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.
[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.