Amos Bronson Alcott

"Sweet country life, to such unknown

Whose lives are others, not their own,

But serving courts and cities, be

Less happy, less enjoying thee."

—Herrick.

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RURAL AFFAIRS

Monday, 3.

Fair spring days, the farmers beginning the planting of the season's crops. One cannot well forego the pleasures which the culture of a garden affords. He must have a little spot upon which to bestow his affections, and own his affinities with earth and sky. The profits in a pecuniary way may be inconsiderable, but the pleasures are rewarding. Formerly I allowed neither hoe, spade, nor rake, not handled by myself, to approach my plants. But when one has put his garden within covers, to be handled in a book, he fancies he has earned the privilege of delegating the tillage thereafter, in part, to other hands, and may please himself with its superintendence; especially when he is so fortunate as to secure the services of any who can take their orders without debate, and execute them with dispatch; and if he care to compare opinions with them, find they have views of their own, and respect for his. And the more agreeable if they have a pleasant humor and the piety of lively spirits.

"In laborer's ballads oft more piety

God finds than in Te Deum's melody."

"When our ancestors," says Cato, "praised a good man, they called him a good agriculturist and a good husbandman; he was thought to be greatly honored who was thus praised."

Without his plot of ground for tillage and ornamentation, a countryman seems out of place, its culture and keeping being the best occupation for keeping himself wholesome and sweet. The garden is the tie uniting man and nature. How civic an orchard shows in a clearing,—a garden in a prairie, as if nature waited for man to arrive and complete her, by converting the wild into the human, and thus to marry beauty and utility on the spot! A house, too, without garden or orchard, is unfurnished, incomplete, does not fulfil our ideas of the homestead, but stands isolate, defiant in its individualism, with a savage, slovenly air, and distance, that lacks softening and blending with the surrounding landscape. Besides, it were tantalizing to note the natural advantages of one's grounds, and at the same time be unskilful to complete what nature has sketched for the hand of art to adorn and idealize. With a little skill, good taste, and small outlay of time and pains, one may render any spot a pretty paradise of beauty and comfort,—if these are not one in due combination, and not for himself only, but for those who shall inherit when he shall have left it. The rightful ownership in the landscape is born of one's genius, partakes of his essence thus wrought with the substance of the soil, the structures which he erects thereon. Whoever enriches and adorns the smallest spot, lives not in vain. For him the poet sings, the moralist points his choicest periods.

I know of nothing better suited to inspire a taste for rural affairs than a Gardener's Almanac, containing matters good to be known by country people. All the more attractive the volume if tastefully illustrated, and contain reprints of select pastoral verses, biographies, with portraits of those who have written on country affairs, and lists of their works. The old herbals, too, with all their absurdities, are still tempting books, and contain much information important for the countryman to possess.3

Cowley and Evelyn are of rural authors the most attractive. Cowley's Essays are delightful reading. Nor shall I forgive his biographer for destroying the letters of a man of whom King Charles said at his interment in Westminster Abbey, "Mr.Cowley has not left a better in England." The friend and correspondent of the most distinguished poets, statesmen, and gentlemen of his time, himself the first poet of his day, his letters must have been most interesting and important, and but for the unsettled temper of affairs, would doubtless have been added to our polite literature.

Had King Charles remembered Cowley's friend Evelyn, the compliment both to the living and dead would have been just. Evelyn was the best of citizens and most loyal of subjects. A complete list of his writings shows to what excellent uses he gave himself. The planter of forests in his time, he might be profitably consulted as regards the replanting of New England now.

Respecting his planting, and the origin of his Sylva, he writes to his friend, Lady Sunderland, August, 1690:—

"As to the Kalendar your ladyship mentions, whatever assistance it may be to some novice gardener, sure I am his lordship will find nothing in it worth his notice, but an old inclination to an innocent diversion; and the acceptance it found with my dear, and while he lived, worthy friend, Mr.Cowley; upon whose reputation only it has survived seven impressions, and is now entering on the eighth, with some considerable improvement more agreeable to the present curiosity. 'Tis now, Madam, almost forty years since I first writ it, when horticulture was not much advanced in England, and near thirty years since it was published, which consideration will, I hope, excuse its many defects. If in the meantime it deserve the name of no unuseful trifle, 'tis all it is capable of.

"When, many years ago, I came from rambling abroad, and a great deal more since I came home than gave me much satisfaction, and, as events have proved, scarce worth one's pursuit, I cast about how I should employ the time which hangs on most young men's hands, to the best advantage; and, when books and grave studies grew tedious, and other impertinence would be pressing, by what innocent diversions I might sometimes relieve myself without compliance to recreations I took no felicity in, because they did not contribute to any improvement of mind. This set me upon planting of trees, and brought forth my Sylva, which book, infinitely beyond my expectations, is now also calling for a fourth impression, and has been the occasion of propagating many millions of useful timber trees throughout this nation, as I may justify without immodesty, from many letters of acknowledgement received from gentlemen of the first quality, and others altogether strangers to me. His late Majesty, Charles II, was sometimes graciously pleased to take notice of it to me; and that I had by that book alone incited a world of planters to repair their broken estates and woods which the greedy rebels had wasted and made such havoc of. Upon encouragement, I was once speaking to a mighty man then in despotic power to mention the great inclination I had to serve his majesty in a little office then newly vacant (the salary I think hardly £300), whose province was to inspect the timber trees in his majesty's forests, etc., and take care of their culture and improvement; but this was conferred upon another, who, I believe, had seldom been out of the smoke of London, where, though there was a great deal of timber, there were not many trees. I confess I had an inclination to the employment upon a public account as well as its being suitable to my rural genius, born as I was, at Watton, among woods.

"Soon after this, happened the direful conflagration of this city, when, taking notice of our want of books of architecture in the English tongue, I published those most useful directions of ten of the best authors on that subject, whose works were very rarely to be had, all written in French, Latin, or Italian, and so not intelligible to our mechanics. What the fruit of that labor and cost has been, (for the sculptures, which are elegant, were very chargeable,) the great improvement of our workmen and several impressions of the copy since will best testify.

"In this method I thought proper to begin planting trees, because they would require time for growth, and be advancing to delight and shade at least, and were, therefore, by no means to be neglected and deferred, while buildings might be raised and finished in a summer or two, if the owner pleased.

"Thus, Madam, I endeavored to do my countrymen some little service, in as natural an order as I could for the improving and adorning of their estates and dwellings, and, if possible, make them in love with those useful and innocent pleasures, in exchange for a wasteful and ignoble sloth which I had observed so universally corrupted an ingenious education.

"To these I likewise added my little history of Chalcography, a treatise of the perfection of painting and of libraries, medals, with some other intermesses which might divert within doors as well as altogether without."

3. To the list of ancient authors, as Cato, Columella, Varro, Palladius, Virgil, Theocritus, Tibullus, selections might be added from Cowley, Marlowe, Browne, Spenser, Tusser, Dyer, Phillips, Shenstone, Cowper, Thomson, and others less known. Evelyn's works are of great value, his Kalendarium Hortense particularly. And for showing the state of agriculture and of the language in his time, Tusser's Five Hundred Points of Husbandry is full of information, while his quaint humor adds to his rugged rhymes a primitive charm. Then of the old herbals, Gerard's is best known. He was the father of English herbalists, and had a garden attached to his house in Holbern. Coles published his Adam in Eden, the Paradise of Plants, in 1659; Austin his Treatise on Fruit Trees ten years earlier. Dr.Holland's translation of the School of Salerne, or the Regiment of Health, appeared in 1649. Thos.Tryon wrote on the virtues of plants, and on health, about the same time, and his works are very suggestive and valuable. Miller, gardener to the Chelsea Gardens, gave the first edition of his Gardener's Dictionary to the press in 1731. Sir William Temple also wrote sensibly on herbs. Cowley's Six Books of Plants was published in English in 1708. Phillips' History of Cultivated Plants, etc., published in 1822, is a book of great merit. So is Culpepper's Herbal.

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PASTORALS.

Saturday, 8.

False were the muse, did she not bring

Our village poet's offering—

Haunts, fields, and groves, weaving his rhymes,

Leaves verse and fame to coming times.

Is it for the reason that rural life here in New England furnishes nothing for pastoral verse, that our poets have as yet produced so little? Yet we cannot have had almost three centuries' residence on this side of the Atlantic, with old England's dialect, traditions, and customs still current in our rural districts for perspective, not to have so adorned life and landscape with poetic associations as to have neither honey nor dew for hiving in sweet and tender verse, though it should fall short of the antique or British models. Our fields and rivers, brooks and groves, the rural occupations of country-folk, have not been undeserving of being celebrated in appropriate verse. Our forefathers delighted in Revolutionary lore. We celebrate natural scenery, legends of foreign climes, historic events, but rarely indulge in touches of simple country life. And the idyls of New England await their poet, unless the following verses announce his arrival:—

NEW ENGLAND.

"My country, 'tis for thee I strike the lyre;

My country, wide as is the free wind's flight,

I prize New England as she lights her fire

In every Prairie's midst; and where the bright

Enchanting stars shine pure through Southern night,

She still is there the guardian on the tower,

To open for the world a purer hour.

"Could they but know the wild enchanting thrill

That in our homely houses fills the heart,

To feel how faithfully New England's will

Beats in each artery, and each small part

Of this great Continent, their blood would start

In Georgia, or where Spain once sat in state,

Or Texas, with her lone star, desolate.

•••••

"'Tis a New-England thought, to make this land

The very home of Freedom, and the nurse

"Of each sublime emotion; she does stand

Between the sunny South, and the dread curse

Of God, who else should make her hearse

Of condemnation to this Union's life,—

She stands to heal this plague, and banish strife.

"I do not sing of this, but hymn the day

That gilds our cheerful villages and plains,

Our hamlets strewn at distance on the way,

Our forests and the ancient streams' domains;

We are a band of brothers, and our pains

Are freely shared; no beggar in our roads,

Content and peace within our fair abodes.

"In my small cottage on the lonely hill,

Where like a hermit I must bide my time,

Surrounded by a landscape lying still

All seasons through as in the winter's prime,

Rude and as homely as these verses chime,

I have a satisfaction which no king

Has often felt, if Fortune's happiest thing.

"'Tis not my fortune, which is meanly low,

'Tis not my merit that is nothing worth,

'Tis not that I have stores of thought below

Which everywhere should build up heaven on earth;

Nor was I highly favored in my birth;

Few friends have I, and they are much to me,

Yet fly above my poor society.

"But all about me live New-England men,

Their humble houses meet my daily gaze,—

The children of this land where Life again

Flows like a great stream in sunshiny ways,

This is a joy to know them, and my days

Are filled with love to meditate on them,—

These native gentlemen on Nature's hem.

"That I could take one feature of their life,

Then on my page a mellow light should shine;

Their days are holidays, with labor rife,

Labor the song of praise that sounds divine,

And better, far, than any hymn of mine;

The patient Earth sets platters for their food,

Corn, milk, and apples, and the best of good.

"See here no shining scenes for artist's eye,

This woollen frock shall make no painter's fame;

These homely tools all burnishing deny;

The beasts are slow and heavy, still or tame;

The sensual eye may think this labor lame;

'Tis in the man where lies the sweetest art,

His true endeavor in his earnest part.

•••••

"He meets the year confiding; no great throws,

That suddenly bring riches, does he use,

But like Thor's hammer vast, his patient blows

Vanquish his difficult tasks, he does refuse

To tread the path, nor know the way he views;

No sad complaining words he uttereth,

But draws in peace a free and easy breath.

•••••

"This man takes pleasure o'er the crackling fire,

His glittering axe subdued the monarch oak,

He earned the cheerful blaze by something higher

Than pensioned blows,—he owned the tree he stroke,

And knows the value of the distant smoke

When he returns at night, his labor done,

Matched in his action with the long day's sun.

•••••

"I love these homely mansions, and to me

A farmer's house seems better than a king's;

The palace boasts its art, but liberty

And honest pride and toil are splendid things;

They carved this clumsy lintel, and it brings

The man upon its front; Greece hath her art,—

But this rude homestead shows the farmer's heart.

"I love to meet him on the frozen road,

How manly is his eye, as clear as air;—

He cheers his beasts without the brutal goad,

His face is ruddy, and his features fair;

His brave good-day sounds like an honest prayer;

This man is in his place and feels his trust,—

'Tis not dull plodding through the heavy crust.

"And when I have him at his homely hearth,

Within his homestead, where no ornament

Glows on the mantel but his own true worth,

I feel as if within an Arab's tent

His hospitality is more than meant;

I there am welcome, as the sunlight is,

I must feel warm to be a friend of his.

•••••

"How many brave adventures with the cold,

Built up the cumberous cellar of plain stone;

How many summer heats the bricks did mould,

That make the ample fireplace, and the tone

Of twice a thousand winds sing through the zone

Of rustic paling round the modest yard,—

These are the verses of this simple bard.

"Who sings the praise of Woman in our clime?

I do not boast her beauty or her grace;

Some humble duties render her sublime,

She the sweet nurse of this New-England race,

The flower upon the country's sterile face,

The mother of New England's sons, the pride

Of every house where these good sons abide.

"There is a Roman splendor in her smile,

A tenderness that owes its depth to toil;

Well may she leave the soft voluptuous wile

That forms the woman of a softer soil;

She does pour forth herself a fragrant oil

Upon the dark austerities of Fate,

And make a garden else all desolate.

"From early morn to fading eve she stands,

Labor's best offering on the shrine of worth,

And Labor's jewels glitter on her hands,

To make a plenty out of partial dearth,

To animate the heaviness of earth,

To stand and serve serenely through the pain,

To nurse a vigorous race and ne'er complain.

"New-England women are New-England's pride,

'Tis fitting they should be so, they are free,—

Intelligence doth all their acts decide,

Such deeds more charming than old ancestry.

I could not dwell beside them, and not be

Enamored of them greatly; they are meant

To charm the Poet, by their pure intent.

"A natural honest bearing of their lot,

Cheerful at work, and happy when 'tis done;

They shine like stars within the humblest cot,

And speak for freedom centred all in one.

From every river's side I hear the son

Of some New-England woman answer me,

'Joy to our Mothers, who did make us free.'

"And when those wanderers turn to home again,

See the familiar village, and the street

Where they once frolicked, they are less than men

If in their eyes the tear-drops do not meet,

To feel how soon their mothers they shall greet:

Sons of New England have no dearer day,

Than once again within those arms to lay.

"These are her men and women; this the sight

That greets me daily when I pass their homes;

It is enough to love, it throws some light

Over the gloomiest hours; the fancy roams

No more to Italy or Greece; the loams

Whereon we tread are sacred by the lives

Of those who till them, and our comfort thrives.

"Here might one pass his days, content to be

The witness of those spectacles alway;

Bring if you may your treasure from the sea,

My pride is in my Townsmen, where the day

Rises so fairly on a race who lay

Their hopes on Heaven after their toil is o'er,

Upon this rude and bold New-England shore.

"Vainly ye pine woods rising on the height

Should lift your verdant boughs and cones aloft;

Vainly ye winds should surge around in might,

Or murmur o'er the meadow stanzas soft;

To me should nothing yield or lake or crost,

Had not the figures of the pleasant scene

Like trees and fields an innocent demean.

"I feel when I am here some pride elate,

Proud of your presence who do duty here,

For I am some partaker of your fate,

Your manly anthem vibrates in my ear;

Your hearts are heaving unconsumed by fear;

Your modest deeds are constantly supplied;

Your simpler truths by which you must abide.

"Therefore I love a cold and flinty realm,

I love the sky that hangs New England o'er,

And if I were embarked, and at the helm

I ran my vessel on New England's shore,

And dashed upon her crags, would live no more,

Rather than go seek those lands of graves

Where men who tread the fields are cowering slaves."

W. Ellery Channing.

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CONVERSATION.

Monday, 17.

If one would learn the views of some of our most thoughtful New-England men and women, he will find their fullest and freshest expression in the discussions of the Radical Club. Almost every extreme of Liberalism is there represented, and its manners and methods are as various as the several members who take part in the readings and conversations. It is assumed that all subjects proposed for discussion are open to the freest consideration, and that each is entitled to have the widest scope and hospitality allowed it. Truth is spherical, and seen differently according to the culture, temperament, and disposition of those who survey it from their individual standpoint. Of two or more sides, none can be absolutely right, and conversation fails if it find not the central truth from which all radiate. Debate is angular, conversation circular and radiant of the underlying unity. Who speaks deeply excludes all possibility of controversy. His affirmation is self-sufficient: his assumption final, absolute.

Yes, yes, I see it must be so,

The Yes alone resolves the No.

Thus holding himself above the arena of dispute, he gracefully settles a question by speaking so home to the core of the matter as to undermine the premise upon which an issue had been taken. For whoso speaks to the Personality drives beneath the grounds of difference, and deals face to face with principles and ideas.4Good discourse sinks differences and seeks agreements. It avoids argument, by finding a common basis of agreement; and thus escapes controversy, by rendering it superfluous. Pertinent to the platform, debate is out of place in the parlor. Persuasion is the better weapon in this glittering game.

Nothing rarer than great conversation, nothing more difficult to prompt and guide. Like magnetism, it obeys its own hidden laws, sympathies, antipathies, is sensitive to the least breath of criticism. It requires natural tact, a familiarity with these fine laws, long experience, a temperament predisposed to fellowship, to hold high the discourse by keeping the substance of things distinctly in view throughout the natural windings of the dialogue. Many can argue, not many converse. Real humility is rare everywhere and at all times. If women have the larger share, and venture less in general conversation, it may be from the less confidence, not in themselves, but in those who have hitherto assumed the lead, even in matters more specially concerning woman. Few men are diffident enough to speak beautifully and well on the finest themes.

Conversation presupposes a common sympathy in the subject, a great equality in the speakers; absence of egotism, a tender criticism of what is spoken. 'Tis this great equality and ingenuousness that renders this game of questions so charming and entertaining, and the more that it invites the indefinable complement of sex. Only where the sexes are brought into sympathy, is conversation possible. Where women are, men speak best; for the most part, below themselves, where women are not. And the like holds presumably of companies composed solely of women.

Good discourse wins from the bashful and discreet what they have to speak, but would not, without this provocation. The forbidding faces are Fates to overbear and blemish true fellowship. We give what we are, not necessarily what we know; nothing more, nothing less, and only to our kind, those playing best their parts who have the nimblest wits, taking out the egotism, the nonsense; putting wisdom, information, in their place. Humor to dissolve, and wit to fledge your theme, if you will rise out of commonplace; any amount of erudition, eloquence of phrase, scope of comprehension; figure and symbol sparingly but fitly. Who speaks to the eye, speaks to the whole mind.

Most people are too exclusively individual for conversing. It costs too great expenditure of magnetism to dissolve them; who cannot leave himself out of his discourse, but embarrasses all who take part in it. Egotists cannot converse, they talk to themselves only.

Conversation with plain people proves more agreeable and profitable, usually, than with companies more pretentious and critical. It is wont to run the deeper and stronger without impertinent interruptions, inevitable where cultivated egotism and self-assurance are present with such. There remains this resource, of ignoring civilly the interruption, and proceeding as if the intrusion had not been interposed.

"Oft when the wise

Appears not wise, he works the greater good."

"Never allow yourself," said Goethe, "to be betrayed into a dispute. Wise men fall into ignorance if they dispute with ignorant men." Persuasion is the finest artillery. It is the unseen guns that do execution without smoke or tumult. If one cannot win by force of wit, without cannonade of abuse, flourish of trumpet, he is out of place in parlors, ventures where he can neither forward nor grace fellowship. The great themes are feminine, and to be dealt with delicately. Debate is masculine; conversation is feminine.

Here is a piece of excellent counsel from Plotinus:—

"And this may everywhere be considered, that he who pursues our form of philosophy, will, besides all other graces, genuinely exhibit simple and venerable manners, in conjunction with the possession of wisdom, and will endeavor not to become insolent or proud, but will possess confidence, accompanied with reason, with sincerity and candor, and great circumspection."

4. "Dialectics treat of pure thought and of the method of arriving at it. A current misapprehension on the subject of dialectics here presents itself. Most people understand it to mean argument, and they believe that truths may be arrived at and held by such argument placed in due logical form. They demand the proof of an assertion, and imply something of weakness in the reasoning power in those who fail to give this. It is well to understand what proof means. Kant has shown us in his Critique of Pure Reason, that the course of all such ratiocination is a movement in a circle. One assumes in his premises what he wishes to prove, and then unfolds it as the result. The assumptions are in all cases mere sides of antinomies or opposite theses, each of which has validity and may be demonstrated against the other. Thus the debater moves round and round and presupposes one-sided premises which must be annulled before he can be in a state to perceive the truth. Argument of this kind the accomplished dialectician never engages in; it is simply egotism when reduced to its lowest terms. The question assumed premises that were utterly inadmissible.

"The process of true proof does not proceed in the manner of argumentation; it does not assume its whole result in its premises, which are propositions of reflection, and then draw them out syllogistically. Speculative truth is never contained analytically in any one or in all of such propositions of reflection. It is rather the negative of them, and hence is transcendent in its entire procedure. It rises step by step, synthetically, through the negation of the principle assumed at the beginning, until, finally, the presupposition of all is reached. It is essentially a going from the part to the whole. Whatever is seized by the dialectic is turned on its varied sides, and careful note is made of its defects, i. e. what it lacks within itself to make it possible. That which it implies is added to it, as belonging to its totality, and thus onward progress is made until the entire comprehension of its various phases is attained. The ordinary analytic proof is seen to be shallow after more or less experience in it. The man of insight sees that it is a 'child's play,—a mere placing of the inevitable dogmatism a step or two back—that is all. Real speculation proceeds synthetically beyond what it finds inadequate, until it reaches the adequate.'"

Wm. T. Harris.

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MARGARET FULLER.

Thursday, 20.

Horace Greeley has just issued from the "Tribune" office a uniform edition of Margaret Fuller's works, together with her Memoirs first published twenty years ago. And now, while woman is the theme of public discussion, her character and writings may be studied to advantage. The sex has had no abler advocate. Her book entitled "Woman in the Nineteenth Century" anticipated most of the questions now in the air, and the leaders in the movement for woman's welfare might take its counsels as the text for their action. Her methods, too, suggest the better modes of influence. That she wrote books is the least of her merits. She was greatest when she dropped her pen. She spoke best what others essayed to say, and what women speak best. Hers was a glancing logic that leaped straight to the sure conclusion; a sibylline intelligence that divined oracularly; knew by anticipation; in the presence always, the open vision. Alas, that so much should have been lost to us, and this at the moment when it seemed we most needed and could profit by it! Was it some omen of that catastrophe which gave her voice at times the tones of a sadness almost preternatural? What figure were she now here in times and triumphs like ours! She seemed to have divined the significance of woman, dared where her sex had hesitated hitherto, was gifted to untie social knots which the genius of a Plato even failed to disentangle. "Either sex alone," he said, "was but half itself." Yet he did not complement the two in honorable marriage in his social polity. "If a house be rooted in wrong," says Euripides, "it will blossom in vice." As the oak is cradled in the acorn's cup, so the state in the family. Domestic licentiousness saps every institution, the morals of the community at large,—a statement trite enough, but till it is no longer needful to be made is the commonwealth established on immovable foundations.

"Revere no God whom men adore by night."

Let the sexes be held to like purity of morals, and equal justice meted to them for any infraction of the laws of social order. Women are the natural leaders of society in whatever concerns private morals, lead where it were safe for men to follow. About the like number as of men, doubtless, possess gifts to serve the community at large; while most women, as most men, will remain private citizens, fulfilling private duties. Her vote as such will tell for personal purity, for honor, temperance, justice, mercy, peace,—the domestic virtues upon which communities are founded, and in which they must be firmly rooted to prosper and endure. The unfallen souls are feminine.

Crashaw's Ideal Woman should win the love and admiration of her sex as well as ours.

CHILDHOOD.

Sunday, 23.

My little grandsons visit me at this becoming season of birds and apple blossoms. They accompany me to the brook, and are pleased with their willow whistles and sail-boats,—toys delightful to childhood from the first. Their manners, that first of accomplishments, delight us in return, showing that the sense of beauty has dawned and their culture fairly begun. 'Tis a culture to watch them through their days' doings. Endless their fancies and engagements. What arts, accomplishments, graces, are woven in their playful panorama; the scene shifting with the mood, and all in keeping with the laws of thought and of things. Verily, there are invisible players playing their parts through these pretty puppets all day long.

To conceive a child's acquirements as originating in nature, dating from his birth into his body, seems an atheism that only a shallow metaphysical theology could entertain in a time of such marvellous natural knowledge as ours. "I shall never persuade myself," said Synesius, "to believe my soul to be of like age with my body." And yet we are wont to date our birth, as that of the babes we christen, from the body's advent so duteously inscribed in our family registers, as if time and space could chronicle the periods of the immortal mind, and mark its longevity by our chronometers.5 Only a God could inspire a child with the intimations seen in its first pulse-plays; the sprightly attainments of a single day's doings afford the liveliest proofs of an omniscient Deity revealing his attributes in the motions of the little one! Nor is maternity less a special inspiration throbbing ceaselessly with childhood as a protecting Providence, lifelong. Comes not the mother to make the Creator's word sure that all he has made is verily good? For without mother and wife, what more than a rough outline of divinity were drawn? "That man," says Euripides, "hath made his fortune who hath married a good wife." For what would some of us have accomplished, what should we have not done, misdone, without her counsels to temper our adventurous idealism? Heaven added a new power to creation when it sent woman into it to complete what He had designed.

When one becomes indifferent to women, to children and young people, he may know that he is superannuated, and has withdrawn from whatsoever is sweetest and purest in human existence. One of the happiest rewards of age is the enjoyment of children. And when these inherit one's better gifts and graces, sinking the worse, or omitting them altogether, what can be added to fill the cup of parental gratitude and delight? I fail to comprehend how the old and young folks are to enjoy a future heaven together, unless they have learned to partake in the enjoyments of this. Shall we picture future separate heavens for them?

The family is the sensitive plant of civility, the measure of culture. Take the census of the homes, and you have the sum total of character and civilization in any community. Sown in the family, the seeds of holiness are here to be cherished and ripened for immortality. Here is the seminary of the virtues, the graces, accomplishments, that adorn and idealize existence. From this college we graduate for better or for worse. This faculty of the affections, this drinking freshly at the springs of genius and sensibility, this intimacy with the loveliest and best in life, is the real schooling, the truest discipline, without which neither mind nor heart flourish; all other advantages being of secondary account; wealth, wit, beauty, social position, books, travel, fellowships, are but sounding names, opportunities of inferior importance, compared with this endowment of personal influences.

Here, in this atmosphere of love and sympathy, character thrives and ripens. And were the skill for touching its tender sensibilities, calling forth its budding gifts, equal to the charms the child has for us, what noble characters would graduate from our families,—the community receiving its members accomplished in the Personal graces, the state its patriots, the church its saints, all glorifying the race. One day the highest culture of the choicest gifts will be deemed essential to the heads of families, and the arts of nurture and of culture honored as the art of arts.

"Boys are dear to divinity," dear to all mankind. What more charming than to watch the dawning intelligence, clearing itself from the mists which obscure its vision of the world into which it has but lately entered? The more attractive, since a fine sentiment then mingles mythically with the freshness of thought, confuses the sexes, as if the boy were being transformed into the girl, first entering her wider world of affection; and the girl in turn were being metamorphosed into the boy, first becoming conscious of the newer world of intellect; each entering, by instinct, into the mind of the other. I know not which is the more charming each in their ways, the coy manners of girls, or the shy behavior of beautiful boys,—mysteries both to each other, nor less to their elders. 'Tis the youthful sentiment, whether feminine or masculine, that renders friendship delightful, the world lovely; this gone, all is gone that life can enjoy. "There are periods in one's life," says Pythagoras, "which it is not in the power of any casual person to connect finely, these being expelled by one another, unless some sympathetic friend conduct him from birth in a beautiful and upright manner."

PYTHAGORAS.

Of the great educators of antiquity, I esteem Pythagoras the most eminent and successful. Everything of his doctrine and discipline comes commended by its elegance and humanity, and justifies the name he bore of the golden-souled Samian, and founder of the Greek culture. He seems to have stood in providential nearness to the human sensibility, as if his were a maternal relation as well, and he owned the minds whom he nurtured and educated. The first of philosophers, taking the name for its modesty of pretension, he justified his claim to it in the attainments and services of his followers; his school having given us Socrates, Plato, Pericles, Plutarch, Plotinus, and others of almost equal fame, founders of states and cultures.

He was most fortunate in his biographer. For, next to the Gospels, I know of nothing finer of the kind than the mythological portrait drawn of him by Jamblichus, his admiring disciple, and a philosopher worthy of his master. How mellow the coloring, the drapery disposed so gracefully about the person he paints! I look upon this piece of nature with ever fresh delight, so reverend, humane, so friendly in aspect and Olympian. Nor is the interest less, but enhanced rather by the interfusion of fable into the personal history, the charm of a subtle idealism being thus given it, relating him thereby to the sacred names of all times. There is in him an Oriental splendor, as of sunrise, reflected on statues, blooming in orchards, an ambrosial beauty and sweetness, as of autumnal fruits and of women.

Personally, he is said to have been the most beautiful and godlike of all those who had been celebrated in history before his time. As a youth, his aspect was venerable and his habits strictly temperate, so that he was reverenced and honored by elderly men. He attracted the attention of all who saw him, and appeared admirable in all eyes. He was adorned by piety and discipline, by a mode of life transcendently good, by firmness of soul, and by a body in due subjection to the mandates of reason. In all his words and actions, he discovered an inimitable quiet and serenity, not being subdued at any time by anger, emulation, contention, or any precipitation of conduct. He was reverenced by the multitude as one under the influence of divine inspiration. He abstained from all intoxicating drinks, and from animal food, confining himself to a chaste nutriment. Hence, his sleep was short and undisturbed, his soul vigilant and pure, his body in a state of perfect and invariable health. He was free from the superstitions of his time, and pervaded with a deep sense of duty towards God, and veneration for his divine attributes and immanency in things. He fixed his mind so intently on the attainment of wisdom, that systems and mysteries inaccessible to others were opened to him by his magic genius and sincerity of purpose. The great principle with which he started, that of being a seeker rather than possessor of truth, seemed ever to urge him forward with a diligence and an activity unprecedented in the history of the past, and perhaps unequalled since. He visited every man who could claim any degree of fame for wisdom or learning, whilst the relics of antiquity and the simplest operations of nature seemed to yield to his researches; and we moderns are using his eyes in many departments of activity into which pure thought enters, being indebted to him for important discoveries alike in science and metaphysics.

"His institution at Crotona was the most comprehensive and complete of any of which we read. His aim being at once a philosophical school, a religious brotherhood, and a political association. And all these characters appear to have been inseparably united in the founder's mind. It must be considered as a proof of upright intentions in Pythagoras which ought to rescue him from all suspicion of selfish motives, that he chose for his associates persons whom he deemed capable of grasping the highest truths which he could communicate, and was not only willing to teach them all he knew, but regarded the utmost cultivation of the intellectual faculties as a necessary preparation for the work to which he destined them. He instituted a society, an order, as one may now call it, composed of young men, three hundred in number, carefully selected from the noblest families, not only of Crotona, but of the other Italian cities.

"Those who confided themselves to the guidance of his doctrine and discipline, conducted themselves in the following manner:—

"They performed their morning walks alone in places where there happened to be an appropriate solitude and quiet, and where there were temples and groves, and other things adapted to give delight. For they thought it was not proper to converse with any one till they had rendered their own soul sedate and co-harmonized with the reasoning power. For they apprehended it to be a thing of a turbulent nature to mingle in a crowd as soon as they rose from bed. But after the morning walk, they associated with each other, and employed themselves in discussing doctrines and disciplines, and in the correction of their manners and lives.

"They employed their time after dinner, which consisted of bread and honey without wine, in domestic labors and economies, and in the hospitalities due to strangers and their guests, according to the laws. All business of this sort was transacted during these hours of the day. "When it was evening, they again betook themselves to walking, yet not singly as in the morning walk, but in parties of two or three, calling to mind, as they walked, the disciplines which they had learned, and exercising themselves in beautiful studies.

"After bathing again, they went to supper; no more than ten meeting together for this purpose. This meal they finished before the setting of the sun. It was of wine and maize, bread and salad. They were of opinion that any animal, not naturally noxious to the human race, should neither be injured nor slain.

"After supper, libations were performed; and these were succeeded by readings, the youngest reading, and the eldest ordering what should be read and after what manner.

"They wore a white and pure garment, and slept on beds the coverlets of which were of white linen."

CONVERSATION WITH CHILDREN.

Monday, 24.

My book of Conversations, held with Children in Boston near forty years ago, has found an admiring reader at last. He writes:—

"I have just found in a second-hand bookstore your two volumes of Conversations on the Gospels, and have read them with benefit and delight. Nowhere have I seen the Gospels so spiritualized, so rationalized, Platonized. The naÏvetÉ aside, it seems the product of a company of idealists. Is it possible that common human nature in children, thrown upon its own resources, can exhibit such intelligence, or instinct, if you please to call it so? Were these children taken as they came, or were they selected, culled?"

They came from families occupying various social advantages, and were a fair average of children thus born and bred. I give a sample of one of the conversations as reported from their lips at the time. Their ages were from six to twelve years.

CONVERSATION ON WORSHIP.

Mr.Alcott read (having previously read the beginning) the remainder of the Conversation of Jesus with the woman of Samaria (John iv. 16–30),—

16. Jesus saith unto her, Go call thy husband, and come hither.

17. The woman answered and said, I have no husband. Jesus said unto her, Thou hast well said I have no husband:

18. For thou hast had five husbands, and he whom thou now hast is not thy husband: in that saidst thou truly.

19. The woman said unto him, Sir, I perceive that thou art a prophet.

20. Our fathers worshipped in this mountain; and ye say that in Jerusalem is the place where men ought to worship.

21. Jesus saith unto her, Woman, believe me, the hour cometh when ye shall neither in this mountain, nor yet at Jerusalem, worship the Father.22. Ye worship ye know not what: we know what we worship, for salvation is of the Jews.

23. But the hour cometh, and now is, when the true worshippers shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth: for the father seeketh such to worship him.

24. God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth.

25. The woman saith unto him, I know that Messias cometh, which is called Christ; when he is come, he will tell us all things.

26. Jesus saith unto her, I that speak unto thee am he.

27. And upon this came his disciples, and marvelled that he talked with the woman: yet no man said, What seekest thou? or, Why talkest thou with her?

28. The woman then left her water-pot, and went her way into the city, and saith to the men,

29. Come, see a man which told me all things that ever I did: is not this the Christ?

30. Then they went out of the city, and came unto him.

Before he had time to ask the usual question,—

Samuel T. (spoke). I was most interested in this verse: "He that drinks of this water shall thirst again, but he that drinks of the water that I shall give him, shall never thirst." He means by this, that those who heard what he taught, and did it, should live always, should never die, their spirits should never die.

Mr.Alcott. Can spirits die?

Samuel T. For a spirit to die is to leave off being good.

Edward J. I was interested in the words, "For the water I shall give him will be in him a well of water." I think it means that when people are good and getting better, it is like water springing up always. They have more and more goodness.

Samuel R. Water is an emblem of holiness.

Mr.Alcott. Water means spirit, pure and unsoiled.

Edward J. It is holy spirit.

Ellen. I was most interested in these words: "Ye worship ye know not what." The Samaritans worship idols, and there was no meaning to that.

Mr.Alcott. What do you mean by their worshipping idols?

Ellen. They cared about things more than God.

Mr.Alcott. What kind of false worship do you think Jesus was thinking about when he said: "Woman, the hour is coming and now is, when neither in this mountain—"?

Ellen. Oh! she thought the place of worship was more important than the worship itself.

Mr.Alcott. Well! how did Jesus answer that thought?

Ellen. He told her what she ought to worship, which was more important than where.

Mr.Alcott. Some of you, perhaps, have made this mistake, and thought that we only worshipped God in churches, and on Sundays. How is it,—who has thought so?

(Several held up hands, smiling.)

Who knew that we could worship God anywhere?

(Others held up hands.)What other worship is there besides that in the church?

Edward J. The worship in our hearts.

Mr.Alcott. How is that carried on?

Edward J. By being good.

Nathan. We worship God by growing better.

Augustine. We worship God when we repent of doing wrong.

Josiah. I was most interested in this verse: "God is a spirit, and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth." It means that to feel our prayers is more important than to say the words.

Lemuel. And when we pray and pray sincerely.

Mr.Alcott. What is praying sincerely?

Lemuel. Praying the truth.

Mr.Alcott. What is to be done in praying the truth? When you think of prayer, do you think of a position of the body—of words?

Lemuel (earnestly). I think of something else, but I cannot express it.

Mr.Alcott. Josiah is holding up his hand; can he express it?

Josiah (burst out). To pray, Mr.Alcott, is to be good, really; you know it is better to be bad before people and to be good to God alone, because then we are good for goodness sake, and not to be seen, and not for people's sake. Well, so it is about prayer. There must be nothing outward with prayer; but we must have some words, sometimes; sometimes we need not. If we don't feel the prayer, it is worse than never to say a word of prayer. It is wrong not to pray, but it is more wrong to speak prayer and not pray. We had better do nothing about it, Mr.Alcott! we must say words in a prayer, and we must feel the words we say, and we must do what belongs to the words.

Mr.Alcott. Oh! there must be doing, must there?

Josiah. Oh! yes, Mr.Alcott! doing is the most important part. We must ask God for help, and at the same time try to do the thing we are to be helped about. If a boy should be good all day, and have no temptation, it would not be very much; there would be no improvement; but if he had temptation, he could pray and feel the prayer, and try to overcome it, and would overcome it; and then there would be a real prayer and a real improvement. That would be something. Temptation is always necessary to a real prayer, I think. I don't believe there is ever any real prayer before there is a temptation; because we may think and feel and say our prayer; but there cannot be any doing, without there is something to be done.

Mr.Alcott. Well, Josiah, that will do now. Shall some one else speak?

Josiah. Oh, Mr.Alcott, I have not half done!

Edward J. Mr.Alcott, what is the use of responding in church?

Mr.Alcott. Cannot you tell?

Edward J. No; I never knew.

Josiah. Oh! Mr.Alcott!

Mr.Alcott. Well, Josiah, do you know?

Josiah. Why, Edward! is it not just like a mother's telling her child the words? The child wants to pray; it don't know how to express its real thoughts, as we often say to Mr.Alcott here; and the mother says words, and the child repeats after her the words.

Edward J. Yes; but I don't see what good it does.

Josiah. What! if the mother says the words, and the child repeats them and feels them,—really wants the things that are prayed for,—can't you see that it does some good?

Edward J. It teaches the word-prayer—it is not the real prayer.

Josiah. Yet it must be the real prayer, and the real prayer must have some words.

But, Mr.Alcott, I think it would be a great deal better, if, at church, everybody prayed for themselves. I don't see why one person should pray for all the rest. Why could not the minister pray for himself, and the people pray for themselves? and why should not all communicate their thoughts? Why should only one speak? Why should not all be preachers? Everybody could say something; at least, everybody could say their own prayers, for they know what they want. Every person knows the temptations they have, and people are tempted to do different things. Mr.Alcott, I think Sunday ought to come oftener.

Mr.Alcott. Our hearts can make all time Sunday.

Josiah. Why, then, nothing could be done! There must be week-days, I know—some week-days; I said, Sunday oftener.

Mr.Alcott. But you wanted the prayers to be doing prayers. Now some of the rest may tell me, how you could pray doing prayers.

George K. Place is of no consequence. I think prayer is in our hearts. Christian prayed in the cave of Giant Despair. We can pray anywhere, because we can have faith anywhere.

Mr.Alcott. Faith, then, is necessary?

George K. Yes; for it is faith that makes the prayer.

Mr.Alcott. Suppose an instance of prayer in yourself.

George K. I can pray going to bed or getting up.

Mr.Alcott. You are thinking of time, place, words.

George K. And feelings and thoughts.

Mr.Alcott. And action?

George K. Yes; action comes after.

John B. When we have been doing wrong and are sorry, we pray to God to take away the evil.

Mr.Alcott. What evil, the punishment?

John B. No; we want the forgiveness.

Mr.Alcott. What is for-give-ness? Is it anything given?

Lemuel. Goodness, holiness.

John B. And the evil is taken away.

Mr.Alcott. Is there any action in all this?

John B. Why, yes; there is thought and feeling.

Mr.Alcott. But it takes the body also to act; what do the hands do?

John B. There is no prayer in the hands.

Mr.Alcott. You have taken something that belongs to another; you pray to be forgiven; you wish not to do so again; you are sorry. Is there anything to do?

John B. If you injure anybody, and can repair it, you must, and you will, if you have prayed sincerely; but that is not the prayer.

Mr.Alcott. Would the prayer be complete without it?

John B. No.

Andrew. Prayer is in the spirit.

Mr.Alcott. Does the body help the spirit?

Andrew. It don't help the prayer.

Mr.Alcott. Don't the lips move?

Andrew. But have the lips anything to do with the prayer?

Mr.Alcott. Yes; they may. The whole nature may act together; the body pray; and I want you to tell an instance of a prayer in which are thoughts, feelings, action; which involves the whole nature, body and all. There may be prayer in the palms of our hands.

Andrew. Why, if I had hurt anybody, and was sorry and prayed to be forgiven, I suppose I should look round for some medicine and try to make it well.

(Mr.Alcott here spoke of the connection of the mind with the body, in order to make his meaning clearer.)Samuel R. If I had a bad habit, and should ask God for help to break it; and then should try so as really to break it, that would be a prayer.

Charles. Suppose I saw a poor beggar boy hurt or sick, and all bleeding; and I had very nice clothes, and was afraid to soil them, or from any such cause should pass him by, and by and by I should look back and see another boy helping him, and should be really sorry and pray to be forgiven, that would be a real prayer; but if I had done the kindness at the time of it, that would have been a deeper prayer.

Augustine. When anybody has done wrong, and does not repent for a good while, but at last repents and prays to be forgiven, it may be too late to do anything about it; yet that might be a real prayer.

Mr.Alcott. Imagine a real doing prayer in your life.

Lucia. Suppose, as I was going home from school, some friend of mine should get angry with me, and throw a stone at me; I could pray not to be tempted to do the same, to throw a stone at her, and would not.

Mr.Alcott. And would the not doing anything in that case be a prayer and an action? Keeping your body still would be the body's part of it.

Lucia. Yes.

Ellen. I heard a woman say, once, that she could pray best when she was at work; that when she was scouring the floor she would ask God to cleanse her mind.Mr.Alcott. I will now vary my question. Is there any prayer in Patience?

All. A great deal.

Mr.Alcott. In Impatience?

All. No; not any.

Mr.Alcott. In Doubt?

George K. No; but in Faith.

Mr.Alcott. In Laziness?

All (but Josiah). No; no kind of prayer.

Josiah. I should think that Laziness was the prayer of the body, Mr.Alcott.

Mr.Alcott. Yes; it seems so. The body tries to be still more body; it tries to get down into the clay; it tries to sink; but the spirit is always trying to lift it up and make it do something.

Edward J. Lazy people sometimes have passions that make them act.

Mr.Alcott. Yes; they act downwards. Is there any prayer in Disobedience?

All. No.

Mr.Alcott. Is there any in submission? In forbearing when injured? In suffering for a good object? In self-sacrifice?

All (eagerly to each question). Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

(Mr.Alcott here made some very interesting remarks on loving God with all our heart, soul, mind, etc., and the Idea of Devotion it expressed. Josiah wanted to speak constantly, but Mr.Alcott checked him, that the others might have opportunity, though the latter wished to yield to Josiah.)

Josiah (burst out). Mr.Alcott! you know Mrs. Barbauld says in her hymns, everything is prayer; every action is prayer; all nature prays; the bird prays in singing; the tree prays in growing; men pray; men can pray more; we feel; we have more—more than nature; we can know and do right; Conscience prays; all our powers pray; action prays. Once we said here, that there was a "Christ in the bottom of our spirits" when we try to be good; then we pray in Christ; and that is the whole.6

Mr.Alcott. Yes, Josiah, that is the whole. That is Universal Prayer—the adoration of the Universe to its Author!

Charles. I was most interested in this verse—"The day is coming, and now is, when men shall worship the Father," etc. I think that this means that people are about to learn what to worship, and where.

Mr.Alcott. Have you learned this to-day?

Charles. Yes; I have learnt some new things, I believe.

Mr.Alcott. What are you to worship?

Charles. Goodness.

Mr.Alcott. Where is it?

Charles. Within.Mr.Alcott. Within what?

Charles. Conscience, or God.

Mr.Alcott. Are you to worship Conscience?

Charles. Yes.

Mr.Alcott. Is it anywhere but in yourself?

Charles. Yes; it is in Nature.

Mr.Alcott. Is it in other people?

Charles. Yes; there is more or less of it in other people, unless they have taken it out.

Mr.Alcott. Can it be entirely taken out?

Charles. Goodness always lingers in Conscience.

Mr.Alcott. Is Conscience anywhere but in Human Nature?

Charles. It is in the Supernatural.

Mr.Alcott. You said at first that there was something in outward Nature which we should worship.

Charles. No; I don't think we should worship anything but the Invisible.

Mr.Alcott. What is the Invisible?

Charles. It is the Supernatural.

John B. It is the Inward—the Spiritual. But I don't see why we should not worship the sun a little as well—

Mr.Alcott. As well as the Sun-maker? But there are sun-worshippers.

John B. Yes; a little; for the sun gives us light and heat.

Mr.Alcott. What is the difference between your feeling when you think of the sun, or the ocean (he described some grand scenes), and when you think of Conscience acting in such cases as—(he gave some striking instances of moral power). Is there not a difference?

(They raised their hands.)

What is the name of the feeling with which you look at Nature?

Several. Admiration.

Mr.Alcott. But when Conscience governs our weak body, is it not a Supernatural Force? Do you not feel the awe of the inferior before a superior nature? And is not that worship? The sun cannot produce it.

Josiah. Spirit worships Spirit. Clay worships Clay.

Mr.Alcott. Wait a moment, Josiah. I wish first to talk with the others; let me ask them this question: Do you feel that Conscience is stronger than the mountain, deeper and more powerful than the ocean? Can you say to yourself, I can remove this mountain?

Josiah (burst out). Yes, Mr.Alcott! I do not mean that with my body I can lift up a mountain—with my hand; but I can feel; and I know that my Conscience is greater than the mountain, for it can feel and do; and the mountain cannot. There is the mountain, there! It was made, and that is all. But my Conscience can grow. It is the same kind of Spirit as made the mountain be, in the first place. I do not know what it may be and do. The Body is a mountain, and the Spirit says, be moved, and it is moved into another place.Mr.Alcott, we think too much about clay. We should think of Spirit. I think we should love Spirit, not Clay. I should think a mother now would love her baby's Spirit; and suppose it should die, that is only the Spirit bursting away out of the Body. It is alive; it is perfectly happy. I really do not know why people mourn when their friends die. I should think it would be matter of rejoicing. For instance: now, if we should go out into the street and find a box—an old dusty box—and should put into it some very fine pearls, and by and by the box should grow old and break, why, we should not even think about the box; but if the pearls were safe, we should think of them and nothing else. So it is with the Soul and Body. I cannot see why people mourn for bodies.

Mr.Alcott. Yes, Josiah; that is all true, and we are glad to hear it. Shall some one else now speak besides you?

Josiah. Oh, Mr.Alcott! then I will stay in the recess and talk.

Mr.Alcott. When a little infant opens its eyes upon this world, and sees things out of itself, and has the feeling of admiration, is there in that feeling the beginning to worship?

Josiah. No, Mr.Alcott; a little baby does not worship. It opens its eyes on the outward world, and sees things, and perhaps wonders what they are; but it don't know anything about them or itself. It don't know the uses of anything; there is no worship in it.Mr.Alcott. But in this feeling of wonder and admiration which it has, is there not the beginning of worship that will at last find its object?

Josiah. No; there is not even the beginning of worship. It must have some temptation, I think, before it can know the thing to worship.

Mr.Alcott. But is there not a feeling that comes up from within, to answer to the things that come to the eyes and ears?

Josiah. But feeling is not worship, Mr.Alcott.

Mr.Alcott. Can there be worship without feeling?

Josiah. No; but there can be feeling without worship. For instance, if I prick my hand with a pin, I feel, to be sure, but I do not worship.

Mr.Alcott. That is bodily feeling. But may not the little infant find its power to worship in the feeling which is first only admiration of what is without.

Josiah. No, no; I know what surprise is, and I know what admiration is; and perhaps the little creature feels that. But she does not know enough to know that she has conscience, or that there is temptation. My little sister feels, and she knows some things; but she does not worship.

Mr.Alcott. Now I wish you all to think. What have we been talking about to-day?

Charles. Spiritual Worship.7

6. This improvisation is preserved in its words. Josiah, it may be named, was under seven years of age, and the other children were chiefly between the ages of six and twelve years.

7. Here I was obliged to pause, as I was altogether fatigued with keeping my pen in long and uncommonly constant requisition. I was enabled to preserve the words better than usual, because Josiah had so much of the conversation, whose enunciation is slow, and whose fine choice of language and steadiness of mind, makes him easy to follow and remember.—Recorder.