In the October following, he commenced “Whistler.” He wrote but fifty pages before the close of the year 1855; for in December, after an interval of a year and a half, his lungs were again found to be in a bleeding state. Again nature rallied, and he resumed his duties; but “Whistler” was not completed until about a year after it was begun.
His writings are in the hands of those who read these lines, and it is not necessary here to do more than remind readers of the faithfulness of Walter Aimwell’s portraiture of boy-life. He received commendations of the truth and general excellence of these stories from all hands, both in the public prints and in private letters from those whose good opinion he especially valued. Passages from them were quoted and inserted in valuable school-books, and repeated at the exhibitions of academies and public schools. But he never suffered himself to be flattered into any relaxation of endeavor. However well he might have satisfied his friends, he never thought he had reached his own standard.
Accordingly, about the time that “Whistler” was completed, we find him saying in his journal,—referring to a boy whom he had just taken into his family,—“In the management of him, and in the direction of his studies (for he is to devote a part of his time to study), I anticipate meeting to some extent a want which I feel as a writer for youth,—the want of an actual and intimate contact with childhood, and an opportunity to study its wants, tastes, feelings, etc., from real life.”
The want which the author himself felt, he never permitted his readers to perceive. Said a boy to one of Walter Aimwell’s correspondents, “I guess Walter Aimwell hasn’t forgotten when he was a boy himself.” Read Walter Aimwell’s reply to a letter from a friend of his young critic:—
“Winchester, Mass., Dec. 26, 1857.
“Dear Madam,—
“It was a very agreeable surprise that the sight of your familiar handwriting gave me, as I opened your note of the 22d; for your writing still has a familiar look, though I do not know that I have seen a scrap of it before for half a dozen years. I cannot tell you how much pleasure the contents of your letter gave me, or how grateful I am for this kind and flattering notice of my little books. In the case of such books, so far at least as to their power to interest, children are the best critics, and their simple and artless commendation is worth far more than the most fulsome newspaper ‘puff.’ I love children, and love to write for them, and, as your little neighbor shrewdly guessed, have not quite forgotten how I felt when I was a boy myself; and I may add that I have no higher aspiration, in this world, than to acquire an influence over the minds of the young, and leave upon them an impress for good that time shall not efface.
“I hope to extend the ‘Aimwell Stories’ up to ten or twelve volumes, and shall probably do so if my health holds out. I fully sympathize with you in sentiment, and shall take your suggestion into consideration. I have never thought much about the matter, for the reason that it would not comport with the design of these books to give special prominence to such a subject. Still it might be introduced incidentally.
“Please to give my respects to your husband; and tell your little boy that Mr. Aimwell will think of him when he writes his next book, and will try to put something into it that he can understand. And, for yourself, dear madam, accept the assurance of the sincere esteem of