to give some convictions of conscience, which Mr. Alcott followed up, by some remarks to individuals. He then sent them to their seats to make their paraphrases of the reading lesson; and the second class came, and analysed a paragraph of Frank in the scale.

January 9th. The scholars were at their spelling lessons and journals this morning, when I arrived. At quarter of ten, Mr. Alcott took the little class of four children, under four years of age, and who did not know how to read, and began to read Frank. He began the first sentence: "there was a little boy whose name was Frank." What was his name? Frank, said they. "He loved his father and mother," do you? Yes. He liked to be with them," do

you? Yes.

66

He went on in this manner, and read the two first sentences, which brought them to the fact that Frank was obedient. He here stopped and asked them questions about being obedient, and told them how Anna Alcott (who was one of them,) made out the night before to get up a resolution to obey when she did not want to. He asked questions and described the whole process of mind. He personified Resolution; and then he said, well, now, you must say to Resolution, Resolution! keep me sitting still in this chair, while Mr. Alcott is reading. He then read the story about the leaf of the table falling, and they looked very attentive and much delighted.

In reading to little children, Mr. Alcott conveys a vast deal of good. In the first place, he requires from them a distinct effort of self-control, by asking them the question, whether they will make a great effort; then he imagines and shows them how they will be tempted; and prepares them both for the temptation, and to overcome it. Without inviting this co-operation he cannot be sure, that however interesting is his reading, any fixed attention will be given. With it, the listening becomes a moral exercise; for to govern one's self from the motive of desiring to obey and deserve instruction, is a moral action. Mr. Alcott, however, lays out to aid their endeavors, by selecting an interesting story, and as he reads, he constantly asks questions to make them co-operate with him; in the manner

mentioned above. The result is active and profound attention.

These children spend their forenoons at the black board in drawing letters, of which they have a profusion at their desks, and looking at pictures. Mr. Alcott now and then goes and talks with them, concerning these. They are required to be very quiet and not interrupt the rest of the school, and they succeed, by means of these quiet amusements. In the meanwhile they are very much edified, apparently, by the discipline of the school, which constantly conveys to them the theory of quietness and self-control. They also have slates and pencils to copy the forms of the letters.

While Mr. Alcott reads to them, he sits with his back to the rest of the school, but the room echoes, so that a whisper can be heard. When the lesson is over, he turns and asks, who whispered? and they stand up, and there is conversation and sometimes punishment. This plan has many advantages, the chief of which is the habit of ingenuousness, it ensures.

At ten o'clock the smaller division of the class spelled their words; and Mr. Alcott told them the meanings of such words as they did not know, which took a quarter of an hour. Then the rest of the class turned round to attend to their spelling. They had an hour and a quarter for their spelling and journals, and most of them had had some time to copy words from the copperplate cards before them. Mr. Alcott said, before he began, that he trusted the school, with its thirty voices, had made a resolution not to interrupt him with unnecessary words, with improper attitudes, or with laughing. Mr. Alcott then asked if all of them were willing to be punished if they broke that resolution. After some hesitation on the part of a few, they all agreed. One little boy persisted in saying, I cannot tell. Mr. Alcott asked him how he was to find out? and to all his questions he answered, I don't know. As I had the Faerie Queene on my table, I carried to Mr. Alcott the passage of the Legend of St. George, which describes Ignaro, and Mr. Alcott read it to the great delight of all, and asked the little boy afterwards, if now he could tell. The little boy replied with a smile, yes, sometimes. Mr. Alcott then turned round

to the rest and said, Ignorance, with keys which he could. not use, is that you? But if you will come here I will show how to use your keys, some of them.

I do not you know how to use them all myself, but I know how to use some, and I do not intend to let any of them rust as Ignaro's did.

One boy in school, (who is a lately entered scholar,) asked if that story was true? Mr. Alcott said, there are two sorts of truth, the truth of what is in the mind, and the truth of what is out of the mind. But there are some boys who do not understand that there are realities in the mind; and when I shape out the realities of the mind by means of outward things that represent them, these boys think it is not true. They cannot believe any truth but the outward truth. Now the inward truth is the first truth; there would never have been a single outward thing, not a thing in the world, no world at all, if God had not had thoughts in his mind first. The world existed as a thought in God's mind before a single particle of it existed in such a way as to be seen, or heard, or felt. Do you believe that? He then addressed one boy eight years old; tell me, when you do any thing outside of you, any thing which others see you do, does it not exist first within your mind; do you not feel it first really existing within your mind? Yes. Well, can any of you tell me of a single thing that you see with your eyes, that did not first exist, really, within some spirit? One boy said-did that bust of Shakspeare exist really in a mind, before it existed out of a mind? He was soon convinced that the form of it did exist in the mind of the moulder.

In the subsequent spelling lesson, when the word tale came up, it elicited a good deal of conversation. It was seen that a tale, a fable, &c. might be the medium of conveying truth. Mr. Alcott went on to show that the things that we see, tell us a tale all the time. And he asked what the world was a tale of? After a moment's reflection, several of the children said, of God. Then he asked, what the things that happen in the outward world, were tales of? It was answered that there was not a thing that happened, that had not existed in some mind, either in God's mind, or in some man's mind. He then said the world is a tale, and life is tale.

I here asked permission to tell the first tale that I remembered Life to have told me. I began with saying that one reason why I told them this, was to show how a story sometimes changed its outward form, when it went into a mind; and yet carried all the most important truth into the mind. This story, said I, had an outward truth; it was something which happened in the outward world, and was told to me as it happened; and this was the picture that came into my mind.

I thought I saw a dark sea, and a cloudy, stormy sky, which looked gloomy. And I saw a ship on the horizon, which came on very fast, faster and smoother than any other ship ever sailed, in a beautiful curved line. As it came near, there was a company of women standing on the deck, two and two, taking hold of hands, and each one had white robes on, which fell over her feet, and every eye was looking up, as if she saw God sitting above the clouds; and their faces were full of joy and love. At last the vessel stopped near a large rock on the shore. I did not see a single sailor, or any anchor, I never had heard of an anchor, but it seemed to me these women walked off the deck upon the rock; and walked over the rock carefully, looking at their feet, and holding up their robes; and they glided over the frozen snow into a high, dark, deep, evergreen forest; and under the trees they knelt down and worshipped God, though there were no meetinghouses, and not a single dwelling house; and then they went into the bushes, and took broken pieces of trees, and made little huts, like Indian wigwams, which they went into. was the picture that rose up in my mind, as I was told

This

The story of the Pilgrim Fathers! exclaimed several, interrupting me; but what made you think the Pilgrims were women? said one. It was the misunderstanding of a single word, said I; and the reason I thought they were in white robes, was because so much was said of their purity; and the reason I thought they were looking up, was because I was told that they came to the uncultivated desert to have liberty to worship God; and the reason I thought they looked happy, was because I was told that they loved God, and I knew God was good; and the reason that the whole thing seemed done so quickly, was because I did not know about sailors, and managing a ship, and anchors, and such things.

But now tell me, do you think I gained most truth or falsehood from that picture? The boy to whom I asked the question, answered, that I gained more truth than falsehood. Yes, said I, the truth of the mind. Had I seen the thing as it really was outwardly, (the Pilgrim Fathers in seamen's clothes, and looking just like any other men,) I should not have taken the idea of how different their minds were from those of common people; for I could not have seen their thoughts. But my imagination shaped out their thoughts in such a way that I could see their very thoughts; and so the very mistakes which I made, helped me to see more of the truth, than I should have seen, had my real eyes been there, looking at their real bodies. It was of great use to my character, to have this picture of true devotion, of souls so full of God as not to mind cold, nor the having no homes; and caring so much about worshipping in the way they thought was right, that they were willing to live in that wilderness. Especially since I thought they were women!

Mr. Alcott said, and now see the advantage of having an imagination which is always ready to give the most beautiful shapes to words. It makes a great deal of difference in your characters, whether there are beautiful shapes in your minds or not; and in using words, you should take great care to use such as may put shapes into the minds of others, which will mould them right. Suppose a man says to a child: You brat you, get out of my sight! What an ugly picture the words make in that child's mind of himself! So that he can hardly feel that he has an angel spirit within him. Well, it is not true that he has an angel spirit within him, said one boy. Not true! said Mr. Alcott; indeed it is true, and until you feel that you have an angel spirit within you, and must act according to it, you will never be free from those thoughts, and feelings, and actions, that trouble you and us so much every day. If I did not think there was something within you, much more angelic than has yet come out and made an outward truth, I should feel very despairing. If I thought of you, as you think of yourself, I should be as discouraged as you are. you are as good as you can be; but I believe great deal better.

You think

you can be a

I thought an angel was a man with wings, said one boy.