of its natural direction. But this is far from being necessarily the case, and, when it does happen, is the result of mismanagement. I would not without reason oppose my father's wishes. I exceedingly dislike to do so, even when there is reason for it. Most gladly would I remain here, did I consider it for my benefit, and, perhaps it will not be too much to add, the benefit of my fellow-men. Here are my sunniest moments; home is, and will ever be, the centre of my enjoyment. It radiates every circle in which I tread, howsoever far removed, and thus will it ever be. Farming would be delightful, could I be satisfied with it; but I should not feel that I were doing all that I had the capability of. I do not leave it from any dishonorable motive. I respect it as an employment. Earth has not a more honorable one."

Nov. 25, 1847: "Inquired of father to-day in relation to going to Bridgewater. He spoke very discouragingly, and almost induced me to resolve to say no more about leaving the farm, but to content myself to remain upon it through life. He overcame my feelings by alluding to the probability that he would not dwell on earth much longer, and that then there would be no one to take his place. In the bitter thought of the moment, I believed that I had been doing wrong, and that it would be right for me. to sacrifice all my plans of future life and live at home as contented as possible. But I am myself again; and reason, and, I think I may say, conscience, tell me to still press forward; and press forward I must."

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Nov. 29, 1847: "Well, it is decided that I shall go to Bridgewater. A committee-man of Westport came for me to take a school. I asked father which I should do - take the school or go to the Normal. He told me to take my choice; which, of course, I did. He seems quite reconciled to my going — more so than at either of the last two terms that I have spent at Providence. I am glad that it is so; it has always been a source of regret to me to be at school without his entire and free consent."

Who that knew Potter intimately in his later life can fail to recognize, in this simple and serious story of his own action by the boy of eighteen, almost all the traits that characterized the mature man - the "sweet reasonableness," the fairness and soundness of judgment, the ready response to any appeal made to his sympathy or natural affections, the tenderness of his heart, the elevation of his motives, the modesty and conscientiousness of his disposition, and withal the quiet and amiable but indomitable pertinacity with which, notwithstanding any and all opposing considerations, he always adhered in the end to any conclusion in thought or any decision in life at which he had once independently and deliberately arrived? Never was there a better illustration of the truth of Wordsworth's famous line: "The child is father of the man." In Potter's vocabulary there was no such word as surrender.

Bridgewater, Feb. 13, 1848: "I observed yesterday a father drawing his little son on a sled. The little boy said, 'Why don't you go into the road? You said you would.' What caused that boy to ask

this question but an instinctive consciousness of moral principle—an idea that his father was bound to do as he had promised? Had that boy's heart been depraved, evil, and corrupt, had he known by nature the sins of lying and deceiving, would he have thought it strange that his father should not do as he said he would?"

Yarmouth, July 9, 1848: "Have given up the idea of going to Roundout, so that I have quite a different story to write from that of last night. After I concluded to go, I could not feel quite easy about it. To go off without the consent of my father was something I had never done, and, though I did not think he would have any objection, yet I did not know it. At any rate, he could not tell me I might go. This was a thought which troubled me at Nantucket, and probably prevented my staying more than anything else. In meeting, to-day, I looked over the reasons on both sides of the question, the motives which were operating to induce me to go, and the obstacles which seemed to be in the way, and I came to the conclusion that it is my duty to go home. I feel under some obligations to work a little this vacation. It was very kind in father to let me have the time and money to make this visit, and I think I ought to make some return and not take more liberty. The thought of the pleasure which I should derive from the journey would sometimes intrude itself, and somewhat shake my convictions of duty. But conscience finally approved my judgment, and I settled the matter by saying to friend A. after the meeting, 'I shall not go to Roundout.''

Kingston, Dec. 10, 1848: "He [Potter's successful predecessor in the Kingston school] was easy, social, familiar, fond of activity, and, I should judge, rather averse to retirement. My character, if I can rightly judge it, is compounded of some qualities very opposite. I am stiff, unsocial, distant, so reserved as to be almost uncivil, apparently preferring solitude and self to all else. To all of these charges my first appearance will bear full evidence. But to the last of them, in justice to myself, I shall plead 'not guilty,' I sometimes love solitude; it is a part of my nature to love it, and I have taken little pains to wean myself from it. But I do not love it always. I am sometimes as lonesome as other folks, and suffer as much from this cause as any one need to. I cannot at one step make strangers my acquaintances, and, until I am perfectly acquainted, I cannot feel at home. All my intimate, real acquaintances are few and slowly formed. I now greatly, severely miss a few bosom friends to whom I can unburden my pent-up thoughts. But I must wait till they are found. Perhaps the materials for them are here somewhere in store for me; and yet I may leave Kingston and not have a single real acquaintance! This may appear improbable, if not insane, to others, but to me it is far otherwise. I know myself as I think no other does, except Him who knows us all. What I mean by a real acquaintance is one with whom I can associate for hours, days, or any length of time, and feel perfectly at home, exhibit unrestrained freedom, and feel that it is no effort to converse. Now, when I look back upon my life and

think of the people with whom I have mingled, and find so few among them whom I can call real acquaintances, when I reflect that during my whole course at Bridgewater I formed scarcely more than half a dozen such, and that my room-mates, one for fourteen weeks and another for twenty-two, are not of this number, the thought that I may leave Kingston without a single acquaintance is to me far from visionary. It is an idea whose reality I dread. Not that I shall have no friends here; I have some already whose friendship I prize. Neither would I say that all my Bridgewater friends can be reckoned under the figure o, for it would be unjust both to them and me. No, many, many are the choice spirits whom I can number as my friends, and to meet whom would give me extreme joy. But they are not all such intimate acquaintances that I feel perfect freedom in their presence. Friendship may exist without a perfect acquaintance. Close attachments may be formed between those whose everyday thoughts and feelings are unknown to each other. It is not necessary that our simplest, undressed, and most common thoughts should be known to another, in order to gain his esteem, attachment, and affection. These are known only to ourselves, our God, and real acquaintances. We sometimes want to let these thoughts escape. They become burdensome, and it is then that we feel the need of an intimate, real acquaintance such a one as I am aching for now, before whom I may once more appear just as I appear to myself."

Kingston, Dec. 18, 1848: "Another beautiful