Goodrich Samuel Griswold
Peter Parley's Own Story. From the Personal Narrative of the Late Samuel G. Goodrich, («Peter Parley»)

CHAPTER XXV

BECOME AN AUTHOR – HIS REAL NAME A PROFOUND SECRET – HOW IT WAS DIVULGED – GREAT SUCCESS – ILLNESS – THE DOCTORS DISAGREE – ENGLISH IMITATIONS – CONDUCT OF A LONDON BOOKSELLER – OBJECTIONS TO PARLEY'S TALES – MOTHER GOOSE.

Though I was busily engaged in publishing various works, I found time to make my long-meditated experiment in the writing of books for children. The first attempt was made in 1827, and bore the title of the Tales of Peter Parley about America. No persons but my wife and one of my sisters were admitted to the secret: for, in the first place, I hesitated to believe that I was qualified to appear before the public as an author; and, in the next place, nursery literature had not then acquired the respect in the eyes of the world it now enjoys. It is since that period that persons of acknowledged genius – Scott, Dickens, Lamartine, Mary Howitt, in Europe; and Todd, Gallaudet, Abbott, Miss Sedgwick, Mrs. Child, and others, in America – have stooped to the composition of books for children and youth.

I published my little book, and let it make its way. It came before the world untrumpeted, and for some months seemed not to attract the slightest attention. Suddenly I began to see notices of it in the papers all over the country, and in a year from the date of its publication it had become a favorite. In 1828 I published the Tales of Peter Parley about Europe; in 1829, Parley's Winter Evening Tales; in 1830, Parley's Juvenile Tales, and Parley's Asia, Africa, Sun, Moon, and Stars. About this time the public guessed my secret. Mrs. Sarah J. Hale, to whom I am indebted for many kind offices in my literary career, first discovered and divulged it; yet I could have wished she had not done me this questionable favor. Though the authorship of the Parley books has been to me a source of some gratification, you will see, in the sequel, that it has also subjected me to endless vexations.

I shall not enter into the details of my proceedings at this busy and absorbed period of my life. I had now obtained a humble position in literature, and was successful in such unambitious works as I attempted. I gave myself up almost wholly for about four years – that is, from 1828 to 1832 – to authorship, generally writing fourteen hours a-day. – A part of the time I was entirely unable to read, and could write but little, on account of the weakness of my eyes. In my larger publications I employed persons to block out work for me: this was read to me, and then I put it into style, generally writing by dictation, my wife being my amanuensis. Thus embarrassed, I still, by dint of incessant toil, produced five or six volumes a-year, most of them small, but some of larger compass.

In the midst of these labors – that is, in the spring of 1832 – I was suddenly attacked with symptoms which seemed to indicate a disease of the heart, rapidly advancing to a fatal termination. In the course of a fortnight I was so reduced as not to be able to mount a pair of stairs without help, and a short walk produced palpitation of the heart, so violent, in several instances, as almost to deprive me of consciousness. There seemed no hope but in turning my back upon my business, and seeking a total change of scene and climate. In May I embarked for England, and after a few weeks reached Paris. I here applied to Baron Larroque, who, assisted by L'Herminier – both eminent in the treatment of diseases of the heart – subjected me to various experiments, but without the slightest advantage. At this period I was obliged to be carried upstairs, and never ventured to walk or ride alone, being constantly subject to nervous spasms, which often brought me to the verge of suffocation.

Despairing of relief here, I proceeded to London, and was carefully examined by Sir Benjamin Brodie. He declared that I had no organic disease; that my difficulty was nervous irritability; and that whereas the French physicians had interdicted wine, and required me to live on a light vegetable diet, I must feed well upon good roast beef, and take two generous glasses of port with my dinner! Thus encouraged, I passed on to Edinburgh, where I consulted Abercrombie, then at the height of his fame. He confirmed the views of Dr. Brodie, in the main; and, regarding the irregularity of my vital organs as merely functional, still told me that, without shortening my life, it would probably never be wholly removed. He told me of an instance in which a patient of his, who, having been called upon to testify before the committee of the House of Commons, in the trial of Warren Hastings, from mere embarrassment had been seized with palpitation of the heart, which, however, continued till his death, many years after. Even this sombre view of my case was then a relief. Four-and-twenty years have passed since that period, and thus far my experience has verified Dr. Abercombie's prediction. These nervous attacks pursue me to this day: yet I have become familiar with them; and, regarding them only as troublesome visitors, I receive them patiently and bow them out as gently as I can.

After an absence of six months I returned to Boston, and, by the advice of my physician, took up my residence in the country. I built a house at Jamaica Plain, four miles from the city, and here I continued for more than twenty years. My health was partially restored, and I resumed my literary labors, which I continued steadily, from 1833 to 1850, with a few episodes of lecturing and legislating, three voyages to Europe, and an extensive tour to the South. It would be tedious and unprofitable, were I even to enumerate my various works, produced from the beginning to the present time. I may sum up the whole in a single sentence: I am the author and editor of about one hundred and seventy volumes, and of these seven millions have been sold!

I have said, that however the authorship of Parley's Tales has made me many friends, it has also subjected me to many annoyances. When I was in London, in 1832, I learned that Mr. Tegg, a prominent publisher there, had commenced the republication of Parley's Tales. I called upon him, and found that he had one of them actually in the press. The result of our interview was a contract, in which I engaged to prepare several of these works, which he agreed to publish, allowing me a small consideration. Four of these works I prepared on the spot, and after my return to America prepared and forwarded ten others. Some time after, I learned that the books, or at least a portion of them, had been published in London, and were very successful. I wrote several letters to Mr. Tegg on the subject, but could get no reply.

Ten years passed away, and being in pressing need of all that I might fairly claim as my due, I went to London, and asked him to render me an account of his proceedings under the contract. I had previously learned, on inquiry, that he had indeed published four or five of the works, as we had agreed, but, taking advantage of these, which passed readily into extensive circulation, he proceed to set aside the contract, and to get up a series of publications upon the model of those I had prepared for him, giving them in the title-pages the name of Parley, and passing them off, by every artifice in his power, as the genuine works of that author. He had thus published over a dozen volumes, which he was circulating as Peter Parley's Library. The speculation, as I was told, had succeeded admirably; and I was assured that many thousand pounds of profit had been realized thereby.

To my request for an account of his stewardship the publisher replied, in general terms, that I was misinformed as to the success of the works in question; that, in fact, they had been a very indifferent speculation; that he found the original works were not adapted to his purpose, and he had consequently got up others; that he had created, by advertising and other means, an interest in these works, and had thus greatly benefited the name and fame of Parley; and, all things considered, he thought he had done more for me than I had for him: therefore, in his view, if we considered the account balanced, we should not be very far from a fair adjustment.

To this answer I made a suitable reply, but without obtaining the slightest satisfaction. The contract I had made was a hasty memorandum, and judicially, perhaps, of no binding effect on him. And besides, I had no money to expend in litigation. A little reflection satisfied me that I was totally at his mercy: a fact of which his calm and collected manner assured me he was even more conscious than myself. The discussion was not prolonged. At the second interview he cut the whole matter short, by saying, – "Sir, I do not owe you a farthing: neither justice nor law requires me to pay you anything. Still, I am an old man, and have seen a good deal of life, and have learned to consider the feelings of others as well as my own. I will pay you four hundred pounds, and we will be quits! If we cannot do this, we can do nothing." In view of the whole case, this was as much as I expected, and so I accepted the proposition. I earnestly remonstrated with him against the enormity of making me responsible for works I never wrote, but as to all actual claims on the ground of the contract I gave him a receipt in full, and we parted.

It is not to be supposed that the annoyances arising from the falsification of the name of Parley, which I have just pointed out, have been the only obstacles which have roughened the current of my literary life. Not only the faults and imperfections of execution in my juvenile works – and no one knows them so well as myself – have been urged against them, but the whole theory on which they are founded has been often and elaborately impugned.

It is quite true, that when I wrote the first half-dozen of Parley's Tales I had formed no philosophy upon the subject: I simply used my experience with children in addressing them. I followed no models, I put on no harness of the schools, I pored over no learned examples. I imagined myself on the floor with a group of boys and girls, and I wrote to them as I would have spoken to them. At a later period I had reflected on the subject, and embodied in a few simple lines the leading principle of what seemed to me the true art of teaching children, – and that is, to consider that their first ideas are simple and single, and formed of images of things palpable to the senses; and hence that these images are to form the staple of lessons to be communicated to them.

THE TEACHER'S LESSON

 
I saw a child, some four years old,
Along a meadow stray;
Alone she went, uncheck'd, untold,
Her home not far away.
 
 
She gazed around on earth and sky,
Now paused, and now proceeded;
Hill, valley, wood, she passed them by
Unmarked, perchance unheeded.
 
 
And now gay groups of roses bright
In circling thickets bound her —
Yet on she went with footsteps light,
Still gazing all around her.
 
 
And now she paused, and now she stooped,
And plucked a little flower;
A simple daisy 'twas, that drooped
Within a rosy bower.
 
 
The child did kiss the little gem,
And to her bosom press'd it;
And there she placed the fragile stem,
And with soft words caressed it.
 
 
I love to read a lesson true
From nature's open book —
And oft I learn a lesson new
From childhood's careless look.
 
 
Children are simple, loving, true —
'Tis God that made them so;
And would you teach them? – be so, too,
And stoop to what they know.
 
 
Begin with simple lessons, things
On which they love to look;
Flowers, pebbles, insects, birds on wings —
These are God's spelling-book!
 
 
And children know His A B C,
As bees where flowers are set;
Wouldst thou a skilful teacher be?
Learn then this alphabet.
 
 
From leaf, from page to page,
Guide thou thy pupil's look;
And when he says, with aspect sage,
"Who made this wondrous book?"
 
 
Point thou with reverend gaze to heaven,
And kneel in earnest prayer
That lessons thou hast humbly given
May lead thy pupil there!
 

From this commencement I proceeded, and came to the conclusion that in feeding the mind of children with facts, we follow the evident philosophy of nature and Providence; inasmuch as these had created all children to be ardent lovers of things they could see and hear, and feel and know. Thus I sought to teach them history, and biography, and geography, and all in the way in which nature would teach them, – that is, by a large use of the senses, and especially by the eye. I selected as subjects for my books things capable of sensible representation, such as familiar animals, birds, trees; and of these I gave pictures, as a starting-point. The first line I wrote was, "Here I am; my name is Peter Parley;" and before I went further, gave an engraving representing my hero, as I wished him to be conceived by my pupils. Before I began to talk of a lion, I gave a picture of a lion; my object being, as you will perceive, to have the child start with a distinct image of what I was about to give an account of. Thus I secured his interest in the subject, and thus I was able to lead his understanding forward in the path of knowledge.

These views, of course, led me in a direction exactly opposite to the old theories in respect to nursery-books, in two respects. In the first place, it was thought that education should, at the very threshold, seek to spiritualize the mind, and lift it above sensible ideas, and to teach it to live in the world of imagination. A cow was very well to give milk, but when she got into a book she must jump over the moon; a little girl going to see her grandmother was well enough as a matter of fact, but to be suited to the purposes of instruction she must end her career by being eaten up by a wolf. My plan was, in short, deemed too utilitarian, too materialistic, and hence it was condemned by many persons, and among them the larger portion of those who had formed their tastes upon the old classics, from Homer down to Mother Goose!

This was one objection; another, was that I aimed at making education easy – thus bringing up the child in habits of receiving knowledge only as made into pap, and of course putting it out of his power to relish and digest the stronger meat, even when his constitution demanded it.

On these grounds, and still others, my little books met with opposition, sometimes even in grave Quarterlies, and often in those sanctified publications, entitled "Journals of Education." In England, at the period that the name of Parley was most current – both in the genuine as well as the false editions – the feeling against my juvenile works was so strong among the conservatives, that an attempt was made to put them down by reviving the old nursery-books. In order to do this, a publisher in London reproduced these works, employing the best artists to illustrate them, and bringing them out in all the captivating luxuries of modern typography. Nay, such was the reverence at the time for the old favorites of the nursery, that a gentleman of the name of Halliwell expended a vast amount of patient research and antiquarian lore in hunting up and setting before the world the history of these performances, from "Hey diddle diddle" to

"A farmer went trotting upon his grey mare —

Bumpety, bumpety, bump!"

To all this I made no direct reply; I ventured, however, to suggest my views in the following article inserted in Merry's Museum for August, 1846.

Dialogue

BETWEEN TIMOTHY AND HIS MOTHER

Timothy. Mother! mother! do stop a minute, and hear me say my poetry!

Mother. Your poetry, my son? Who told you how to make poetry?

T. Oh, I don't know; but hear what I have made up.

M. Well, go on.

T. Now don't you laugh; it's all mine. I didn't get a bit of it out of a book. Here it is!

 
"Higglety, pigglety, pop!
The dog has eat the mop;
The pig's in a hurry,
The cat's in a flurry —
Higglety, pigglety – pop!"
 

M. Well, go on.

T. Why, that's all. Don't you think it pretty good?

M. Really, my son, I don't see much sense in it.

T. Sense? Who ever thought of sense, in poetry? Why, mother, you gave me a book the other day, and it was all poetry, and I don't think there was a bit of sense in the whole of it. Hear me read. [Reads.]

 
"Hub a dub!
Three men in a tub —
And how do you think they got there?
The butcher,
The baker,
The candlestick maker,
They all jumped out of a rotten potato:
'Twas enough to make a man stare."
 

And here's another.

 
"A cat came fiddling out of a barn,
With a pair of bagpipes under her arm;
She could sing nothing but fiddle cum fee —
The mouse has married the humblebee —
Pipe, cat – dance, mouse —
We'll have a wedding at our good house!"
 

And here's another.

 
"Hey, diddle, diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon —
The little dog laughed
To see the craft,
And the dish ran after the spoon."
 

Now, mother, the book is full of such things as these, and I don't see any meaning in them.

M. Well, my son, I think as you do; they are really very absurd.

T. Absurd? Why, then, do you give me such things to read?

M. Let me ask you a question. Do you not love to read these rhymes, even though they are silly?

T. Yes, dearly.

M. Well, you have just learned to read, and I thought these jingles, silly as they are, might induce you to study your book, and make you familiar with reading.

T. I don't understand you, mother; but no matter.

 
"Higglety, pigglety, pop!
The dog has eat the mop;
The pig's in a hurry – "
 

M. Stop, stop, my son. I choose you should understand me.

T. But, mother, what's the use of understanding you?

 
"Higglety, pigglety, pop!"
 

M. Timothy!

T. Ma'am?

M. Listen to me, or you will have cause to repent it. Listen to what I say? I gave you the book to amuse you, and improve you in reading, not to form your taste in poetry.

T. Well, mother, pray forgive me. I did not mean to offend you. But I really do love poetry, because it is so silly!

 
"Higglety, pigglety, pop!"
 

M. Don't say that again, Timothy!

T. Well, I won't; but I'll say something out of this pretty book you gave me.

 
"Doodledy, doodledy, dan!
I'll have a piper to be my good man —
And if I get less meat, I shall get game —
Doodledy, doodledy, dan!"
 

M. That's enough, my son.

T. But, dear mother, do hear me read another.

 
"We're all in the dumps,
For diamonds are trumps —
The kittens are gone to St. Paul's —
The babies are bit,
The moon's in a fit —
And the houses are built without walls."
 

M. I do not wish to hear any more.

T. One more; one more, dear mother!

 
"Round about – round about —
Maggoty pie —
My father loves good ale,
And so do I."
 

Don't you like that, mother?

M. No; it is too coarse, and unfit to be read or spoken.

T. But it is here in this pretty book you gave me, and I like it very much, mother. And here is a poem, which I think very fine.

 
"One-ery, two-ery,
Ziccary zan,
Hollow bone, crack a bone —
Ninery ten:
Spittery spat,
It must be done,
Twiddledum, twiddledum,
Twenty-one,
Hink, spink, the puddings – "
 

M. Stop, stop, my son. Are you not ashamed to say such things?

T. Ashamed? No, mother. Why should I be? It's all printed here as plain as day. Ought I to be ashamed to say any thing that I find in a pretty book you have given me? Just hear the rest of this.

 
"Hink, spink, the puddings – "
 

M. Give me the book, Timothy. I see that I have made a mistake; it is not a proper book for you.

T. Well, you may take the book; but I can say the rhymes, for I have learned them all by heart.

 
"Hink, spink, the puddings – "
 

M. Timothy, how dare you!

T. Well, mother, I won't say it, if you don't wish me to. But mayn't I say —

 
"Higglety, pigglety, pop!"
 

M. I had rather you would not.

T. And "Doodledy, doodledy, dan" – mayn't I say that?

M. No.

T. Nor "Hey, diddle, diddle?"

M. I do not wish you to say any of those silly things.

T. Dear me, what shall I do?

M. I had rather you would learn some good, sensible things.

T. Such as what?

M. Watts's Hymns, and Original Hymns.

T. Do you call them sensible things? I hate 'em.

 
"Doodledy, doodledy, dan!"
 

M. [Aside.] Dear, dear, what shall I do? The boy has got his head turned with these silly rhymes. It was really a very unwise thing to put a book into his hands, so full of nonsense and vulgarity. These foolish rhymes stick like burs in his mind, and the coarsest and vilest seem to be best remembered. I must remedy this mistake; but I see it will take all my wit to do it. [Aloud.] Timothy, you must give me up this book, and I will get you another.

 

T. Well, mother, I am sorry to part with it; but I don't care so much about it, as I know all the best of it by heart.

 
"Hink, spink, the puddings stink" —
 

M. Timothy, you'll have a box on the ear, if you repeat that!

T. Well, I suppose I can say,

 
"Round about – round about —
Maggoty pie – "
 

M. You go to bed!

T. Well, if I must, I must. Good-night, mother!

 
"Higglety, pigglety, pop!
The dog has eat the mop;
The cat's in a flurry,
The cow's in a hurry,
Higglety, pigglety, pop!"
 

Good-night, mother!

I trust, that no one will gather from this that I condemn rhymes for children. I know that there is a certain music in them that delights the ear of childhood. Nor am I insensible to the fact that in Mother Goose's Melodies, there is frequently a sort of humor in the odd jingle of sound and sense. There is, furthermore, in many of them, an historical significance, which may please the profound student who puzzles it out; but what I affirm is, that many of these pieces are coarse, vulgar, offensive, and it is precisely these portions that are apt to stick to the minds of children. And besides, if, as is common, such a book is the first that a child becomes acquainted with, it is likely to give him a low idea of the purpose and meaning of books, and to beget a taste for mere jingles.

With these views, I sought to prepare lessons which combined the various elements suited to children – a few of them even including frequent, repetitious rhymes – yet at the same time presenting rational ideas and gentle kindly sentiments. Will you excuse me for giving you one example – my design being to show you how this may be done, and how even a very unpromising subject is capable of being thus made attractive to children.

THE TOAD'S STORY

 
Oh, gentle stranger, stop,
And hear poor little Hop
Just sing a simple song,
Which is not very long —
Hip, hip, hop.
 
 
I am an honest toad,
Living here by the road;
Beneath a stone I dwell,
In a snug little cell,
Hip, hip, hop.
 
 
It may seem a sad lot
To live in such a spot —
But what I say is true —
I have fun as well as you!
Hip, hip, hop.
 
 
Just listen to my song —
I sleep all winter long,
But in spring I peep out,
And then I jump about —
Hip, hip, hop.
 
 
When the rain patters down,
I let it wash my crown,
And now and then I sip
A drop with my lip:
Hip, hip, hop.
 
 
When the bright sun is set,
And the grass with dew is wet,
I sally from my cot,
To see what's to be got,
Hip, hip, hop.
 
 
And now I wink my eye,
And now I catch a fly,
And now I take a peep,
And now and then I sleep:
Hip, hip, hop.
 
 
And this is all I do —
And yet they say it's true,
That the toady's face is sad,
And his bite is very bad!
Hip, hip, hop.
 
 
Oh, naughty folks they be,
That tell such tales of me,
For I'm an honest toad,
Just living by the road:
Hip, hip, hop!
 

These were my ideas in regard to first books – toy-books – those which are put into the hands of children to teach them the art of reading. As to books of amusement and instruction, to follow these, I gave them Parley's tales of travels, of history, of nature and art, together with works designed to cultivate a love of truth, charity, piety, and virtue, and I sought to make these so attractive as to displace the bad books to which I have already alluded – the old monstrosities, Puss in Boots, Jack the Giant-killer, and others of that class. A principal part of my machinery was the character of Peter Parley – a kind-hearted old man, who had seen much of the world, and, not presuming to undertake to instruct older people, loved to sit down and tell his stories to children. Beyond these juvenile works, I prepared a graduated series upon the same general plan, reaching up to books for the adult library.

It is true that occasionally I wrote and published a book aside from this, my true vocation: thus I edited the Token, and published two or three volumes of poetry. But, out of all my works, about a hundred and twenty are professedly juvenile; and forty are for my early readers advanced to maturity. It is true that I have written openly, avowedly, to attract and to please children; yet it has been my design at the same time to enlarge the circle of knowledge, to invigorate the understanding, to strengthen the moral nerve, to purify and exalt the imagination. Such have been my aims: how far I have succeeded, I must leave to the judgment of others. One thing I may perhaps claim, and that is, my example and my success have led others, of higher gifts than my own, to enter the ample and noble field of juvenile instruction by means of books; many of them have no doubt surpassed me, and others will still follow surpassing them. I look upon the art of writing for children and youth, advanced as it has been of late years, still as but just begun.