Concord Days

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

PLUTARCH'S LETTER TO HIS WIFESunday, 30.

I sometimes think the funeral rites and cemeteries of a people best characterize its piety. Contrast the modern with the primitive grave-yards, – their funeral services so dismal, doleful, despairing: as if their faith in immortality were fittest clad in sables, and death were a descent of souls, instead of an ascension. What fairer views of life and of immortality our fresher faith exhibits. Verdure, cheerful marbles, tasteful avenues, flowers, simple epitaphs, inscriptions celebrating the virtues properly humane. What in the range of English lyric verse is comparable to Wordsworth's ode, entitled Intimations of Immortality in Childhood, or his prose Essay on Epitaphs. Nor is the contrast so disparaging between these and Pagan moralities. Christianity can hardly add to the sweetness and light, the tenderness, trust in man's future well-being, shown in Plutarch's consolatory Letter to his Wife on the death of his little daughter. One becomes more Christian, even, in copying it.

PLUTARCH TO HIS WIFE – ALL HEALTH

"As for the messenger you dispatched to tell me of the death of my little daughter, it seems he missed his way as he was going to Athens. But when I came to Tanagra I heard of it by my niece. I suppose by this time the funeral is over. I wish that whatever happens, as well now as hereafter, may create you no dissatisfaction. But if you have designedly let anything alone, depending upon my judgment, thinking better to determine the point if I were with you, I pray let it be without ceremony or timorous superstition, which I know are far from you. Only, dear wife, let you and me bear our affliction with patience. I know very well, and do comprehend what loss we have had; but if I should find you grieve beyond measure, this would trouble me more than the thing itself; for I had my birth neither from a stock nor stone, and you know it full well; I having been assistant to you in the education of so many children, which we brought up at home under our own care.

"This much-lamented daughter was born after four sons, which made me call her by your own name; therefore, I know she was dear to you, and grief must have a peculiar pungency in a mind tenderly affectionate to children, when you call to mind how naturally witty and innocent she was, void of anger, and not querulous. She was naturally mild and compassionate, to a miracle. And she showed delight in, and gave a specimen of, her humanity and gratitude towards anything that had obliged her, for she would pray her nurse to give suck, not only to other children, but to her very playthings, as it were courteously inviting them to her table, and making the best cheer for them she could. Now, my dear wife, I see no reason why these and the like things which delighted us so much when she was alive, should, upon remembrance of them, afflict us when she is dead. But I also fear, lest while we cease from sorrowing, we should forget her, as Clymene said: —

I hate the handy horned bow,And banish youthful pastimes now,

because she would not be put in mind of her son, by the exercises he had been used to. For nature always shuns such things as are troublesome. But since our little daughter afforded all our senses the sweetest and most charming pleasure, so ought we to cherish her memory, which will in many ways conduce more to our joy than grief. And it is but just that the same arguments which we have ofttimes used to others should prevail upon ourselves at this so seasonable a time, and that we should not supinely sit down and overwhelm the joys which we have tasted with a multiplicity of new griefs. Moreover, they who were present at the funeral, report this with admiration, that you neither put on mourning, nor disguised yourself, or any of your maids; neither were there any costly preparations, nor magnificent pomp, but that all things were managed with prudence and moderation. And it seemed not strange to me, that you, who never used richly to dress yourself, for the theatre or other public solemnities, esteeming such magnificence vain and useless, even in matters of delight, have now practised frugality on this finest occasion… There is no philosopher of your acquaintance who is not in love with your frugality, both in apparel and diet; nor a citizen, to whom the simplicity and plainness of your dress is not conspicuous, both at religious sacrifices and public shows in the theatre. Formerly, also, you discovered on a like occasion, a great constancy of mind when you lost your eldest son. And again, when the lovely Charon left us. For I remember when the news was brought me of my son's death, as I was returning home with some friends and guests who accompanied me to my house, that when they beheld all things in order, and observed a profound silence everywhere (as they afterwards declared to others), they thought no such calamity had happened, but that the report was false. So discreetly had you settled the affairs of the house at that time, when no small confusion and disorder might have been expected. And yet you gave this son suck yourself, and endured the lancing of your breast to prevent the ill effects of a contusion. These are things worthy of a generous woman, and one that loves her children…

"Moreover, I would have you endeavor to call often to mind that time when our daughter was not as yet born to us, then we had no cause to complain of fortune. Then, joining that time with this, argue thus with yourself, that we are in the same condition as then. Otherwise, dear wife, we shall seem discontented at the birth of our little daughter if we own that our circumstances were better before her birth. But the two years of her life are by no means to be forgotten by us, but to be numbered amongst our blessings, in that they afforded us an agreeable pleasure. Nor must we esteem a small good for a great evil, nor ungratefully complain of fortune for what she has actually given us, because she has not added what we wished for. Certainly, to speak reverently of the gods, and to bear our lot with an even mind, without accusing fortune, always brings with it a fair reward…

"But if you lament the poor girl because she died unmarried and without offspring, you have wherewithal to comfort yourself, in that you are defective in none of these things, having had your share. And those are not small benefits where they are enjoyed. But so long as she is gone to a place where she feels no pain, she has no need of our grief. For what harm can befall us from her when she is free from all hurt? And surely, the loss of great things abates its grief when it is come to this, that there is no more ground of grief, or care for them. But thy Timoxena was deprived but of small matters, for she had no knowledge but of such, neither took she delight but in such small things. But for that which she never was sensible of, nor so much as once did enter her thoughts, how can you say it is taken from you?

"As for what you hear others say, who persuade the vulgar that the soul when once freed from the body, suffers no inconvenience or evil, nor is sensible at all, I know that you are better grounded in the doctrines delivered down to us from our ancestors, as also in the sacred mysteries of Bacchus, than to believe such stories, for the religious symbols are well known to us who are of the fraternity. Therefore, be assured that the soul, being incapable of death, suffers in the same manner as birds that are kept in a cage. For if she has been a long time educated and cherished in the body, and by long custom has been made familiar with most things of this life, she will (though separable) return to it again, and at length enters the body; nor ceases it by new birth now and then to be entangled in the chances and events of this life. For do not think that old age is therefore evil spoken of and blamed, because it is accompanied with wrinkles, gray hairs, and weakness of body; but this is the most troublesome thing in old age, that it stains and corrupts the soul with the remembrances of things relating to the body, to which she was too much addicted; thus it bends and loves, retaining that form which it took of the body. But that which is taken away in youth, being more soft and tractable, soon returns to its native vigor and beauty, just like fire that is quenched, which, if it be forthwith kindled again, sparkles and burns out immediately.

As soon as e'er we take one breath'T were good to pass the gates of death,

before too great love of bodily and earthly things be engendered in the soul, and it become soft and tender by being used to the body, and, as it were, by charms and portions incorporated with it. But the truth of this will appear in the laws and traditions, received from our ancestors; for when children die, no libations nor sacrifices are made for them, nor any other of those ceremonies which are wont to be performed for the dead. For infants have no part of earth or earthly affections, nor do they hover or tarry about their sepulchres or monuments, where their dead bodies are exposed. The religion of our country teaches us otherwise, and it is an impious thing not to believe what our laws and traditions assert, that the souls of infants pass immediately into a better and more divine state; therefore, since it is safer to give credit to our traditions than to call them in question, let us comply with the custom in outward and public behavior, and let our interior be more unpolluted, pure and holy."

JUNE

Rose leaves and buds, the season's flowers,Scenting afresh the summer hours,The ruddy morn, the evening's close,Day's labors long and night's repose.BERRIESTuesday, 1.

Rise with the sun, if you would keep the commandments. The sleep you get before midnight goes to virtue; after sunrise, to vice. "It is wise," says Aristotle, "to be up before daybreak, for such habit contributes to health, wealth, and wisdom." If this virtue, commended alike by antiquity and by our sense of self-respect, has fallen into discredit in modern times, it was practised by our forefathers and bore its fruits. They

"With much shorter and far sweeter sleep content,Vigorous and fresh about their labors went."

"He that in the morning hath heard the voice of virtue," says Confucius, "may die at night." And it were virtuous to rise early during our June mornings to breakfast on strawberries with the robins, or what were as good, partake of Leigh Hunt's delicious Essay on these berries. One tastes them from his potted pages. And his very quotations are palatable.

"My Lord of Ely, when I was last in Holburn,I saw good strawberries in your garden there;I pray you send for some of them."

An ancient may read "Concord" instead of "my Lord of Ely's" gardens, and enjoy the sight moreover of his grandson's vermilioned fingers while picking them; the berries in no wise inferior to his Lordship's in flavor or color, and far larger in size, – that Yankee superstition. But one tastes none like the wild ones plucked fresh from the meadows of his native place, while the dews sparkled in the grasses, and the bobolink sought to decoy him from her nest there when he approached it. The lay lingers in the ear still: —

"A single note, so sweet and low,Like a full heart's overflow,Forms the prelude, – but the strainGives us no sweet tone again;For the wild and saucy songLeaps and skips the notes amongWith such quick and sportive play,Ne'er was merrier, madder lay."

Herrick dished his with fresh cream from his "little buttery": —

"You see the cream but naked is,Nor dances in the eyeWithout a strawberry,Or some fine tincture like to thisWhich draws the sight thereto."

So Milton's Eve in Eden, —

"From many a berry and from sweet kernels pressed,She tempered dulcet creams."

And Aratus, whom St. Paul quotes concerning the gods, calls the berries in aid in describing the roseate cheek of health: —

"Fair flesh like snow with vermilion mixed,"

a line that took Goethe's fancy when composing his Theory of Colors.

Randolph, too, Ben Jonson's young friend, rides out of London with "worthy Stafford" in quest of some, —

"Come, spur away,I have no patience for a longer stay;But I must go downAnd leave the changeable air of this great town.I will the country see,Where old simplicity,Though hid in gray,Doth look more gayThan foppery in plush and scarlet clad;Farewell ye city wits that areAlmost at city war, —'Tis time that I grew wise when all the world is mad."Here from the treeWe'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry;And every dayGo see the wholesome girls make hay,Whose brown hath lovelier graceThan any painted faceThat I do knowHyde Park can show."Then full, we'll seek a shade,And hear what music's made;How PhilomelHer tale doth tell,And how the other birds do fill the choir,The thrush and blackbird lend their throats,Warbling melodious notes,We will all sports enjoy that others do desire."

The strawberry, it appears, was not restored to gardens till within a century or two back. Evelyn mentions "planting them out of the woods." I do not find it mentioned as a cultivated plant in the Greek or Roman rural authors. Phillips, in his History of Fruits, gives this pleasant account of the origin of its name. That of "an ancient practice of children threading the wild berries upon straws of grass," somewhat as rude country boys thread birds' egg-shells like beads, as ornaments for their mirrors. He says that this is still a custom in parts of England where they abound, and that so many "straws of berries" are sold for a penny, – a more picturesque style of marketing than in pottles, or boxes. Evelyn mentions the kinds common in his time: Common Wood, English, American, or Virginia, Polona, White, Ivy Red, the Green, and Scarlet.

Culpepper, in his British Herbal, says: "This plant is so well known that it needs no description. It grows in woods and is planted in gardens. It flowers in May; the fruit ripens soon after. Venus owns the herb. The fruit, when green, is cool and dry; but when ripe, cool and moist." He gives a list of its medical virtues, among which, he says, "the water of the berries, carefully distilled, is a remedy and cordial in the panting and beating of the heart." It were almost worth having this trouble to be cured by his strawberry cordials.

He describes the raspberry, also called thimbleberry, and ascribes to it similar medical virtues.

Of bilberries, he says there are two sorts common in England, – the black and red. The red bilberry he calls "whortleberry," and says: "The black groweth in forests, on the heath, and such like barren places. The red grows in the north parts of this land, as Lancashire, Yorkshire, etc., flowers in March and April, the fruit ripening in July and August." "Both are under the dominion of Jupiter," and, if we may believe him, are very virtuous, it being "a pity they are used no more in physic than they are." In August we gather as good in

OUR BLUEBERRY SWAMP"Orange groves mid-tropic lie,Festal for the Spaniard's eye,And the red pomegranate growsWhere the luscious southwest blows;Myrrh and spikenard in the EastMultiply the Persian's feast,And our northern wildernessBoasts its fruits our lips to bless.Wouldst enjoy a magic sight,And so heal vexation's spite?Hasten to my blueberry swamp, —Green o'erhead the wild bird's camp;Here in thickets bending low,Thickly piled the blueberries grow,Freely spent on youth and maid,In the deep swamp's cooling shade,Pluck the clusters plump and full,Handful after handful pull!Choose which path, the fruitage hangs, —Fear no more the griping fangsOf the garden's spaded stuff, —This is healthy, done enough.Pull away! the afternoonDies beyond the meadow soon.Art thou a good citizen?Move into a blueberry fen;Here are leisure, wealth, and ease,Sure thy taste and thought to please,Drugged with nature's spicy tunes,Hummed upon the summer noons."Rich is he that asks no moreThan of blueberries a store,Who can snatch the clusters off,Pleased with himself and them enough.Fame? – the chickadee is calling; —Love? – the fat pine cones are falling;Heaven? – the berries in the air, —Eternity – their juice so rare.And if thy sorrows will not fly,Then get thee down and softly die.In the eddy of the breeze,Leave the world beneath those trees,And the purple runnel's tuneMelodize thy mossy swoon."W. E. Channing.LETTERSThursday, 3."Love is the life of friendship; letters areThe life of love, the loadstones that by rareAttractions make souls meet and melt, and mix,As when by fire exalted gold we fix."

But for letters the best of our life would hardly survive the mood and the moment. Prompted by so lively a sentiment as friendship, we commit to our leaves what we should not have spoken. To begin with "Dear Friend" is in itself an address which clothes our epistle in a rhetoric the most select and choice. We cannot write it without considering its fitness and taxing our conscience in the matter. 'Tis coming to the confessional, leaving nothing in reserve that falls gracefully into words. A life-long correspondence were a biography of the correspondents. Preserve your letters till time define their value. Some secret charm forbids committing them to the flames; the dews of the morning may sparkle there still, and remind one of his earlier Eden.