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.
[CHAPTER XXVI.]
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!"