said two of the boys were to come forth as whispers; but he did not remember the rest.

February 4th.-I arrived at quarter past nine, and found them all writing their journals, or their spelling lessons. At quarter of ten, Mr. Alcott began to read to the younger division of the spelling class, and to those of the youngest class who were present. He read a parable of Krummacher to illustrate Indolence, which not only awakened their attention very strongly, but attracted the notice of many of the rest; and he talked a little with a boy of the larger class, to enforce the lesson upon him.

At ten o'clock, the class turned to spell. They all spelled well, until it came to one little boy, who missed. Mr. Alcott said, do you know why you do not spell the words right? The child looked enquiringly. It is because you do not use your eyes to see how the letters are placed; and so you have no picture of the word in your mind. And he went on describing how he should look at the letters, picture them out, lay up the picture in his mind; and when he heard the word, should think how one letter came after the other. He talked a great while; and not only the one addressed, but all the little boys seemed much interested and edified. The words were defined to these children, and then Mr. Alcott called the rest of the class to turn and spell.

Birth was the first word. Mr. Alcott remarked that we had once before talked of birth, and their ideas had been brought out. Now I am going to speak of it again, and we shall read Mr. Wordsworth's Ode. He then asked the youngest child present, how old he was, and found he was four. The oldest was twelve. He said, that little boy, in four years, has not had time to make that comparison of thoughts and feelings which makes up conscious life. He asked those who understood him, to hold up their hands. Several held up their hands. Those who do not understand these words, may hold up their hands. A great many of the younger ones held up their hands.

I am not surprised that you did not understand; but perhaps you will understand some things I am going to say. Life is a kind of memory. Conscious life is memory. Do you feel, said he to the oldest, that any change has

taken place in you, in twelve years; do things seem the same to you as they did six years ago? She recognised a change. A boy of ten said, that he did also. Mr. Wordsworth had lived, when he wrote this ode, many years, and consequently had felt changes, and he expresses this in the lines I am about to read. He then began and read the first stanza.

There was a time when meadow, grove and stream,
The earth and every common sight
To me did seem

Apparelled in celestial light,

The Glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it has been of yore,
Turn wheresoe'er I may,

By night or day

The things which I have seen 1 now can see no more.

He here stopped, and asked why Mr. Wordsworth could not see the things which he had seen before; had they changed, or had he changed? He had changed, said a boy of ten. Have you had any degree of this change? Yes, and more in this last year, than in all my life before. Mr. Alcott said he thought that there were periods in life, when great changes took place: he had experienced it himself. He then said: but let us all look back six months; how many of you look at things, and feel about them differently from what you did six months ago? How many of you feel that this school-room is a different place from what it was the first week you were here? Almost every one, immediately, with great animation, held up his hand. He then asked those who knew why this was, to hold up their hands. Many did. And when called on to answer, they severally said, because we know more, because we think more, because we understand you, because you know us, because you have looked inside of us. Mr. Alcott said, the place is very different to me; and why? They gave similar answers; but he said they had not hit it. At last one said: because we behave better. Yes, said he, you have it now; knowledge is chaff of itself; but you have taken the knowledge and used it to govern yourselves, and to make yourselves better. If I thought I gave you knowledge only, and could not lead you to use it, to make yourselves better, I would never enter this school-room again!

He went on and read the next stanza of the Ode;

The Rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the Rose,

The Moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare.

Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair.

The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where'er I go

-

That there hath passed away a glory from the Earth; stopping to ask them about the effects of the rainbow, the rose, the waters on a starry night, on themselves; remarking, there are some minds which live in the world, and yet are insensible; which do not see any beauty in the rainbow, the moon, the waters on a starry night. As he went on through the next stanza, so descriptive of the animation and beauty of spring, he paused on every line, and asked questions. Why are "the cataracts said to blow their trumpets?" A little girl said, because the waters dash against the rocks. "The echoes thronging through the

woods," led out to recollections of the sound in the woods in spring; to echoes which they had severally heard. As the animating pictures of "children pulling flowers on May day;" the "child springing up on the mother's arm," &c. came up, every countenance expressed the most vivid delight; and one girl exclaimed, what a succession of beautiful pictures! All full of life; said Mr. Alcott; and he went on

But there's a Tree of many one,

A single Field which I have looked upon
Both of them speak of something that is gone :
The Pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat:

Whither is fled the visionary gleam;

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

When he had read these lines, he said: was that a thought of life? No, a thought of death, said several. Yes, said Mr. Alcott, Mr. Wordsworth had lived long enough to feel changes; he had known death, as well as life. He then went on,

"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting,-'

and stopped and asked how that was? After a pause, one of the most intelligent boys, eight years old, said, he could not imagine. The two oldest girls said, they understood it, but could not explain it in words. Do you understand it? said Mr. Alcott to a little boy of five who was holding up his hand. Yes. Well, what does it mean? Why, you know, said he very deliberately, that, for all that our life seems so long to us, it is a very short time to God; and so when we die it seems all a sleep to God. He repeated this at Mr. Alcott's request, and I said to him, so Mr. Wordsworth was thinking of God, and how God felt, on seeing that a child was born into the world? He paused, looked a little distressed, and repeated the word forgetting. I said, wait, and tell me your thought. Why, you know, said he, God knows us, but we don't. He looked at me with a look of doubt, whether I should understand him. And our knowledge of ourselves, in comparison with what God knows about us, said I, seems like forgetfulness itself? Yes, said he, that is it, (with a cleared up countenance.) All the rest listened with interest and an expression of great pleasure; and then one girl said, the soul comes from heaven; it goes to sleep in that world, and wakes up in this. Mr. Alcott then read on to the line

"Heaven lies about us in our infancy,"

when he shut up the book, and asked every child separately, what he understood by birth. They all answered; and many repeated the definitions which they gave the other day. When they had answered all round, Mr. Alcott observed that there was one striking difference in their answers; some expressed the idea that the soul shaped and made the body; others that the body was made and the soul put into it. Which is right? said one boy. That is more than I can tell, but I incline to the first opinion; that is my opinion. You are all nearly right, however; you have all the important ideas, birth is not the beginning of the spirit; life is the remembrance, or a waking up of spirit. All the life of knowledge is the waking up of what is already within ;.

The rising of life's star, that has elsewhere its setting,

What is life's star? The soul, said they. But birth is sometimes the prelude to the death of the soul, said Mr. Alcott. How? said one boy. Because the soul becomes the slave of the body; is governed, darkened, shut up and buried in it; and it is necessary that it should be born again, born out of the body, do you understand that? Yes. Some of you have needed to be born again; and have begun your new life, said Mr. Alcott.

After recess I took my class into the other room to attend to Latin, and Mr. Alcott attended to Arithmetic and English Grammar.

February 5th. I arrived at half past nine and found the children in their seats. Mr. Alcott talked a little with the little commentator of yesterday, commending him for his writing, and especially because he had been rather indocile, not through opposition, but from a sort of obstinate clinging to his own inward thoughts, which are probably clearer than those of most children of his age.

Mr. Alcott read from Northcotes' Fables, to the little class; and had a long talk with them on Punishment, to make them comprehend its theory, the hurting of the body for the benefit of the mind, and their faces looked all, "like fires new stirred," as they listened. I thought I should like to have some of those sceptics who do not believe children can comprehend the sacrifice of the body to the mind, to have seen these little things, under four years of age, listen to and apprehend the philosophy of pain.

At ten the whole school turned to face Mr. Alcott; and he then arranged some restless boys in situations where he thought they would not be tempted. A great deal of talk was made about these arrangements, in order to impress them with the great importance of complete self-control. Mr. Alcott said, that if interrupted to-day, he should discontinue his readings.

He then read the first stanzas of the Castle of Indolence, without letting them know what it was, and asked each to write on his slate what he thought it represented. They severally wrote: Sluggishness-Calm Pleasures-SleepEase-Heaven-Doubt-Death-Earth-The World--and Deception. Mr. Alcott having gone round, and looked at each, told them each to keep their own secret; and he read