"Mr. S. G. Goodrich also found work for him--Mr. Kettell--and many of those historical compendiums which came out under the name of Peter Parley, were in fact the work of Mr. Kettell. He is the veritable Peter Parley," &c.

Now, Mr. Editor, it happens that for nearly thirty years, I have appeared before the public as the author of Peter Parley's Tales. It would seem, therefore, if this statement were true, that I have been for this length of time arrayed in borrowed plumes, thus imposing upon the public, and now wronging the dead. It was no doubt the amiable purpose of the writer of the article in question to place me in this position. I am, however, pretty well used to this sort of thing, and I should not take the trouble to notice this new instance of impertinence, were it not that I have a batch on hand, and may as well put them all in and make one baking of them.

To begin. There is a man by the name of Martin, in London, and who takes the name of Peter Parley Martin. He writes books boldly under the name of Peter Parley, and they are palmed off as genuine works by the London publishers. These, and other forgeries of a similar kind by other writers, have been going on for fifteen years or more, until there are thirty or forty volumes of them in circulation in England.

Among these London counterfeiters, there was formerly a bookseller by the name of Lacey. He was what is called a Remainder Man--that is, he bought the unsold and unsalable ends of editions, put them in gaudy bindings, and thus disposed of them. When he got possession of a defunct juvenile work, he galvanized it into life by putting Parley's name to it--as "Grandfather's Tales, by Peter Parley," &c. This proved a thrifty trade, and the man, as I have been told, has lately retired upon a fortune.

It is indeed notorious, that handsome sums have been realized in London by authors and publishers there, in republishing the genuine Parley books, and also by publishing counterfeit ones. This matter has gone to such lengths, and has become so mis-

was further added by the teacher that he was the father of "Dick Tinto!" This man, who was not your humble servant, not, I am happy to say, a relative, nor an acquaintance of his, still received these honors as his due--and perhaps I shall ere long be obliged to defend myself against a claim that he is I, and that I am not myself!

To pass over these and other similar instances, I come now to the latest, if not the last--the declaration of the editor of the Boston Courier, that Mr. Kettell was the real author of Parley's Tales. If Mr. Kettell were living, he would even more readily contradict this assertion than myself, for he would have felt alike the ridicule and the wrong that it would attach to his name. Were it my purpose to write a biographical notice of this gentleman, I should have nothing unpleasant to say of him. He was a man of large acquirements, a good deal of humor, and some wit, with great simplicity, truth, and honor of character. He was not, however, thrifty in the ways of the world. Among all his writings there is not, I believe, a book of which he was the designer, or, strictly speaking, the author. But he was still a ready writer when he bad his task set before him. So much is due as a passing notice to the memory of a man with whom I had relations for twenty years, always amicable, and I believe mutually satisfactory, if not mutually beneficial.

But as to the statements of the editor of the Boston Courier above alluded to, as well as seme others in his obituary of Mr. Kettell, there is great inaccuracy. Let me lay the axe at the root of the main statement at once, by declaring, that of the thirty or forty volumes of Parley's Tales, Mr. Kettell never wrote a line or sentence of any of them, nor, so far as I now recollect, did any other person except myself. The Parley series was begun and in the full tide of success before I ever saw Mr. Kettell.

It is quite true, that in my larger geographical and historical works--some of them extending to over one thousand royal octavo pages--I had assistants, as is usual, nay, indispensable, in such cases, Mr. Kettell among others. Some of these were

young men, who have since risen to fame in both hemispheres. If all who assisted me were now to come forward and claim to be original Peter Parleys, there would be a very pretty family of us!

The writer of the Courier article in question intimates that Mr. Kettell was ill paid, and by a Latin quotation suggests that I made use of him to my own advantage, while he, the real author of books which I published, was robbed of his due! This is a serious charge, and it may be well to give it a pointed answer.

As to the statement that Mr. Kettell was ill paid--let me ask the reason, if such were the fact? In general, things will bring their value--literature as well as any other commodity. Why was it, then, that he accepted this insufficient pay? If I did not compensate him adequately, why did he serve me? The world is wide, the market free; Mr. Kettell was familiarly acquainted with every publisher in Boston: if he wrote for me, the inference is that I paid him better than anybody else would have done. Nay, if the editor of the Boston Courier does not know, there are others who do, that I was for years his only reliance and resource. He went to Europe without a dollar in his pocket except what I gave him for his writings. While at Paris, being in a state of absolute destitution, he wrote home to his friend, S. P. Holbrook, for help. This was furnished by the contributions of his friends, myself among the number.

The editor, in enumerating Mr. Kettell's literary labors, gives him high credit as the editor of the three volumes of Specimens Of American Poetry, which I published. This is no doubt one of the instances, according to this writer, in which I sponged the brains of another to his wrong and my advantage. Let us see the facts:

I projected the aforesaid work, and employed Mr. F. S. Hill as editor. He began it, collected materials, and wrote the first part of it. At his instance, I had purchased nearly one hundred scarce books for the enterprise. The work, thus begun, the plan indicated, the materials to a great extent at command,

with numerous articles actually written, passed into Mr. Kettell's hands. I think, with the editor of the Courier, that considering the extent of the undertaking, and that it was then a new enterprise, compelling the editor to grope in the mazes of a new and unexplored wilderness, that Mr. Kettell displayed a tolerable degree of patience and research, and a fair share of critical sagacity. But nevertheless, the work was a most disastrous failure, involving me not only in a pecuniary loss of fifteen hundred dollars, but the mortification of having the work pass into a kind of proverb of misfortune or misjudgment. More than once I have heard it spoken of as "Goodrich's Kettle of Poetry!" This arose, no doubt, partly from the idea then encouraged by the critics, that it was the height of folly for us, Americans, to pretend to have any literature. To include the writings of Timothy Dwight, Joel Barlow, and Phillis Wheatley in a book called Poetry, was then deemed a great offense at the bar of criticism. It is true that these notions have passed away, and Dr. Griswold and Messrs. Duyckinck have found in the mine wrought so abortively by Mr. Kettell, both gold and glory. There were, however, other reasons for his failure, and among them an unfortunate slip as to the authorship of "Hail Columbia," which stood thus:

"J. Hopkinson:

"We have no knowledge of this author. The popular national ode which follows, appeared first, we believe, in Philadelphia."

Such ignorance and such carelessness were deemed offensive by the friends of Judge Hopkinson, son of the well-known author of the "Battle of the Kegs," and other popular effusions, and himself a somewhat noted poet. Mr. Walsh made this, and other blunders, the occasion of a stinging castigation in his National Gazette. The result was injurious to Mr. Kettell in many ways: it injured his rising literary reputation, and so shattered his nerves that for some years he lost courage as well as encouragement, ex-

cept what I continued to give him, despite this failure. It was subsequent to this that I supplied him with the means of going to Europe, and thus furnished him with the opportunity of taking a new start in the world. And yet I sponged this man's brains, and stole his fair fame--according to this Boston writer!

I suppose, Mr. Editor, that this is enough for the present; and yet I am disposed to crave a little more of your patience and your space, to state more precisely my relations with Mr. Kettell, and thus remove him from the disadvantageous light in which he is placed by the ill-judged pretenses of his too earnest friend.

During a space of twelve or fifteen, years, and that the most active and engrossed portion of my life, I suffered greatly from a disease in my eyes, which threatened blindness: sometimes for weeks together I was confined to a dark room. At that period I wrote almost wholly by dictation, my wife being my amanuensis. I wrote several of the Parley books, she sitting on one side of a green curtain in the light, and I on the other side, confined to the darkness. Several volumes of the Token were mostly edited in this way.

It is quite obvious that in such a condition, and being at the time busily engaged in writing, as well as publishing books, I must have needed assistance. At this time, Mr. Kettell was useful to me, especially as he was familiar with libraries, and had a remarkable tact in finding facts. And yet it is equally true that Mr. Kettell never wrote a page for me at his own suggestion, nor by his own planning. He wrote on subjects prescribed by me, and in the manner prescribed by me--even to the length of paragraphs, verses, and chapters. Moreover, what he had thus blocked out, was laboriously remodeled to suit my own taste, to clothe it in my own style, and to bring it into conformity with my own plan. Often this process was infinitely more laborious to me than would have been the outright and entire compilation, if I could have used my eyes. In this way, however, and under these circumstances, Mr. Kettell aid-

St. Paul's Coffee House, London,
October 18, 1854.

Mr. Darton, Bookseller,

     Holborn Hill, London.

Sir,--Happening to be in this city, I called two days since at your counting-room, and while waiting there for an answer to inquiries I had made, I was attracted by a volume, glowing in red and gold, lying upon the table. I took it up, and read in the title-page--

I was informed that this was one of your publications, designed for the coming winter sales, and I had no difficulty in discovering that there was to be, not only an edition for England, but one for the United States.

Now I have long known that among the various books that had been got up in London, under the pretended authorship of Peter Parley, you have issued an annual volume, with the above, or a similar title. Some dozen years ago, I remonstrated with you upon this, and threatened that I would show you up in the London Times. You replied, "I will give you fifty pounds to do it." "How so?" said I. "Because you will sell my books without the trouble of my advertising them," was your answer. "But it will ruin your character," I added. "Poh!" said you; "London is too big for that."

So the matter passed, and might still have passed, had it not been for the above-named New-York imprint. This has forced me to a reconsideration of the whole subject of these impostures, and I have come to the conclusion, that

duty to myself, as well as to the public on both sides of the water, makes it indispensable that I should attempt to put an end to this great wrong. The course I propose to pursue is, immediately on my return to the United States, if I find your edition has been on sale there, to bring an action against the venders of it, and I have no doubt it will be suppressed. It is a counterfeit, injurious to me, and fraudulent towards the public. Our courts have decided that it is unlawful for a man in the United States to counterfeit even British labels or trademarks upon British manufactures, these being deemed private property, which the law holds sacred. If they will thus protect a foreigner, I think they will of course protect an American citizen in a case involving the same or similar principles.

If I fail in an attempt at legal remedy, I shall appeal to the American, public, and I cannot doubt that any vender of these fraudulent publications will be so rebuked as to put an end to such practices, there. On a former occasion, it was proposed to issue a work at New York, under the name of Peter Parley. I simply published the fact, that this was without my concurrence, and a hurricane of denunciation from the press, all over the country, silenced the project forever.

So far my course is clear: as to the British public, I propose to publish the facts, and make an appeal to their sense of justice. In respect to the past, there is perhaps no remedy. No doubt I have too long neglected this matter, and perhaps my silence may be urged by interested, and unscrupulous parties as having sanctioned the fraud which, has consequently grown into a system. Nevertheless, the fact certainly is, that it has always been known and admitted, in England as elsewhere, that I am the original author of Peter Parley's Tales,

and am entitled to the merit, or demerit, of having given currency to that name. You have had intercourse with, me for the last fifteen years, and you have always known and admitted my claims. You have vindicated your publication of this false Annual to me, on no higher grounds than that it was begun by other parties, and would be carried on by others if you abandoned it.

I have had applications, as the author of Peter Parley's Tales, from various publishers in England, and interviews with still others, but never, in a single instance, have I known these claims to be questioned. I have seen my name circulating, for the last dozen years, in the London papers, as the author of Parley's Tales. All over Europe I have met with English people, who recognized me as such.

I am aware that there is in London a man by the name of Martin, who has written many of these counterfeit Parley books, and is familiarly known there as "Peter Parley Martin." I believe he is the editor of your Annual. Now we know it to be proverbial, that, a man may tell a falsehood so often as to believe it; and hence it is quite possible that this Martin thinks himself the real Peter. Still, if it be so, he is only one self-duped monomaniac: neither you nor any other publisher is London is deceived by it. How honorable men can have intercourse with such a creature, and even become accessory to his impostures, passes my comprehension.

It is plain then, that if I have thus delayed to rectify this wrong, the real facts of the case are not obscured. The British public know that I am the author of the veritable works of Peter Parley. They may not, they cannot always distinguish between the true and the false, and therefore buy

both, indiscriminately. Still, though thus accessory to the fraud, it is ignorantly and unwittingly done, and they are not chargeable with wrong, at least toward me. The publishers and authors of these counterfeits are the guilty parties. I may complain of these, but not of the people of England, until I have first stated to them, authoritatively, the facts, and pointed out the true and the false publications. When I have done this, if they still encourage the perpetrators of this wrong, they will become its participators. If I understand the tone and sentiment of the English people, they will be quite as ready to rebuke this system of piracy as were the people of the United States on the occasion to which I have referred.

Another thing is plain, that neither the authors nor publishers concerned in this system of deception and plunder, pursue it in doubt or ignorance of the facts. You will not pretend this for yourself. Other cases are equally clear. Some dozen years ago, being in London, and in pressing need of the avails of my literary labor and reputation, I was introduced to Mr. T..., then in active business, and taking the lead in juvenile publications. I proposed to him to publish some of mine, which I bad just revised and emended. After a week's examination, he returned them, saying that they were clever enough in their way, but they would not do for him. They were tainted with Americanisms, republicanisms, latitudinarianisms, in church and state. He could only publish books, orthodox according to British ideas. If I could remodel them, or allow them to be remodeled, so as to conform to this standard, we could do a good business together.

This I did not accede to, and we parted. Yet within about a twelvemonth, this same Mr. T... published a book entitled

"Peter Parley's Lives of the Apostles, etc." It was written in a pious strain; it was thoroughly orthodox, according to the British platform. It was, moreover, beautifully bound, printed, and illustrated. No doubt it was a capital speculation, for besides its artistic and mechanical recommendations, it was suited to the public taste, and of course the innocent public were ignorant of its illegitimate parentage. Not so the scrupulous Mr. T...--not so the pious author: they knew that each page was contaminated with falsehood, and all the more base, because from the beginning to the end, there was a sedulous and, I might add, a skillful effort to make it appear that the book was written by me. Would the British people buy even such embellished orthodoxy, if they knew that the "trail of the serpent was over it all?"

I recite this, not because it is the worst case, but rather because it is a fair example of the conduct of British authors and British publishers in this matter. Examples of practices more mean, if not more wicked, might be cited. At the period above-mentioned, there was a bookseller in London, whose sign was "Books for the Million"--a "remainder" man, who bought unsold sheet-stock of publishers, put it in gaudy binding, and sold it at a cheap rate. As I ascertained, he was accustomed to tear out the original and true titles of these defunct publications, and put in new and false ones, such as "Grandfather's Tales, by Peter Parley" or something of that kind. Peter Parley thus fathered quite a library--and thus, galvanized into new life, this man sold his works by the million, according to his sign. Recently, I am told, he has retired upon a handsome fortune.

I think, therefore, that the plea of ignorance, on the part of

the British authors and publishers in this system of counterfeits, will not avail, even if it be made. And what other excuse can they offer? If by way of palliative, rather than defense, they say one has done it, and another has done it, and therefore I did it, and it has hitherto passed with impunity-- -though I cannot believe this, will satisfy either the consciences of the wrong-doers, or British public opinion; still, I feel disposed to let it pass as a sort of excuse for the past. But as to the future, is it not my manifest duty to deprive them of this plea? Is it right, supposing I had no personal interest or feeling in the matter, to let this go on? You must be aware that a new and material fact is introduced into the question: you have begun, or are beginning, this system of fraud in America, in New York, at the threshold of my domicile. You carry the war into Africa. An example thus set, if not resisted, will be soon followed, and my name will be as cheap in the United States as in the Three Kingdoms. Can I be held innocent, if I remain silent, and permit the American public to be abused and debauched by the introduction of this system there?

It appears to me there can be but one answer. And even supposing I could waive these considerations, may I not, must I not, as a man having some self-respect, and being besides dependent upon my literary exertions and reputation, resist this inroad upon my rights, and endeavor to throw off this growing incubus upon my name and fame? Such a burden in one hemisphere is enough: must I bear it in both?

It is difficult to reflect on such a subject as this without irritation. Nevertheless I endeavor to school myself into a certain degree of calmness. As to my course in America, the

first step is clear, as I have indicated. But how shall I begin in England? Shall I expose the facts, refer to names, point out the counterfeits and the counterfeiters, and appeal to the moral sense of the people there? This is undoubtedly my right, and a natural indignation suggests that it is my duty. Yet I shrink from such a proceeding. I know that I may bring upon myself many an envenomed shaft; for there may be a powerful interest aroused into activity against me. We all know that in London, as elsewhere, there are mercenary presses, which can be hired to defend a bad cause, and such a defense generally consists in vengeful recrimination.

Now I may not--nay, I do not--fear the result. I will not suspect for a moment, that in so plain a case, the verdict of public opinion in England could be otherwise than favorable to me. Nevertheless, I am a peace-loving man, and do not court the process. I have been often attacked--sometimes very unjustly; yet I have seldom made a reply.

Many years ago, I presided at a convention in Boston, which passed resolutions against International Copyright. As president I signed the proceedings, and thus became the target of many a bitter shaft, hurled at me personally, by the London press, which was then somewhat rabid in its attempt, to force us into the proposed literary partnership. The late Mr. Hood stuck me all over with epithets of ridicule. His books are still published, and are in the popular libraries of the United States, with these passages in full. I have often read them myself, and laughed at them, too, notwithstanding their intrinsic malevolence. Yet, though I had and have an answer to make, and I believe an effective one, I have never thought it worth while to give it to the public. Being in

London, in 1842 I saw Mr. Hood, and suggested to him that there was another side to this question, and he offered me the pages of his magazine for the publication of my views. Yet I did not accept of this; my conviction was that the venom of his attack would die out, and I should be spared the irritation and annoyance, of a controversy, necessarily in some degree personal, inasmuch as I had been personally assailed. Events have shown that I judged rightly. I may add, too, that I am constitutionally anti-pugnacious, and instinctively recoil at the idea of a personal and public discussion. I have no doubt indulged this to the extent of weakness, in respect to the matter in hand, and hence the evil has assumed its present enormity.

And, in addition to this, I dislike to disturb the amicable relations which have long subsisted between you and me; I dislike exceedingly to arraign you before the world, as one of the very leaders--in point of fact, the head and front offender--in what I consider a great public and personal wrong. What I desire is, if possible, to conduct this affair so as to avoid any direct notice of yourself in the appeal to the British public, if I conclude to make it. What I have to propose is, that you now enter into an engagement, henceforth to issue no volume and sell no volume whatever, with Parley's name, of which I am not the acknowledged author; and furthermore, that you make such indemnity to me, and such explanations to the public, as may be deemed right and reasonable by arbitrators between us. If you must publish an annual, put Mr. Martin's name to it, or any other name you choose, only not mine. I am told that you have thriven in business, and that "Parley's Annual" has largely contributed to your

success. Your purse, then, and I hope your feelings, will make this suggestion easy.

If you cannot be persuaded to adopt this line of conduct by the argument against injustice and fraud; if you pay no regard to the influence which a public declaration of the facts may have on your reputation, still, reflect on my position. Many of these counterfeit Parley books are to me nauseous in style, matter, and purpose. According to my taste, they are full of vulgarisms, degrading phrases, and coarse ideas. In some cases they advocate principles which are not mine, and manners and customs I disapprove. This very volume of yours, for 1854, in spite of its gold edges, colored engravings, and embossed binding, is mainly written in a low, bald, and vulgar style; and withal is ridiculous from its affected Parleyisms. Rich outside, it is within smitten with poverty. Yet I am obliged to bear all this. Is it fair, is it neighborly, to treat any one thus?

Remember, I am not speaking hypothetically. My reputation has been attacked, my literary rank degraded, by being made responsible for works I never wrote. The Westminster Review, some years ago, criticised the Parley Books, as sullied by coarse phrases and vulgar Americanisms. Extracts were made to verify this criticism, and yet every extract was from a false book, or a false passage foisted into a true one. Not one line of the damnatory examples did I ever write. Precisely this process of degradation must have been going on against me, for the last dozen years, in the public mind of England, through the influence of your counterfeits.

Is this fair? Will this do? Will you stand by it here and hereafter? Remember, this is a totally different question

from that of International Copyright. I have never complained that you or any other foreign publisher has reprinted my books as I wrote them. Do this, as much as you please; so long as the law remains as it is, such a course is inevitable, on both sides of the water. Alter my books, if you please, and publish them, only stating distinctly what you have done. This is lawful, and I shall not complain of it. In point of fact, you have published at least one book--for that 1 chanced to see--made up nearly, if not quite, of extracts from my works, yet a man by the name of Greene figured in the title-page as the author. I have also seen whole pages of my writings, in your other various publications, the same, by the manner of insertion, appearing as being original there. Of all this, however I might disapprove it, I have never uttered a word of complaint. But what I do complain of, is this: that you take my name, to which I have given currency, in order to sell books I never wrote. You say to the world, Mr. Goodrich, the author of Peter Parley's Tales, wrote this: the world buy it, and judge me accordingly. And thus I am robbed of what to me is property, and at the same time I suffer that other and greater calamity, the loss or damage of a good name. That is my complaint.

If upon this appeal, you assent to my proposition--though I must carry on the proposed prosecution in the United States, if the edition referred to has been sent there--I shall feel that I can afford, so far as the British public are concerned, to make a general and not a particular and specific declaration of the facts herein alluded to. I shall not then need to direct attention personally to you, or to anybody. If, on the contrary, you do not enter into this or some satisfactory arrange-

ment, I shall feel that you have been fairly warned, and that you can not hold me responsible for any annoyance you may suffer from the consequences. I shall, moreover, consider myself at liberty, should I deem it best, to give publicity to this letter. However hastily written, it embodies the substance of my views, and though further publications would doubtless become necessary, this might serve as one link in the chain of my statement.

I am yours truly,

S. G. GOODRICH.

       THE TEACHER'S LESSON.

I saw a child, some four years old,
     Along a meadow stray;
Alone she went, uncheck'd, untold,
     Her home not far away.

She gazed around on earth and sky,
     Now paused and now proceeded;
Hill, valley, wood, she passed them by
     Unmarked, perchance unheeded.

And now gay groups of roses bright
     In circling thickets bound her--
Yet on she went with footsteps light,
     Still gazing all around her.

And now she paused and now she stooped,
     And plucked a little flower;
A simple daisy 'twas, that drooped,
     Within a rosy bower.

The child did kiss the little gem,
     And to her bosom press'd it,
And there she placed the fragile stem,
     And with soft words caressed it.

I love to read a lesson true
     From nature's open book--
And oft I learn a lesson new
     From childhood's careless look.

Children are simple, loving, true--
     'Tis God that made them so;
And would you teach them?--be so, too,
     And stoop to what they know.

Begin with simple lessons, things
     On which they love to look;
Flowers, pebbles, insects, birds on wings--
     These are God's spelling-book!

And children know his A B C,
     As bees where flowers are set:
Wouldst thou a skillful teacher be? 
     Learn then this alphabet.

From leaf to leaf, from page to page,
     Guide thou thy pupil's look;
And when he says, with aspect sage--
     "Who made this wondrous book?"

Point thou with reverend gaze to heaven,
     And kneel in earnest prayer--
That lessons thou hast humbly given
     May lead thy pupil there!

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 humble bee--
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 fall 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 1

M. No; it is too coarse, and unfit to be read or spoken.

T. But it is here in this pretty hook 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, tweddledum,
Twenty-one,
Hink, spink, the puddings stink--"

M. Stop, stop, my son. Are yon 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!

        THE TOAD'S STORY.

Oh, gentle stranger, stop,
And hear poor little Hop
Just sing a simple song,
Which is not very long--
     Hip, hip, hop.

I am an honest toad,
Living here by the road;
Beneath a stone I dwell,
In a snug little cell,
     Hip, hip, hop.

It may seem a sad lot
To live in such a spot--

But what I say is true--
I have fun as well as you!
     Hip, hip, hop.

Just listen to my song--
I sleep all winter long,
But in spring I peep out,
And then I jump about--
     Hip, hip, hop.

When the rain patters down,
I let it wash my crown,
And now and then I sip
A drop with my lip:  
     Hip, hip, hop.

When the bright sun is set,
And the grass with dew is wet,
I sally from my cot,
To see what's to be got,
     Hip, hip, hop.

And now I wink my eye,
And now I catch a fly,
And now I take a peep,
And now and then I sleep:
     Hip, hip, hop.

And this is all I do--
And yet they say it's true,
That the toady's face is sad,
And his bite is very bad!
     Hip, hip, hop.

Oh, naughty folks they be,
That tell such tales of me,
For I'm an honest toad,
Just living by the road:
     Hip, hip, hop!

S. G. GOODRICH AT NEW ORLEANS.

As it may gratify many of our readers, and especially the friends of Peter Parley, we give in full the proceedings at New Orleans, which took place on the 28th of February last. The following is the report as published in the New Orleans Commercial Times of March 2d:

Compliment to Mr. Goodrich, the author of Parley's Tales.--Our fellow-citizens are already aware that soon after Mr. Goodrich's arrival in our city, a large subscription, by our leading gentlemen, was filled, with a view to give him the compliment of a public dinner. But Mr. Goodrich's stay being too short

to allow of completing these arrangements, advantage was taken of the polite offer of Alfred Hennen, Esq., to give him a public reception at his house, under the auspices of the officers of the People's Lyceum, and some of our most prominent citizens. Accordingly, the ceremony took place on Saturday the 28th, between twelve and three o'clock. During this period there was assembled an immense crowd of children, mothers, teachers, and friends of education, eager to give the author of Parley's Tales a hearty welcome. Among the throng we noticed Mr. Clay, the Governor and Lieutenant-governor, Mayor, Recorder Speaker of the House, and several members of the legislature. The scene was one of the most cheerful and agreeable we ever witnessed. While the leading visitors were present, the following address, in substance, was made by M. M. Cohen, Esq., President of the People's Lyceum:

"Mr. Goodrich, or, as we all love to call you, Peter Parley--The too kind partiality of indulgent friends of yours, has induced them to select me as their organ to address you on the present occasion. Their request was this morning conveyed to me on my way to the Commercial Court, where I have been engaged in a very dull, dry law case. The judge of that court has been pleased to allow me a few minutes to run up here and to say something to you, though what that something is, I have not yet any very clear perception. I can only hope, sir, that you have a much more assured knowledge of the reply which you are about to make to such remarks as I may offer, than I have at present of what my remarks may be. Yet, though I am wholly unprepared for the occasion, I should pity the heart that could remain so cold and callous to every noble emotion, as not to gather warmth and inspiration from the beaming eyes of beautiful mothers and the glad faces of happy children, smiling around us. But, sir, I am here as the representative of others, and will say to you what I presume they would say, if all were to speak at once.

"Permit me, then, in behalf of these friends and fellow-

citizens, and what is more, and much better and brighter--in behalf of 'our better halves'--the ladies, God bless 'em!--to express the pleasure they derive from your visit to New Orleans, to welcome you to this hospitable mansion of our enlightened host, Mr. Hennen, on this the last day of your sojourn in our city. Let me assure you how glad and grateful they all are of this opportunity, which enables them--as is the expression in some parts of our country--to 'put your face to your name,' and to say to your face what they have so often said behind your back--that they regard you as a blessed benefactor to the youth of the rising generation, as one who has emphatically earned the proud and endearing appellation of 'l'Ami des Enfans.'

"For, sir, who knows into how many thousand habitations in the United States Peter Parley's works have found their way, and made the hearts of the inmates glad, and kept them pure? Who can tell how oft, in the humble cottage of the poor, sorrow has been soothed and labor lightened, as the fond mother read to her listening child Peter Parley's Tales, while tears of pity started in their glistening eyes, or pleasure shook their infant frames?

"I have just alluded, sir, to the genial influence of your works in the United States. The immortal bard of Avon has said--

"'How far that little candle throws his beams!
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.'

But your name has crossed the Atlantic; and, in the hope of instilling into the minds of the youth now present a salutary proof how far good works will travel, permit me to read to them the following note, which has just been handed to me:

"To this note I will only add that, not a moment ago, a gentleman from Greece assured me that your works were well known in his country, and one from England has just declared that although he learned to-day, for the first time, that Peter Parley was an American, yet that his books were known and admired all over Great Britain.

"You came, sir, to New Orleans unheralded, unannounced--nor military guards, nor glittering arms, nor streaming banners, nor artillery, accompanied your steps. Neither trumpets' clangor, nor cannon's roar, nor ear-piercing fife, nor spirit-stirring drum gave token of your arrival. A plain citizen you had been in your beautiful brown cottage near Boston--at once the cradle of liberty and of literature--in slippers and night-cap, carving out with the pen a better immortality than military chieftains achieve with the sword 1 There, at Jamaica Plain, you were writing for young misses and masters little Peter Parley stories, and you all the while little dreaming of what a great man you were becoming--

"'Great, not like Cæsar, stained with blood--
But only great as you are good.'

"Farewell, sir, and when you leave us, be sure that when 'the curfew tolls the knell of parting day'--or in plainer words, Mr. Parley, when little boys and girls have had their bread and milk and are going to bed, and when church-bells ring to Sunday-school--then will

"'Infant hands be raised in prayer,
That God may bless you and may spare.'

"Once more, farewell! May you live long years of happiness,

as you must of honor; and when you die, may your 'works,' in one sense, not 'follow after' you, but remain on earth, to profit and delight, and be, like your fame, immortal!"

To which Mr. Goodrich replied as follows:

"Mr. President--It would be idle affectation in me to pretend that this cheerful spectacle, your kind and nattering words, the welcome in these faces around, are not a source of the liveliest gratification to myself personally. Yet, if I were to regard this occasion as designed merely to bestow npon me a passing compliment, on my first visit to the Crescent City, I should feel a degree of humiliation--for it would force me to consider how little I have achieved, compared with what remains to he done, and how disproportioned are these manifestations of regard to any merits which I can presume to claim. From the moment I set my foot in New Orleans, I have been greeted by a succession of agreeable surprises; and nothing has interested me more than the enlightened state of public opinion which I find to exist here in respect to popular education. I am at no loss to discover, in the hospitality with which I have been greeted, a lively appreciation of the great subject to which my humble labors in life have been directed; and it adds to my gratification to find this deeper meaning in the present scene.

"Considering the position of New Orleans, I have looked with peculiar satisfaction upon your public schools. Some of them would be deemed excellent in any part of New England--nay, in Boston itself. Nor is this all; these institutions, as I learn, are mainly supported by the popular vote--by self-taxation. This marks a great advance in civilization, and insures, from this time forward, a constant progress toward perfection. There is always a sharp contest between light and darkness, between ignorance and knowledge, before the mass of society will come up to the work, and support public instruction at the public expense. That battle has been fought here, and it has resulted in the triumph of truth and humanity. There is, if I may be permitted the allusion, a closer association between Plymouth

Rock and Sew Orleans than I had imagined. You have here both faith and works. Your schools declare that the wise and philanthropic social principles of the Pilgrims have taken root in the midst of a city signalized over the world by the extent and activity of its commerce.

"Nor is this subject only to be viewed as it respects New Orleans itself. If I rightly judge, you have a mission to perform even beyond this. The Crescent City is indeed the favorite daughter of the great Father of Waters, into whose lap he pours his unmeasured harvests. It is the commercial emporium of the finest valley on the globe, receiving a tribute which, no one can estimate who has not looked upon your wondrous levee. yet it is and is to be, perhaps for centuries to come, even something more--the metropolis of opinion, of fashion--giving social law to the millions of to-day, and the millions which are to follow in the boundless West. If we consider the ascendency which New Orleans has already acquired, especially in comparison with the infancy of many of our southwestern settlements, it is surely not extravagant to regard her influence and example, in many things, as likely to be little less than decisive. We may, therefore, consider the Mississippi under the image of a mighty tree, whose foot is on the verge of the tropics, while its tops are playing with the snows of the icy north. New Orleans stands at the root, and must furnish the sap, at least to some extent, which circulates through branches that spread over a surface equal to one-half the extent of Europe, and thus giving character, for good or ill, to the fruit that may follow. In this view, your position becomes intensely interesting, and it may serve to give added impulse to that patriotism and philanthropy which are at work among you.

"As I see around me some of your public functionaries--the master-minds of the State--and as, moreover, the subject of public instruction is occupying the attention of the legislature, assembled under your new constitution, I may be excused for saying a few words, of a general nature, upon this topic. It

might sound trite and common-place, if I were to say that education is the only ladder by which mankind can ascend from barbarism to civilization, from ignorance to knowledge, from darkness to light, from, earth to heaven. Yet, if this be true, can public men--rulers and lawgivers--be excused, if they seek not to furnish this ladder to every individual in the State? And let them bear in mind that the controlling lessons of life are given in childhood. Men are hard, and repel instruction. Youth is plastic, and readily takes the impress of the die that is set upon it. If a giant should undertake to give symmetry of form to the aged oak, he might momentarily subdue its gnarled and jagged branches to his will; but if they fly not back and strike him in the face, ere to-morrow's sun every limb and fiber will have returned to its wonted position. Thus it is that, in dealing with grown-up, obdurate men, the highest talent exerted for their good is often baffled, and perhaps repaid by ingratitude or reproach. On the other hand, how different is it with youth! Like saplings in the nursery, they readily take the form or character which a kindly hand may bestow. The humble gardener, only able to carry a watering-pot in one hand and a pruning-knife in the other, may rear up a whole forest of trees, beautiful in form, and productive of the choicest fruits. What field so wide, so promising, in every point of view so inviting, so worthy the attention of the patriot and statesman, as the national nursery, budding by millions into life and immortality?

"I should not be excused, were I to omit saying a few words to the mothers here present. From the moment that a woman becomes a mother, we all know that dearer interests than houses or lands are henceforth invested in the offspring. How hopeful, how fearful, are her duties now! Washington and Napoleon, Howard and Robespierre, were children once, and each upon a mother's knee. What mighty issues for good or ill are before the mother, in the possible consequences of the education she may give her child! Yet I would not lay upon her heart a responsibility which might seem too great to bear. The best of

books as well as universal experience, are full of encouragement to the faithful mother. If she performs her duty, God and nature take her part. She is the first divinity before which the budding spirit worships. The lessons which are gathered then, are likely to exert a controlling influence upon its after destiny. The child may be compared to a stream, and the parent to the mother earth over which it flows. She may not, can not stop its progress, but she may guide its course. She may trace out a channel in which it will be prone to flow, and after having fertilized and blessed its borders, it will find its way in peace to the great reservoir of waters. If, on the contrary, the mother neglect or misguide her offspring, it may, like a torrent, rush on, and after spreading desolation on every side, disappear in some sandy desert, or lose itself amid dreary and pestilent marshes.

"And now, one word to my juvenile friends--those who have received me with such winning smiles--one word to them. I dare not begin to tell them stories in the character of their old friend Peter Parley, for I should not know where to leave off. But let me repeat what I said to those whom I met the other day--on the celebration of Washington's birthday--come and see me when you visit Boston! You will find me in a brown house, some four miles out of town, in a pleasant village called Jamaica Plain. Come one and come all, and be assured of a hearty welcome. And that you may bring some sign that we have met before, please remember these lines--

"Ne'er till to-morrow's light delay
What may as well be done to-day--
Ne'er do the thing you'd wish undone,
Viewed by to-morrow's rising sun.

"If you will practise according to these verses, you will not only gratify your old friend who addresses you, but you will win the world's favor. Farewell!"