant and accomplished actor meeting the challenge of a critical audience. He took pleasure and pride in his own performance and, with his mastery in later years of the difficult technique of the press conference, he seldom missed his cues.

It was a rare privilege to step across the barrier and observe the great man from, as it were, the other side of the footlights. Thanks to his able and devoted press secretary, Stephen Early, I had that privilege on April 7, 1944. It was at the time when speculation about a fourth term was acute. Yet because the critical phase of the war was still to come and the President was after all commander in chief, the prospect of a fourth term did not stir quite the same anger and vituperation that the third term had. It was in a sense as though a war-weary public had resigned itself to continuing this man in office at least until the ordeal was ended.

So long as it remained in public consciousness it was known as the Great Revere Disaster. Written or spoken it deserved the adjective, and the capitals. Worse railroad wrecks had happened before; worse were to come after. But none had such far-reaching results as this tragedy which in 1871 took place in the small Massachusetts village whose name sought to honor the state’s incomparably best-known hero.

It is probably true that all major disasters have multiple causes. Weather contributed a little, but not much, to the one at Revere. Its basic and overpowering cause, however, lay deep in the rigidity of mind of officials of the Eastern Railroad Company, from its president down to and including its superintendent, Jeremiah Prescott, of a family noted lor its patriots and eminent men of letters.