CHAPTER XXV.

"Was it the chime of a tiny bellThat came so sweet to my dreaming ear—Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell,That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear,When the winds and the waves lie together asleep,And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep—She dispensing her silvery light,And he his notes, as silvery quite,While the boatman listens and ships his oar,To catch the music that comes from the shore?Hark! the notes on my ear that playAre set to words; as they float, they say,'Passing away, passing away!'"

Next to Willis, Mrs. Sigourney was my most successful and liberal contributor: to her I am indebted for a large part of the success of my editorial labors in the matter now referred to. To Miss Sedgwick, also, the Token owes a large share of its credit with the public. To B. B. Thacher, also among the good and the departed; to Mrs. Osgood, to John Neale, A. H. Everett, Mr. Longfellow, H. T. Tuckerman, Epes and John Sargent, Miss Leslie, J. T. Fields, O. W. Holmes—to all these, and to many others, I owe the kind remembrance which belongs to good deeds, kindly and graciously bestowed.

It is not to be supposed that in a long career, both as bookseller and editor, I should have escaped altogether the annoyances and vexations which naturally attach to these vocations. The relation of author and publisher is generally regarded as that of the cat and the dog, both greedy of the bone, and inherently jealous of each other. The authors have hitherto written the accounts of the wrangles between these two parties, and the publishers have been traditionally gibbeted as a set of mean, mercenary wretches, coining the heart's blood of genius for their own selfish profits. Great minds, even in modern times, have not been above this historical prejudice. The poet Campbell is said to have been an admirer of Napoleon because he shot a bookseller.

Nevertheless, speaking from my own experience, I suspect, if the truth were told, that, even in cases where theworld has been taught to bestow all its sympathy in behalf of the author, it would appear that while there were claws on one side there were teeth on the other. My belief is, that where there have been quarrels there have generally been mutual provocations. I know of nothing more vexatious, more wearisome, more calculated to beget impatience, than the egotisms, the exactions, the unreasonableness of authors, in cases I have witnessed. That there may be examples of meanness, stupidity, and selfishness in publishers, is indisputable. But, in general, I am satisfied that an author who will do justice to a publisher will have justice in return.

I could give some curious instances of this. A schoolmaster came to me once with a marvellously clever grammar; it was sure to overturn all others. He had figured out his views in a neat hand, like copper-plate. He estimated that there were always a million of children at school who would need his grammar; providing for books worn out, and a supply for new comers, half-a-million would be wanted every year. At one cent a copy for the author—which he insisted was exceedingly moderate—this would produce to him five thousand dollars a year; but if I would publish the work, he would condescend to take half that sum annually, during the extent of the copyright—twenty-eight years! I declined, and he seriously believed me a heartless blockhead. He obtained a publisher at last, but the work never reached a second edition. Every publisher is laden with similar experiences.

I once employed a young man to block out some little books to be published under the nominal authorship of Solomon Bell: these I remodelled, and one or two volumes were issued. Some over-astute critic announcedthem as veritablePeter Parleys, and they had a sudden sale. The young man who had assisted me, and who was under the most solemn obligations to keep the matter secret, thought he had an opportunity to make his fortune; so he publicly claimed the authorship, and accused me of duplicity! The result was that the books fell dead from that hour; the series was stopped; and his unprinted manuscripts, for which I had paid him, became utterly worthless. A portion I burnt, and a portion still remain amidst the rubbish of other days.

In other instances I was attacked in the papers, editorially and personally, by individuals who were living upon the employment I gave them. I was in daily intercourse with persons of this character, who, while flattering me to my face, I knew to be hawking at me in print. These I regarded and treated as trifles at the time; they are less than trifles now. One thing may be remarked, that, in general, such difficulties come from poor and unsuccessful writers. They have been taught that publishers and booksellers are vampires, and naturally feed upon the vitals of genius; assuming—honestly, no doubt—that they are of this latter class, they feel no great scruple in taking vengeance upon those whom they regard as their natural enemies.

My editorial experience also furnished me with some amusing anecdotes. An editor of a periodical once sent me an article for the Token, entitled La Longue-vue; the pith of the story consisted in a romantic youth's falling in love with a young lady, two miles off, through a telescope! I ventured to reject it; and the Token for that year was duly damned in the columns of the offended author.

In judging of publishers one thing should be considered,and that is, that two-thirds of the original works issued by them are unprofitable. An eminent London publisher once told me, that he calculated that out of ten publications four involved a positive, and often a heavy, loss; three barely paid the cost of paper, print, and advertising; and three paid a profit. Nothing is more common than for a publisher to pay money to an author, every farthing of which is lost. Self-preservation, therefore, compels the publisher to look carefully to his operations. One thing is certain, he is generally the very best judge as to the value of a book, in a marketable point of view: if he rejects it, it is solely because he thinks it will not pay, not because he despises genius.

Happily, at the present day, the relations between these two parties—authors and publishers—are on a better footing than in former times. Indeed, a great change has taken place in the relative positions of the two classes. Nothing is now more marketable than good writing, whatever may be its form—poetry or prose, fact or fiction, reason or romance. Starving, neglected, abused genius, is a myth of bygone times. If an author is poorly paid, it is because he writes poorly. I do not think, indeed, that authors are adequately paid, for authorship does not stand on a level with other professions as to pecuniary recompense, but it is certain that a clever, industrious, and judicious writer may make his talent the means of living.

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 ithad 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 palpitationof 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 hasverified 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 wroteseveral 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 hadmade 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 byUnmarked, perchance unheeded.And now gay groups of roses brightIn 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 droopedWithin 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 trueFrom nature's open book—And oft I learn a lesson newFrom 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, thingsOn 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 prayerThat lessons thou hast humbly givenMay lead thy pupil there!

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 byUnmarked, perchance unheeded.

And now gay groups of roses brightIn 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 droopedWithin 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 trueFrom nature's open book—And oft I learn a lesson newFrom 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, thingsOn 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 prayerThat lessons thou hast humbly givenMay 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 ofthe 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.

DialogueBETWEEN 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 ofsense, 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 laughedTo 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!

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 ofsense, 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 laughedTo 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 HopJust 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 lotTo 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 sipA 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!

Oh, gentle stranger, stop,And hear poor little HopJust 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 lotTo 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 sipA 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.

CHILDREN MY FIRST PATRONS—A VISIT TO NEW ORLEANS—FEELINGS OF HUMILIATION—THE MICE EAT MY PAPERS—A WRONG CALCULATION.

If thus I met with opposition, I had also my success, nay, I must say, my triumphs. My first patrons were the children themselves, then the mothers, and then, of course, the fathers. In the early part of the year 1846 I made a trip from Boston to the South, returning by the way of the Mississippi and the Ohio. I received many a kind welcome under the name of the fictitious hero whom I had made to tell my stories. Sometimes, it is true, I underwent rather sharp cross-questioning, and frequently was made to feel that I held my honors by a rather questionable title. I, who had undertaken to teach truth, was forced to confess that fiction lay at the foundation of my scheme! My innocent young readers, however, did not suspect me: they had taken all I had said as positively true, and I was, of course, Peter Parley himself.

"Did you really write that book about Africa?" said a black-eyed, dark-haired girl of some eight years old, at Mobile.

I replied in the affirmative.

"And did you really get into prison there!"

"No; I was never in Africa."

"Never in Africa?"

"Never."

"Well, then, why did you say you had been there?"

On another occasion—I think at Savannah—a gentleman called upon me, introducing his two grandchildren, who were anxious to see Peter Parley. The girl rushed up to me, and kissed me at once. We were immediately the best friends in the world. The boy, on the contrary, held himself aloof, and ran his eye over me, up and down, from top to toe. He then walked round, surveying me with the most scrutinizing gaze. After this he sat down, and during the interview took no further notice of me. At parting he gave me a keen look, but said nothing. The next day the gentleman called and told me that his grandson, as they were on their way home, said to him,—

"Grandfather, I wouldn't have anything to do with that man; he ain't Peter Parley."

"How do you know that?" said the grandfather.

"Because," said the boy, "he hasn't got his foot bound up, and he don't walk with a crutch!"

On my arrival at New Orleans I was kindly received, and had the honors of a public welcome. The proceedings were gratifying to me; and, even if they stood alone, would make amends for much misunderstanding and opposition.

Hitherto I have spoken chiefly of the books I have written for children, the design of which was as much to amuse as to instruct them. These comprise the entire series called Parley's Tales, with many others, bearing Parley's name. As to works for education—school-books, including readers, histories, geographies, &c., books for popular reading, and a wilderness of prose and poetry admitting of no classification—it is unnecessaryto recount them. This is the closing chapter of my literary history, and I have little indeed to say, and that is a confession.

In looking at the long list of my publications, in reflecting upon the large numbers that have been sold, I feel far more of humiliation than of triumph. If I have sometimes taken to heart the soothing flatteries of the public, it has ever been speedily succeeded by the conviction that my life has been, on the whole, a series of mistakes, and especially in that portion of it which has been devoted to authorship. I have written too much, and have done nothing really well. I know, better than any one can tell me, that there is nothing in this long catalogue that will give me a permanent place in literature. A few things may struggle upon the surface for a time, but—like the last leaves of a tree in autumn, forced at length to quit their hold and drop into the stream—even these will disappear, and my name and all I have done will be forgotten.

A recent event, half-ludicrous and half-melancholy, has led me into this train of reflection. On going to Europe in 1851 I sent my books and papers to a friend, to be kept till my return. Among them was a large box of business documents—letters, accounts, receipts, bills paid, notes liquidated—comprising the transactions of several years, long since passed away. Shortly after my return to New York, in preparing to establish myself and family, I caused these things to be sent to me. On opening the particular box just mentioned, I found it a complete mass of shavings, shreds, fragments. My friend had put it carefully away in the upper loft of his barn, and there it became converted into a universal mouse-nest! The history of whole generations of the mischievouslittle rogues was still visible; beds, galleries, play-grounds, birth-places, and even graves, were in a state of excellent preservation. Several wasted and shrivelled forms of various sizes—the limbs curled up, the eyes extinct, the teeth disclosed, the long, slender tails straight and stiffened—testified to the joys and sorrows of the races that had flourished there.

On exploring this mass of ruins, I discovered here and there a file of letters eaten through, the hollow cavity evidently having been the happy and innocent cradle of childhood to these destroyers. Sometimes I found a bed lined with paid bills, and sometimes the pathway of a gallery paved with liquidated accounts. What a mass of thoughts, of feelings, cares, anxieties, were thus made the plunder of these thoughtless creatures! In examining the papers I found, for instance, letters from N. P. Willis, written five-and-twenty years ago, with only "Dear Sir" at the beginning, and "Yours truly" at the end. I found epistles of nearly equal antiquity from many other friends—sometimes only the heart eaten out, and sometimes the whole body gone.

For all purposes of record, these papers were destroyed. I was alone, for my family had not yet returned from Europe: it was the beginning of November, and I began to light my fire with these relics. For two whole days I pored over them, buried in the reflections which the reading of the fragments suggested. Absorbed in this dreary occupation, I forgot the world without, and was only conscious of bygone scenes which came up in review before me. It was as if I had been in the tomb, and was reckoning with the past. How little was there in all that I was thus called to remember, save of care, and struggle, and anxiety; and how were all the thoughts, andfeelings, and experiences, which seemed mountains in their day, levelled down to the merest grains of dust! A note of hand—perchance of a thousand dollars—what a history rose up in recollection as I looked over its scarcely legible fragments!—what clouds of anxiety had its approaching day of maturity cast over my mind! How had I been, with a trembling heart, to some bank-president—he a god, and I a craven worshipper—making my offering of some other note for a discount, which might deliver me from the wrath to come! With what anxiety have I watched the lips of the oracle, for my fate was in his hands! A simple monosyllable—yes or no—might save or ruin me. What a history was in that bit of paper!—and yet it was destined only to serve as stuffing for the beds of vermin.

I ought, no doubt, to have smiled at all this; but I confess it made me serious. Nor was it the most humiliating part of my reflections. I have been too familiar with care, conflict, disappointment, to mourn over them very deeply, now that they were passed. The seeming fatuity of such a mass of labors as these papers indicated, compared with their poor results, however it might humble, could not distress me. But there were many things suggested by these letters, all in rags as they were, that caused positive humiliation. They revived in my mind the vexations, misunderstandings, controversies of other days; and now, reviewed in the calm light of time, I could discover the mistakes of judgment, of temper, of policy, that I had made. I turned back to my letter-book; I reviewed my correspondence; and I came to the conclusion that in almost every difficulty which had arisen in my path, even if others were wrong, I was not altogether right: in most cases, prudence, conciliation,condescension, might have averted these evils. Thus the thorns which had wounded me and others too, as it seemed, had generally sprung up from the seeds I had sown, or had thriven upon the culture my own hands had unwisely bestowed.

At first I felt disturbed at the ruin which had been wrought in these files of papers. Hesitating and doubtful, I consigned them one by one to the flames. At last the work was complete; all had perished, and the feathery ashes had leaped up in the strong draught of the chimney and disappeared for ever. I felt a relief at last; I smiled at what had happened; I warmed my chill fingers over the embers; I felt that a load was off my shoulders. "At least," said I in my heart, "these things are now passed; my reckoning is completed, the account is balanced, the responsibilities of those bygone days are liquidated; let me burden my bosom with them no more!" Alas, how fallacious my calculation! A few months only had passed, when I was called to contend with a formidable claim which came up from the midst of transactions to which these extinct papers referred, and against which they constituted my defence. As it chanced, I was able to meet and repel it by documents which survived; but the event caused me deep reflection. I could not but remark that, however we may seek to cover our lives with forgetfulness, their records still exist, and these may come up against us when we have no vouchers to meet the charges which are thus presented. Who, then, will be our helper?

MAKE A SPEECH—LECTURE ON IRELAND—POLITICS—PERSONAL ATTACKS—BECOME A SENATOR—THE "FIFTEEN-GALLON LAW"—A PAMPHLET IN ITS FAVOR—"MY NEIGHBOR SMITH"—A POLITICAL CAREER UNPROFITABLE.

The first public speech I ever made was at St. Albans, in England, in the year 1832, at a grand celebration of the passing of the Reform Bill; having accompanied thither Sir Francis Vincent, the representative in Parliament of that ancient borough. More than three thousand people, men, women, and children, gathered from the town and the vicinity, were feasted at a long table, set out in the principal street of the place. After this feast there were various sports, such as donkey-races, climbing a greased pole, and the like. At six o'clock, about one hundred and fifty of the gentry and leading tradesmen and mechanics sat down to a dinner, Sir Francis presiding. The President of the United States was toasted, and I was called upon to respond. Entirely taken by surprise, for not a word had been said to me upon the subject, I made a speech. I could never recall what I said: all I remember is a whirl of thoughts and emotions as I rose, occasional cries of "Hear, hear!" as I went on, and a generous clapping of hands as I concluded.Whether this last was because I really made a good hit, or from another principle—

"The best of Graham's speeches washis last"—

I am totally unable to say.

My next public appearance was in a lecture at the Tremont Temple, in Boston; my subject being "Ireland and the Irish." Although my discourse was written, and pretty well committed to memory, yet for several days before the time appointed for its delivery arrived, when I thought of my engagement, my heart failed me. When the hour came I went to the door of the room, but on seeing the throng of persons collected I felt that my senses were deserting me: turning on my heel, I went out, and going to an apothecary's, fortified myself with some peppermint lozenges. When I got back, the house was waiting with impatience. I was immediately introduced to the audience by Dr. Walter Channing, and stepping upon the platform, began. After the first sentence, I was perfectly at my ease. I afterwards delivered this lecture more than forty times.

In the autumn of 1836 there was a large evening party at Jamaica Plain, at the house of Mrs. G——, the lady-patroness of the village. Among the notable men present was Daniel Webster, whom I had frequently seen, but to whom I was now introduced for the first time. He spoke to me of many things, and at last of politics, suggesting that the impending presidential election involved most important questions, and he deemed it the duty of every man to reflect upon the subject, and to exert his influence as his conscience might dictate.

Since my residence in Massachusetts, a period of nearly eight years, I had been engrossed in my business, andhad never even voted. Just at this time I was appointed, without any suggestion of my own, one of the delegates to the Whig Convention to nominate a person to represent us, the Ninth Congressional District, in Congress. This was to take place at Medway, at the upper end of the district. I went accordingly, and on the first ballot was the highest candidate, save one—Mr. Hastings, of Mendon. I declined, of course, and he was unanimously nominated.

The canvass that ensued was a very animated one, Mr. Van Buren being the democratic candidate for the presidency. He was considered as the heir-apparent of the policy of Gen. Jackson, and had, indeed, promised, if elected, to walk in the footsteps of his illustrious predecessor. Without the personal popularity of that remarkable man, he became the target for all the hostility which his measures had excited. He was, however, elected, but to be overwhelmed with a whirlwind of discontent and opposition four years after.

The candidate for Congress in our district, in opposition to Mr. Hastings, was Alexander H. Everett, who had been hitherto a conspicuous Whig, and who had signalized himself by the ability and bitterness of his attacks on General Jackson and his administration. He had singled out Mr. Van Buren, for especial vehemence of reproach, because, being Secretary of State at the time, Mr. Everett was superseded as Minister to Spain without the customary courtesy of an official note advising him of the appointment of his successor. To the amazement of the public in general, and his friends in particular, on the 8th of January, 1836, Mr. Everett delivered an oration before the democracy of Salem, in which—ignoring the most prominent portion of his political life—he came outwith the warmest eulogies upon General Jackson and his administration! About the first of May, the precise period when it was necessary, in order to render him eligible to Congress in the Ninth District, he took up his residence within its precincts, and, as was easily foreseen, was the democratic candidate for Congress.

The Whig District Committee, of which I was one, and Charles Bowen (Mr. Everett's publisher), another, issued a pamphlet, collating and contrasting Mr. Everett's two opinions of General Jackson's policy, and especially of Mr. Van Buren—the one flatly contradicting the other, and, in point of date, being but two or three years apart. This was circulated over the towns of the district. It was a terrible document, and Mr. Everett felt its force. One of them was left at his own door in the general distribution. This he took as a personal insult, and meeting Bowen, knocked him over the head with his umbrella. Bowen clutched him by the throat, and would have strangled him but for the timely interference of a bystander.

I had been among Mr. Everett's personal friends, but he now made me the object of special attack. In a paper, which then circulated a good deal in the district, I was severely lashed under the name of Peter Parley, not because I was a candidate for office, but because I was chairman of the Whig District Committee. I recollect that one day some rather scandalous thing came out against me in the editorial columns of this journal, and feeling very indignant, I went to see the editor. I did not know him personally, but from occasionally reading his paper I had got the idea that he was a very monster of violence. He was not at the office, but such was my irritation and impatience that I went to his house. I rang, and a beautiful black-eyed girl, some eight years old, came to the door. I asked if Mr. H—— was in? "Mother," said the child, in a voice of silver, "is father at home?" At this moment another child, and still younger, its bullet-pate head all over curls, came to the door. Then a mild and handsome woman came, and to my inquiry she said that her husband was out, but would return in a few moments.

My rage was quelled in an instant. "So," said I to myself, "these children call that man father, and this woman calls him husband. After all, he cannot be such a monster as I have fancied him, with such a home." I turned on my heel and went away, my ill-humor having totally subsided. Some two years after I told him this anecdote, and we had a good-humored laugh over it. Both of us had learned to discriminate between political controversy and personal animosity.

The attacks made upon me during this canvass had an effect different from what was intended. I was compelled to take an active part in the election, and deeming the success of my party essential to my own defence, I naturally made more vigorous efforts for that object. Mr. Everett was defeated by a large majority, and the Whig candidate triumphed. At the same time I was chosen a member of the legislature for Roxbury-Jamaica Plain, where I resided, being a parish of that town. The next year I was a candidate for the Senate, in competition with Mr. Everett, and was elected. In this manner I was forced into politics, and was indebted mainly to opposition for my success.

During the ensuing session of the legislature, the winter of 1837-8, the famous "Fifteen-Gallon Law" was passed—that is, a law prohibiting the sale of intoxicatingliquors in less quantities than fifteen gallons. The county I represented was largely in favor of the measure, and I voted for it, though I was by no means insensible to the agitation it was certain to produce. I had determined not to be a candidate for re-election, and therefore considered myself free to engage in the discussion which preceded the next election, and which, of course, mainly turned upon this law. Among other things, I wrote a little pamphlet, entitled Five Letters to my Neighbor Smith, touching the Fifteen-Gallon Jug, the main design of which was to persuade the people of Massachusetts to make the experiment, and see whether such a restraint upon the sale of intoxicating drinks would not be beneficial. This was published anonymously, and my intention was to have the authorship remain unknown. It, however, had an enormous sale—a hundred thousand copies—in the course of a few months, and curiosity soon found me out.

Now in the village of Jamaica Plain I had a neighbor, though not by the name of Smith—a rich liquor-dealer, who did his business in Boston—a very respectable man, but a vehement opposer of the "Fifteen-Gallon Law." As the election approached, the citizens of the state were drawn out in two parties—those in favor of prohibition on the one side, and the men in favor of free liquor on the other. My neighbor was the wealthiest, the most respectable, and the most influential of the latter. He insisted, that by "My Neighbor Smith" I meant him; and though I had said nothing disagreeable of that personage, but on the contrary, had drawn his portrait in very amiable colors, he held that it was a malicious personal attack. In vain did I deny the charge, and point to the fact that the residence, character, and qualitiesof my fictitious hero were inapplicable to him. Anxious to be persecuted, he insisted upon it that he was persecuted.

At the county convention, which took place some two months prior to this election, I declined being a candidate. The members present, however, clearly discerning the gathering storm, refused to release me, and I was forced to accept the nomination. The election was to take place on Monday, in November. On the Saturday previous there was issued in Boston a pamphlet, entitled the Cracked Jug, a personal and political attack upon me, written with great malice and some ability. It was scattered, like snow-flakes, all over the country; and was, I suspect, the Sunday reading of all the tipplers and taverners of the country. The bar-room critics esteemed it superior to anything which had appeared since the Letters of Junius, and, of course, considered me annihilated.

On Monday, election-day, my family were insulted in the streets of Jamaica Plain, and as I went into the Town Hall to cast my vote I heard abundance of gibes cast at me from beneath lowering beavers. The result was, that there was no choice of senators in the county. The election, when the people had thus failed to fill their places, fell upon the legislature, and I was chosen. The storm gradually passed away. The "Fifteen-Gallon Law" was repealed, but it nearly overturned the Whig party in the state, which, being in the majority, was made responsible for it. I deemed it necessary to reply to my Neighbor Smith's Cracked Jug, and he rejoined. What seemed at the time a deadly personal struggle, was, ere long, forgotten; neither party, I believe, carrying, in his character or his feelings, any of the scarsinflicted during the battle. Both had, in some sort, triumphed; both, in some sort, been beaten; both could, therefore, afford to return to the amicable relations of village neighborhood.

In the autumn of 1840 the Whigs nominated William Henry Harrison as the candidate for the presidency, in opposition to Mr. Van Buren. He had held various civil and military trusts, in which he had displayed courage, wisdom, and patriotism. His personal character was eminently winning to the people, being marked with benevolence and simplicity. He had long retired from public life, and for several years had lived as a farmer on the "North Bend" of the Ohio, near Cincinnati. The Democrats ridiculed him as drinking hard cider and living in a log cabin. The masses, resenting this as coming from those who, having the Government spoils, were rioting in the White House on champagne, took these gibes, and displayed them as their mottoes and symbols upon their banners. They gathered in barns, as was meet for the friends of the farmer of North Bend, using songs and speeches as flails, threshing his enemies with a will. The spirit spread over mountain and valley, and in every part of the country men were seen leaving their customary employments to assemble in multitudinous conventions. Many of these gatherings numbered twenty thousand persons.

During this animated canvass I was not a candidate for office, yet I took part in the great movement, and made about a hundred speeches in Massachusetts and Connecticut. Everybody, then, could make a speech, and everybody could sing a song. Orators sprang up like mushrooms, and the gift of tongues was not more universal than the gift of music.

From this period I have taken no active part in politics. In reviewing the past, while duly appreciating the honor conferred by the confidence bestowed upon me by the citizens who gave me their suffrages, I still regard my political career as an unprofitable, nay, an unhappy episode, alien to my literary position and pursuits, and every way injurious to my interests and my peace of mind. It gave me painful glimpses into the littleness, the selfishness, the utter quackery of a large portion of those politicians who lead, or seem to lead, the van of parties; and who, pretending to be guided by patriotism, are usually only using principles and platforms as means to carry them into office. As some compensation for this, it has also led me to a conviction that the great mass of the people are governed by patriotic motives, though even with these I have often noted curious instances in which the public interests were forgotten in a desire to achieve some selfish end.

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