timid, kindly raillery for the indifferent. There was always a theme, and a thread. One whole winter was devoted — through thirteen conversations — to the Fine Arts; another to Ethics, in different applications; another to Education, in various respects; another to the proper influence of women on family, school, church, society, and literature. On some of these subjects she had, in her circle, undoubted experts, who knew on certain particular points more than she did. Of these she availed herself, but kept the reins in her own hands. We all know that the best-planned talk is a lottery; to-day blanks, to-morrow prizes; and there were times when the leader could bring out no coöperation, and had to fall back on monologue. But this was not common, and even the imperfect fragments in the way of report given by Mr. Emerson in the “Memoirs”[1] are enough to show the general success of these occasions. When the subject was “Life,” and she called upon one of her favorite pupils to answer, “What is life?” the lively girl replied, “It is to laugh or cry, according to our constitution.” In such a repartee, we can see that the most philosophic teacher met her match and had original minds to deal with. Yet, after all, reports of conversation are failures; and in this case their defects can only be supplied by more general reminiscences from pupils or friends, trying to give the secret of her acknowledged power. Two of these testimo-
- ↑ Memoirs, i. 324.
