Part 3
Six copies of the New England Primer lay before me, brown paper covers, dry with age; blue boards, worn with much handling; others in gray and green that have faded like the age which gave them birth. The boy who brought them to me wore a broad smile upon his face; perhaps he was wondering why I wished such toy books, no larger than 3¼″ × 2½″. He held them all in one hand so as to show his superior strength. Yet had he been taken into the dark corridor between the book stacks, and had he been shown the contents of those crinkly leaves, there might have crept over him some remnant of the feeling of awe which must have seized the Colonial boy and girl. What would he have thought of the dutiful child’s promises, or of the moral precepts, had they been read to him? Would he have shrunk backward at the description of the bad boy? Would he have beamed with youthful hope of salvation upon the picture of the good boy? It is doubtful whether the naughty girls, called “hussies,” ever reformed; it is doubtful whether they ever wanted to be the good girl of the verses. That smiling boy of the present would have turned grave over the cut of Mr. John Rogers in the flames, despite the placid expression of wonderful patience over the martyr’s face; his knees would have trembled at the sombre meaning of the lines:
“I in the burial place may see Graves shorter far than I; From death’s arrest no age is free, Young children too may die.”
The New England Primers[21] were called pleasant guides; they taught that the longest life is a lingering death. There was the fear instead of the love of God in the text, and yet the type of manhood fostered by such teaching was no wavering type, no half-way spirit. The Puritan travelled the narrow road, but he faced it, however dark the consequences.
Sufficient has been said to give some idea of the part occupied by these early publications--whether horn-book, chap-book, or primer. They bore an intimate relation to the life of the child; they were, together with the Almanack, which is typified by that of “Poor Richard,” and with the Calendar, part of a development which may be traced, with equal profit, in England, Scotland, France, and Germany. Their full history is fraught with human significance.
II. LA FONTAINE AND PERRAULT.
Folk-lore stretches into the Valhalla of the past; our heritage consists of an assemblage of the heroic through all ages. A history of distinctive books for children must enter into minute traceries of the golden thread of legend, fable, and belief, of romance and adventure; it must tell of the wanderings of rhyme and marvel, under varied disguises, from mouth to mouth, from country to country, naught of richness being taken away from them, much of new glory being added. But for our immediate purposes, we imagine all this to be so; we take it for granted that courtier and peasant have had their fancies. The tales told to warriors are told to children, and in turn by nurses to these children’s children. The knight makes his story by his own action in the dark forest, or in the king’s palace; he appears before the hut of the serf, and his horse is encircled by a magic light. The immortal hero is kept immortal by what is heroic in ourselves.
Jean de La Fontaine (1621–1695) was a product of court life; and the fable was the literary form introduced to amuse the corsaged ladies of Versailles. La Fontaine was the cynic in an age of hypocrisy and favouritism, and one cannot estimate his work fully, apart from the social conditions fostering it. He was steeped in French lore, and in a knowledge of the popular tales of the Middle Ages. He was licentious in some of his writing, and wild in his living; he was a friend of Fouquet, and he knew Molière, Racine, and Boileau. He was a brilliant, unpractical satirist, who had to be supported by his friends, and who was elected to the Academy because his monarch announced publicly that he had promised to behave. Toward the end of his life he atoned for his misdemeanours by a formal confession.
There was much of the child heart in La Fontaine, and this characteristic, together with the spleen which develops in every courtier, aided him in his composition of the Fables. Unclean his tales may be, likened to Boccaccio, but the true poet in him produced incomparable verses which have been saved for the present and will live far into the future because of the universality of their moral. The wolf and dog, the grasshopper and ant, all moved in silks and satins at the court of Louis XIV, and bowed for social rank, some trailing their pride in the dust, others raised to high position through the fortune of unworthy favour. So successfully did La Fontaine paint his pictures that the veiled allusions became lost in time beneath the distinct individuality of the courtiers’ animal prototypes. The universal in La Fontaine is like the universal in Molière and Shakespeare, but it has a wider appeal, for children relish it as their own.
Another figure was dominant at the court of Louis XIV--one equally as immortal as La Fontaine, though not so generally known--Charles Perrault (1628–1703). He was a brilliant genius, versatile in talent and genial in temper. He dabbled in law, he dabbled in architecture, and through it won the favour of Colbert. With an abiding love for children, he suggested and successfully carried the idea of keeping open the royal gardens for young Parisians. Through Colbert he became an Academician in 1671, and, with the energy which usually marked his actions, he set about influencing the rulings of that body. He was a man of progress, not an advocate of classical formalism. He battled long and hard with Boileau, who was foremost among the Classicists; his appeal was for the future rather than for the past. He was intellectually alert in all matters; probably, knowing that he possessed considerable hold upon the Academy, he purposely startled that august gathering by his statement that had Homer lived in the days of Louis XIV he would have made a better poet. But the declaration was like a burning torch set to dry wood; Boileau blazed forth, and the fight between himself and Perrault, lasting some time, became one of the most famous literary quarrels that mark the pages of history.
After Perrault retired to his home in the year 1686, and when he could have his children around him, he began the work which was destined to last. Lang calls him “a good man, a good father, a good Christian, and a good fellow.” It is in the capacity of father that we like to view him--taking an interest in the education of his children, listening to them tell their tales which they had first heard from their nurse; his heart became warmed by their frank, free _camaraderie_, and it is likely that these impromptu story hours awakened in him some dim memories of the same legends told him in his boyhood.
There is interesting speculation associated with his writing of the “Contes de ma Mère l’Oye.” They were published in 1697, although previously they had appeared singly in Moetjen’s Magazine at the Hague. An early letter from Madame de Sévigné mentions the wide-spread delight taken by the nobles of the court in all “contes”; this was some twenty years before Perrault penned his. But despite their popularity among the worldly wise, the Academician was too much of an Academician to confess openly that he was the author of the “contes.” Instead, he ascribed them to his son, Perrault Darmancour. This has raised considerable doubt among scholars as to whether the boy should really be held responsible for the authorship of the book. Mr. Lang wisely infers that there is much evidence throughout the tales of the mature feeling and art of Perrault; but he also is content to hold to the theory that will blend the effort of old age and youth, of father and son.
The fact remains that, were it not for Perrault, the world might have been less rich by such immortal pieces as “The Three Wishes,” “The Sleeping Beauty,” “Red Riding Hood,” “Blue Beard,” “Puss in Boots,” and “Cinderella,” as they are known to us to-day. They might have reached us from other countries in modified form, but the inimitable pattern belongs to Perrault.
Another monument preserves his name, the discussion of which requires a section by itself. But consideration must be paid in passing to the “fées” of Marie Catherine Jumelle de Berneville, Comtesse D’Anois (Aulnoy) [1650 or 51–1705], who is responsible for such tales as “Finetta, the Cinder-Girl.”[22] Fortunately, to the charm of her fairy stories, which are written in no mean imitation of Perrault, there have clung none of the qualities which made her one of the most intriguing women of her period. She herself possessed a magnetic personality and a bright wit. Her married life began at the age of sixteen, and through her career lovers flocked to her standard; because of the ardour of one, she came near losing her head. But despite the fact that only two out of five of her children could claim legitimacy, they seem to have developed in the Comtesse d’Aulnoy an unmistakable maternal instinct, and an unerring judgment in the narration of stories. She is familiar to-day because of her tales, although recently an attractive edition of her “Spanish Impressions” was issued--a book which once received the warm commendation of Taine.
III. MOTHER GOOSE.
There has been a sentimental desire on the part of many students to trace the origin of Mother Goose to this country; but despite all effort to the contrary, and a false identification of Thomas Fleet’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Goose, or Vergoose, with the famous old woman, the origin is indubitably French. William H. Whitmore[23] sums up his evidence in the matter as follows:
“According to my present knowledge, I feel sure that the original name is merely a translation from the French; that the collection was first made for and by John Newbery of London, about A.D. 1760; and that the great popularity of the book is due to the Boston editions of Munroe and Francis, A.D. 1824–1860.”
It appears that, in 1870, William A. Wheeler edited an edition of “Mother Goose,” wherein he averred that Elizabeth, widow of one Isaac Vergoose, was the sole originator of the jingles. This statement was based upon the assurances of a descendant, John Fleet Eliot. But there is much stronger evidence in Perrault’s favour than mere hearsay; even the statement that a 1719 volume of the melodies was printed by Fleet himself has so far failed of verification.
The name, Mother Goose, is first heard of in the seventeenth century. During 1697, Perrault published his “Histoires ou Contes du Tems Passé avec des Moralitez,” with a frontispiece of an old woman telling stories to an interested group. Upon a placard by her side was lettered the significant title already quoted:
CONTES DE MA MERE LOYE
There is no doubt, therefore, that the name was not of Boston origin; some would even go further back and mingle French legend with history; they would claim that the mother of Charlemagne, with the title of Queen Goose-foot (Reine Pédance), was the only true source.[24]
Mr. Austin Dobson has called Mr. Lang’s attention to the fact that in the _Monthly Chronicle_ for March, 1729, an English version of Perrault’s “Tales” was mentioned, done by Mr. Robert Samber, and printed by J. Pote; another English edition appeared at The Hague in 1745. This seems to be the first introduction into England of the “Mother Goose Fairy Tales.” It was probably their popularity, due not only to their intrinsic interest, but partly to the speculation as to Mother Goose’s identification, that made John Newbery, the famous London publisher, conceive the brilliant plan of gathering together those little songs familiar to the nursery, and of laying them to the credit of Mother Goose herself. In so doing, he solicited the assistance of Oliver Goldsmith (1728–1774). Mr. Whitmore writes:
“If, as seems most probable, the first edition of ‘Mother Goose’s Melody’ was issued prior to John Newbery’s death in 1767, there is an interesting question as to who prepared the collection for the press. The rhymes are avowedly the favourites of the nursery, but the preface and the foot-notes are an evident burlesque upon more pretentious works.”
There are two small pieces of evidence indicating clearly Goldsmith’s editorship. On January 29, 1768, he produced his “Good Natur’d Man,” and with his friends dined beforehand in gala fashion at an inn. Subject to extremes of humour, on this occasion he was most noisy, and he sang his favourite song, we are told, which was nothing more than “An old woman tossed in a blanket, seventeen times as high as the moon.” As it happens, this ditty is mentioned in the preface to Newbery’s collection of rhymes, without any more apparent reason than that it was a favourite with the editor, who wished to introduce it in some way, however irrelevant. Again, we are assured that Miss Hawkins once exclaimed, “I little thought what I should have to boast, when Goldsmith taught me to play Jack and Jill, by two bits of paper on his fingers.”
Thus, though the tasks performed by Goldsmith for Newbery are generally accounted specimens of hack work, which he had to do in order to eke out a livelihood, there is satisfaction in claiming for him two immortal strokes, his tale of “Goody Two Shoes,” and his share in the establishment of the Mother Goose Melodies.[25] Many a time he was dependent upon the beneficence of his publisher, many a time rescued by him from the hands of the bailiff. The Newbery accounts are dotted with entries of various loans; even the proceeds of the first performances of the “Good Natur’d Man” were handed over to Newbery to satisfy one of his claims.
The notes accompanying the melodies, and which have no bearing upon the child-interest in the collection, show a wit that might very well belong to Goldsmith. He was perhaps amusing himself at the expense of his lexicographer friend, Johnson. For instance, to the jingle, “See saw, Margery Daw,” is appended this, taken seemingly from “Grotius”: “It is a mean and scandalous Practice in Authors to put Notes to Things that deserve no Notice.” And to the edifying and logical song, “I wou’d, if I cou’d, If I cou’dn’t, how cou’d I? I cou’dn’t, without I cou’d, cou’d I?” is attached the evident explanation from “Sanderson”: “This is a new Way of handling an old Argument, said to be invented by a famous Senator; but it has something in it of _Gothick_ Construction.” Assuredly the names of those learned authors, “Mope,” credited with the “Geography of the Mind,” and “Huggleford,” writing on “Hunger,” were intended for ridicule.
By 1777, “Mother Goose” had passed into its seventh edition, but, though its success was largely assured, there are still to be noted rival publications. For instance, John Marshall,[26] who later became the publisher of Mrs. Trimmer’s works, issued some rhymes, conflicting with the book of Melodies which Carnan, Newbery’s stepson, had copyrighted in 1780, and had graced with a subtitle, “Sonnets for the Cradle.” During 1842, J. O. Halliwell edited for the Percy Society, “The Nursery Rhymes of England, collected principally from Oral Tradition,” and he mentioned an octavo volume printed in London, 1797, and containing some of our well-known verses. These it seems had been first collected by the scholar, Joseph Ritson,[27] and called “Gammer Gurton’s Garland.” The 1797 book was called “Infant Institutes,” semi-satirical in its general plan, and was ascribed to the Reverend Baptist Noel Turner, M.A.,[28] rector of Denton. If this was intended to supplant Newbery’s collection, it failed in its object. However, it is to be noted and emphasised that so varied did the editions become, that the fate of “Mother Goose” would not have been at all fortunate in the end, had not Monroe and Francis in Boston insisted upon the original collection as the authentic version, _circa_ 1824. Its rights were thus established in America.
The melodies have a circuitous literary history. In roundabout fashion, the ditties have come out of the obscure past and have been fixed at various times by editors of zealous nature. For the folk-lore student, such investigation has its fascination; but the original rhymes are not all pure food for the nursery. In the course of time, the juvenile volumes have lost the jingles with a tang of common wit. They come to us now, gay with coloured print, rippling with merriment, with a rhythm that must be kept time to by a tap of the foot upon the floor or by some bodily motion. Claim for them, as you will, an educational value; they are the child’s first entrance into storyland; they train his ear, they awaken his mind, they develop his sense of play. It is a joyous garden of incongruity we are bequeathed in “Mother Goose.”
IV. JOHN NEWBERY, OLIVER GOLDSMITH, AND ISAIAH THOMAS.
Wherever you wander in the land of children’s books, ramifications, with the vein of hidden gold, invite investigation,--rich gold for the student and for the critic, but less so for the general reader. Yet upon the general reader a book’s immortality depends. No librarian, no historian, need be crowded out; there are points still to be settled, not in the mere dry discussion of dates, but in the estimates of individual effect. The development of children’s books is consecutive, carried forward because of social reasons; each name mentioned has a story of its own. Two publishers at the outset attract our regard; except for them, much would have been lost to English and American children.
As early as Elizabeth’s time, Rafe Newberie, Master of Stationer’s Company, published Hakluyt’s “Voyages.” From him, John Newbery (1713–1767) was descended. Given an ordinary schooling, he was apprenticed to the printer, William Carnan, who, dying in 1737, divided his worldly goods between his brother Charles, and his assistant John. The latter, in order to cement his claim still further, married his employer’s widow, by whom he had three children, Francis, his successor in the publishing business, being born on July 6, 1743.
Newbery was endowed with much common sense. He travelled somewhat extensively before settling in London, and, during his wanderings, he jotted down rough notes, relating especially to his future book trade; the remarks are worthy of a keen critic. During this time it is hard to keep Newbery, the publisher, quite free from the picturesque career of Newbery, the druggist; on the one hand Goldsmith might call him “the philanthropic publisher of St. Paul’s Churchyard,” as he did in the “Vicar of Wakefield,” which was first printed by Newbery and Benjamin Collins, of Salisbury; on the other hand, in 1743, one might just as well have praised him for the efficacy of the pills and powders he bartered. Now we find him a shopkeeper, catering to the captains of ships from his warehouse, and adding every new concoction to his stock of homeopathic deceptions. Even Goldsmith could not refrain from having a slap at his friend in “Quacks Ridiculed.”
He made money, however, and he associated with a literary set among whom gold was much coveted and universally scarce. The portly Dr. Johnson ofttimes borrowed a much-needed guinea, an unfortunate privilege, for he had a habit of never working so long as he could feel money in his pocket. This generosity on the part of Newbery did not deter Johnson from showing his disapproval over many of the former’s publications. We can well imagine the implied sarcasm in his declaration that Newbery was an extraordinary man, “for I know not whether he has read, or written most books.” Between 1744 and 1802, records indicate that Newbery and his successors printed some three hundred volumes, two hundred of which were juvenile; small wonder he needed the editorial assistance of such persons as Dr. Johnson and Oliver Goldsmith.
One of the first pieces the latter let Newbery have, was an article for the _Literary Magazine_ of January, 1758. Then there came into existence _The Universal Chronicle, or Weekly Gazette_ in April, 1758, for which Johnson wrote “The Idler.” In 1759, _The British Magazine or Monthly Repository for Gentlemen and Ladies, by T. Smollett, M.D., and others_ was announced, Smollett then taking a rest cure in jail. As though magazines could be launched in a few hours without sinking, a daily sheet called the _Public Ledger_ was brought into existence on January 12, 1760, for which Goldsmith wrote his “Chinese Letters.” Between this date and 1767, Goldsmith resided in a room on the upper floor of Newbery’s house at Islington, and the publisher’s son declares that while there Goldsmith read to him odd parts of “The Traveller” and the “Vicar of Wakefield.” This has not so much evidence to support it as the fact that bills presented at the front door for Goldsmith, usually found their way to Newbery for settlement.
How much actual suggestion Goldsmith gave to his publisher-employer, how far he influenced the character of the books to be printed, cannot be determined; he and Griffith and Giles Jones assuredly encouraged the juvenile picture stories. An advertisement of 1765 calls attention to the following: “The Renowned History of Giles Gingerbread, a little boy who lived upon learning” [the combination is very appropriate in its compensating qualities of knowledge and “sweets”]; “The Whitsuntide Gift, or the Way to be Happy”; “The Valentine Gift, or how to behave with honour, integrity and humanity”; and “The History of Little Goody Two Shoes, otherwise called Margery Two Shoes.”
Though he could not wholly escape the charge of catering to the moral craze of the time, Newbery at least infused into his little books something of imagination and something of heroic adventure; not sufficient however to please Dr. Johnson, who once said: “Babies do not want to hear about babies; they like to be told of giants and castles, and of somewhat which can stretch and stimulate their little minds.” A thrust at the ignorance of grown people, regarding what children like, is further seen in Johnson’s remark that parents buy, but girls and boys seldom read what is calculated for them.
There are many to praise Newbery’s prints; they were more or less oddities, even in their own time. Their usefulness was typified in such books as the “Circle of Sciences,” a compendium of universal knowledge; their attractiveness was dependent not only upon the beauty of their make, but also upon the queerness of their _format_; for example, such volumes as were called the snuff-box series, or ready references for waistcoat pockets. Then there was the combination plan, indicated in the announcement: “A Little Pretty Pocket-Book, intended for the Instruction and Amusement of Little Master Tommy and Pretty Miss Polly, with an agreeable letter to read from Jack-the-Giant-Killer, as also a Ball and Pincushion, the use of which will infallibly make Tommy a Good Boy, and Polly a Good Girl.... Price of the Book alone, 6d., with a Ball or Pincushion, 8d.”