One of my earliest memories is of playing with books in my father's
study,--building towers and bridges of the big dictionaries, looking at
pictures, pretending to read, and scribbling on blank pages whenever pen
or pencil could be found. Many of these first attempts at authorship
still exist; and I often wonder if these childish plays did not
influence my after-life, since books have been my greatest comfort,
castle-building a never-failing delight, and scribbling a very
profitable amusement.
Another very vivid recollection is of the day when running after my hoop
I fell into the Frog Pond and was rescued by a black boy, becoming a
friend to the colored race then and there, though my mother always
declared that I was an abolitionist at the age of three.
During the Garrison riot in Boston the portrait of George Thompson was
hidden under a bed in our house for safekeeping; and I am told that I
used to go and comfort "the good man who helped poor slaves" in his
captivity. However that may be, the conversion was genuine; and my
greatest pride is in the fact that I have lived to know the brave men
and women who did so much for the cause, and that I had a very small
share in the war which put an end to a great wrong.
Being born on the birthday of Columbus, I seem to have something of my
patron saint's spirit of adventure, and running away was one of the
delights of my childhood. Many a social lunch have I shared with
hospitable Irish beggar children, as we ate our crusts, cold potatoes,
and salt fish on voyages of discovery among the ash heaps of the waste
land that then lay where the Albany station now stands.
Many an impromptu picnic have I had on the dear old Common, with strange
boys, pretty babies, and friendly dogs, who always seemed to feel that
this reckless young person needed looking after.
On one occasion the town-crier found me fast asleep at nine o'clock at
night, on a doorstep in Bedford Street, with my head pillowed on the
curly breast of a big Newfoundland, who was with difficulty persuaded to
release the weary little wanderer who had sobbed herself to sleep there.
I often smile as I pass that door, and never forget to give a grateful
pat to every big dog I meet, for never have I slept more soundly than on
that dusty step, nor found a better friend than the noble animal who
watched over the lost baby so faithfully.
My father's school was the only one I ever went to; and when this was
broken up because he introduced methods now all the fashion, our lessons
went on at home, for he was always sure of four little pupils who firmly
believed in their teacher, though they have not done him all the credit
he deserved.
I never liked arithmetic or grammar, and dodged these branches on all
occasions; but reading, composition, history, and geography I enjoyed,
as well as the stories read to us with a skill which made the dullest
charming and useful.
"Pilgrim's Progress," Krummacher's "Parables," Miss Edgeworth, and the
best of the dear old fairy tales made that hour the pleasantest of our
day. On Sundays we had a simple service of Bible stories, hymns, and
conversation about the state of our little consciences and the conduct
of our childish lives which never will be forgotten.
Walks each morning round the Common while in the city, and long tramps
over hill and dale when our home was in the country, were a part of our
education, as well as every sort of housework, for which I have always
been very grateful, since such knowledge makes one independent in these
days of domestic tribulation with the help who are too often only
hindrances.
Needle-work began early; and at ten my skilful sister made a linen shirt
beautifully, while at twelve I set up as a dolls' dressmaker, with my
sign out, and wonderful models in my window. All the children employed
me; and my turbans were the rage at one time, to the great dismay of the
neighbor's hens, who were hotly hunted down that I might tweak out their
downiest feathers to adorn the dolls' head-gear.
Active exercise was my delight from the time when a child of six I drove
my hoop round the Common without stopping, to the days when I did my
twenty miles in five hours and went to a party in the evening.
I always thought I must have been a deer or a horse in some former
state, because it was such a joy to run. No boy could be my friend till
I had beaten him in a race, and no girl if she refused to climb trees,
leap fences, and be a tomboy.
My wise mother, anxious to give me a strong body to support a lively
brain, turned me loose in the country and let me run wild, learning of
Nature what no books can teach, and being led, as those who truly love
her seldom fail to be,
"Through Nature up to Nature's God."
I remember running over the hills just at dawn one summer morning, and
pausing to rest in the silent woods, saw, through an arch of trees, the
sun rise over river, hill, and wide green meadows as I never saw it
before.
Something born of the lovely hour, a happy mood, and the unfolding
aspirations of a child's soul seemed to bring me very near to God; and
in the hush of that morning hour I always felt that I "got religion," as
the phrase goes. A new and vital sense of His presence, tender and
sustaining as a father's arms, came to me then, never to change through
forty years of life's vicissitudes, but to grow stronger for the sharp
discipline of poverty and pain, sorrow and success.
Those Concord days were the happiest of my life, for we had charming
playmates in the little Emersons, Channings, Hawthornes, and Goodwins,
with the illustrious parents and their friends to enjoy our pranks and
share our excursions.
Plays in the barn were a favorite amusement, and we dramatized the fairy
tales in great style. Our giant came tumbling off a loft when Jack cut
down the squash-vine running up a ladder to represent the immortal bean.
Cinderella rolled away in a vast pumpkin; and a long black pudding was
lowered by invisible hands to fasten itself on the nose of the woman who
wasted her three wishes.
Little pilgrims journeyed over the hills with scrip and staff, and
cockle-shells in their hats; elves held their pretty revels among the
pines, and "Peter Wilkins'" flying ladies came swinging down on the
birch tree-tops. Lords and ladies haunted the garden, and mermaids
splashed in the bath-house of woven willows over the brook.
People wondered at our frolics, but enjoyed them; and droll stories are
still told of the adventures of those days. Mr. Emerson and Margaret
Fuller were visiting my parents one afternoon; and the conversation
having turned to the ever-interesting subject of education, Miss Fuller
said,--
"Well, Mr. Alcott, you have been able to carry out your methods in your
own family, and I should like to see your model children."
She did in a few moments,--for as the guests stood on the doorsteps a
wild uproar approached, and round the corner of the house came a
wheelbarrow holding baby May arrayed as a queen; I was the horse, bitted
and bridled, and driven by my elder sister Anna, while Lizzie played dog
and barked as loud as her gentle voice permitted.
All were shouting, and wild with fun, which, however, came to a sudden
end as we espied the stately group before us, for my foot tripped, and
down we all went in a laughing heap, while my mother put a climax to the
joke by saying with a dramatic wave of the hand,--
"Here are the model children, Miss Fuller!"
My sentimental period began at fifteen, when I fell to writing romances,
poems, a "heart journal," and dreaming dreams of a splendid future.
Browsing over Mr. Emerson's library, I found "Goethe's Correspondence
with a Child," and was at once fired with the desire to be a second
Bettine, making my father's friend my Goethe. So I wrote letters to him,
but was wise enough never to send them, left wild flowers on the
doorsteps of my "Master," sung Mignon's song in very bad German under
his window, and was fond of wandering by moonlight, or sitting in a
cherry-tree at midnight till the owls scared me to bed.
The girlish folly did not last long, and the letters were burned years
ago; but Goethe is still my favorite author, and Emerson remained my
beloved "Master" while he lived, doing more for me, as for many another
young soul, than he ever knew, by the simple beauty of his life, the
truth and wisdom of his books, the example of a good great man untempted
and unspoiled by the world which he made nobler while in it, and left
the richer when he went.
The trials of life began about this time, and my happy childhood ended.
Money is never plentiful in a philosopher's house; and even the maternal
pelican could not supply all our wants on the small income which was
freely shared with every needy soul who asked for help.
Fugitive slaves were sheltered under our roof; and my first pupil was a
very black George Washington whom I taught to write on the hearth with
charcoal, his big fingers finding pen and pencil unmanageable.
Motherless girls seeking protection were guarded among us; hungry
travellers sent on to our door to be fed and warmed; and if the
philosopher happened to own two coats, the best went to a needy brother,
for these were practical Christians who had the most perfect faith in
Providence, and never found it betrayed.
In those days the prophets were not honored in their own land, and
Concord had not yet discovered her great men. It was a sort of refuge
for reformers of all sorts, whom the good natives regarded as lunatics,
harmless but amusing.
My father went away to hold his classes and conversations, and we women
folk began to feel that we also might do something. So one gloomy
November day we decided to move to Boston and try our fate again after
some years in the wilderness.
My father's prospect was as promising as a philosopher's ever is in a
money-making world; my mother's friends offered her a good salary as
their missionary to the poor; and my sister and I hoped to teach. It
was an anxious council; and always preferring action to discussion, I
took a brisk run over the hill and then settled down for "a good think"
in my favorite retreat.
It was an old cart-wheel, half hidden in grass under the locusts where I
used to sit to wrestle with my sums, and usually forget them scribbling
verses or fairy tales on my slate instead. Perched on the hub, I
surveyed the prospect and found it rather gloomy, with leafless trees,
sere grass, leaden sky, and frosty air; but the hopeful heart of fifteen
beat warmly under the old red shawl, visions of success gave the gray
clouds a silver lining, and I said defiantly, as I shook my fist at fate
embodied in a crow cawing dismally on a fence near by,--
"I _will_ do something by-and-by. Don't care what, teach, sew, act,
write, anything to help the family; and I'll be rich and famous and
happy before I die, see if I won't!"
Startled by this audacious outburst, the crow flew away; but the old
wheel creaked as if it began to turn at that moment, stirred by the
intense desire of an ambitious girl to work for those she loved and find
some reward when the duty was done.
I did not mind the omen then, and returned to the house cold but
resolute. I think I began to shoulder my burden then and there, for
when the free country life ended, the wild colt soon learned to tug in
harness, only breaking loose now and then for a taste of beloved
liberty.
My sisters and I had cherished fine dreams of a home in the city; but
when we found ourselves in a small house at the South End with not a
tree in sight, only a back yard to play in, and no money to buy any of
the splendors before us, we all rebelled and longed for the country
again.
Anna soon found little pupils, and trudged away each morning to her
daily task, pausing at the corner to wave her hand to me in answer to my
salute with the duster. My father went to his classes at his room down
town, mother to her all-absorbing poor, the little girls to school, and
I was left to keep house, feeling like a caged sea-gull as I washed
dishes and cooked in the basement kitchen, where my prospect was limited
to a procession of muddy boots.
Good drill, but very hard; and my only consolation was the evening
reunion when all met with such varied reports of the day's adventures,
we could not fail to find both amusement and instruction.
Father brought news from the upper world, and the wise, good people who
adorned it; mother, usually much dilapidated because she _would_ give
away her clothes, with sad tales of suffering and sin from the darker
side of life; gentle Anna a modest account of her success as teacher,
for even at seventeen her sweet nature won all who knew her, and her
patience quelled the most rebellious pupil.
My reports were usually a mixture of the tragic and the comic; and the
children poured their small joys and woes into the family bosom, where
comfort and sympathy were always to be found.
Then we youngsters adjourned to the kitchen for our fun, which usually
consisted of writing, dressing, and acting a series of remarkable plays.
In one I remember I took five parts and Anna four, with lightning
changes of costume, and characters varying from a Greek prince in silver
armor to a murderer in chains.
It was good training for memory and fingers, for we recited pages
without a fault, and made every sort of property from a harp to a
fairy's spangled wings. Later we acted Shakespeare; and Hamlet was my
favorite hero, played with a gloomy glare and a tragic stalk which I
have never seen surpassed.
But we were now beginning to play our parts on a real stage, and to know
something of the pathetic side of life, with its hard facts, irksome
duties, many temptations, and the daily sacrifice of self. Fortunately
we had the truest, tenderest of guides and guards, and so learned the
sweet uses of adversity, the value of honest work, the beautiful law of
compensation which gives more than it takes, and the real significance
of life.
At sixteen I began to teach twenty pupils, and for ten years learned to
know and love children. The story-writing went on all the while with
the usual trials of beginners. Fairy tales told the Emersons made the
first printed book, and "Hospital Sketches" the first successful one.
Every experience went into the caldron to come out as froth, or
evaporate in smoke, till time and suffering strengthened and clarified
the mixture of truth and fancy, and a wholesome draught for children
began to flow pleasantly and profitably.
So the omen proved a true one, and the wheel of fortune turned slowly,
till the girl of fifteen found herself a woman of fifty, with her
prophetic dream beautifully realized, her duty done, her reward far
greater than she deserved.
[Illustration: Chapter I tailpiece]
[Illustration: Kitty gives the bunch of holly to the little girl.--PAGE
36.]