rest Alcott would do without us, and without children altogether, except a few select ones, an élite corps, of which he would himself be the teacher, and who would be the new-born generation.
When the conversation had pretty fully developed the wisdom and the folly of the assembly, Theodore Parker took up the word, and gave an excellent, but covertly sarcastic statement of that which had been said during the evening, in particular of Alcott's philanthropic views with regard to the present human generation. When he had ended, an involuntary smile played upon all countenances, upon Emerson's as well as the rest; but however, turning his eagle-like head—eagle-like in expression if not in features—towards the speaker, he said, “that is quite right, and would be still more so if we came here to examine a speech from the chair, and not a free, unreserved conversation. But here might avail a maxim which I saw applied by one of my friends in England, who used to assemble his friends for the discussion of interesting topics. He had inscribed above the door of the room used for their discussions some words—which I am sorry I do not accurately remember—but the substance of which was, that every body was welcome to say what he thought right, but that it was forbidden to any one to make remarks on that which was said.”
On this, a new smile was on every face, and evidently at Parker's expense. Parker seemed a little hurt, reddened, but said—after a moment's pause—“that he thought it was better to make some remarks on that which had been said, than to come together and talk, without knowing distinctly what they were talking about.”
And now again all laughed, and Emerson also with Parker, and the assembly broke up cheerfully; and I drove home more amused and edified than I expected ever to have been at one of Alcott's “Conversations.”
I was present again at two more of Fanny Kemble's
