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.