CHILDHOOD.
TO THE FIRST ROBIN.[4]
Welcome, welcome, little stranger,
Fear no harm, and fear no danger;
We are glad to see you here,
For you sing "Sweet Spring is near."
Now the white snow melts away;
Now the flowers blossom gay:
Come dear bird and build your nest,
For we love our robin best.
LOUISA MAY ALCOTT.
CONCORD.
Mr. Alcott had removed to Germantown, Penn, to take charge of a
school, and here Louisa was born, Nov. 29, 1832. She was the second
daughter, and was welcomed with the same pride and affection as her
elder sister had been. We have this pleasant little glimpse of her
when she was hardly a month old, from the pen of one of her mother's
friends. Even at that extremely early age love saw the signs of more
than usual intelligence, and friends as well as fond parents looked
forward to a promising career.
_Extract from a Letter by Miss Donaldson._
GERMANTOWN, PENN., Dec. 16, 1832.
I have a dear little pet in Mrs. Alcott's little Louisa. It is
the prettiest, best little thing in the world. You will wonder to
hear me call anything so young pretty, but it is really so in an
uncommon degree; it has a fair complexion, dark bright eyes, long
dark hair, a high forehead, and altogether a countenance of more
than usual intelligence.
The mother is such a delightful woman that it is a cordial to my
heart whenever I go to see her. I went in to see her for a few
moments the evening we received your letter, and I think I never
saw her in better spirits; and truly, if goodness and integrity
can insure felicity, she deserves to be happy.
The earliest anecdote remembered of Louisa is this: When the family
went from Philadelphia to Boston by steamer, the two little girls were
nicely dressed in clean nankeen frocks for the voyage; but they had
not been long on board before the lively Louisa was missing, and after
a long search she was brought up from the engine-room, where her eager
curiosity had carried her, and where she was having a beautiful time,
with "plenty of dirt."
The family removed to Boston in 1834, and Mr. Alcott opened his famous
school in Masonic Temple. Louisa was too young to attend the school
except as an occasional visitor; but she found plenty of interest and
amusement for herself in playing on the Common, making friends with
every child she met, and on one occasion falling into the Frog Pond.
She has given a very lively picture of this period of her life in
"Poppy's Pranks," that vivacious young person being a picture of
herself, not at all exaggerated.
The family lived successively in Front Street, Cottage Place, and
Beach Street during the six succeeding years in Boston. They
occasionally passed some weeks at Scituate during the summer, which
the children heartily enjoyed.
Mrs. Hawthorne gives a little anecdote which shows how the child's
heart was blossoming in this family sunshine: "One morning in Front
Street, at the breakfast table, Louisa suddenly broke silence, with a
sunny smile saying, 'I love everybody in _dis_ whole world.'"
Two children were born during this residence in Boston. Elizabeth was
named for Mr. Alcott's assistant in his school,--Miss E. P. Peabody,
since so widely known and beloved by all friends of education. A boy
was born only to die. The little body was laid reverently away in the
lot of Colonel May in the old burial-ground on the Common, and the
children were taught to speak with tenderness of their "baby brother."
When Louisa was about seven years old she made a visit to friends in
Providence. Miss C. writes of her: "She is a beautiful little girl to
look upon, and I love her affectionate manners. I think she is more
like her mother than either of the others." As is usually the case,
Louisa's journal, which she began at this early age, speaks more fully
of her struggles and difficulties than of the bright, sunny moods
which made her attractive. A little letter carefully printed and sent
home during this visit is preserved. In it she says she is not happy;
and she did have one trying experience there, to which she refers in
"My Boys." Seeing some poor children who she thought were hungry, she
took food from the house without asking permission, and carried it to
them, and was afterward very much astonished and grieved at being
reprimanded instead of praised for the deed. Miss C. says: "She has
had several spells of feeling sad; but a walk or a talk soon dispels
all gloom. She was half moody when she wrote her letter; but now she
is gay as a lark. She loves to play out of doors, and sometimes she is
not inclined to stay in when it is unpleasant." In her sketches of "My
Boys" she describes two of her companions here, not forgetting the
kindness of the one and the mischievousness of the other.
Although the family were quite comfortable during the time of Mr.
Alcott's teaching in Boston, yet the children wearied of their
extremely simple diet of plain boiled rice without sugar, and graham
meal without butter or molasses. An old friend who could not eat the
bountiful rations provided for her at the United States Hotel, used to
save her piece of pie or cake for the Alcott children. Louisa often
took it home to the others in a bandbox which she brought for the
purpose.
This friend was absent in Europe many years, and returned to find the
name of Louisa Alcott famous. When she met the authoress on the street
she was eagerly greeted. "Why, I did not think you would remember me!"
said the old lady. "Do you think I shall ever forget that bandbox?"
was the instant reply.
In 1840, Mr. Alcott's school having proved unsuccessful, the family
removed to Concord, Mass., and took a cottage which is described in
"Little Women" as "Meg's first home," although Anna never lived there
after her marriage. It was a pleasant house, with a garden full of
trees, and best of all a large barn, in which the children could have
free range and act out all the plays with which their little heads
were teeming. Of course it was a delightful change from the city for
the children, and here they passed two very happy years, for they were
too young to understand the cares which pressed upon the hearts of
their parents. Life was full of interest. One cold morning they found
in the garden a little half-starved bird; and having warmed and fed
it, Louisa was inspired to write a pretty poem to "The Robin." The
fond mother was so delighted that she said to her, "You will grow up a
Shakspeare!" From the lessons of her father she had formed the habit
of writing freely, but this is the first recorded instance of her
attempting to express her feelings in verse.
From the influences of such parentage as I have described, the family
life in which Louisa was brought up became wholly unique.
If the father had to give up his cherished projects of a school
modelled after his ideas, he could at least conduct the education of
his own children; and he did so with the most tender devotion. Even
when they were infants he took a great deal of personal care of them,
and loved to put the little ones to bed and use the "children's hour"
to instil into their hearts lessons of love and wisdom. He was full of
fun too, and would lie on the floor and frolic with them, making
compasses of his long legs with which to draw letters and diagrams. No
shade of fear mingled with the children's reverent recognition of his
superior spiritual life. So their hearts lay open to him, and he was
able to help them in their troubles.
He taught them much by writing; and we have many specimens of their
lists of words to be spelled, written, and understood. The lessons at
Scituate were often in the garden, and their father always drew their
attention to Nature and her beautiful forms and meanings. Little
symbolical pictures helped to illustrate his lessons, and he sometimes
made drawings himself. Here is an example of lessons. A quaint little
picture represents one child playing on a harp, another drawing an
arrow. It is inscribed--
FOR LOUISA.
1840.
Two passions strong divide our life,--
Meek, gentle love, or boisterous strife.
Below the child playing the harp is--
Love, Music,
Concord.
Below the shooter is--
Anger, Arrow,
Discord.
Another leaflet is--
FOR LOUISA
1840.
Louisa loves--
What?
(_Softly._)
Fun.
Have some then,
Father
says.
Christmas Eve, December, 1840.
Concordia.
* * * * *
FOR ANNA.
1840.
Beauty or Duty,--
which
loves Anna best?
A
Question
from her
Father.
Christmas Eve,
December, 1840.
Concordia.
A letter beautifully printed by her father for Louisa (1839) speaks to
her of conscience, and she adds to it this note: "L. began early, it
seems, to wrestle with her conscience." The children were always
required to keep their journals regularly, and although these were
open to the inspection of father and mother, they were very frank, and
really recorded their struggles and desires. The mother had the habit
of writing little notes to the children when she wished to call their
attention to any fault or peculiarity. Louisa preserved many of them,
headed,--
[_Extracts_ from letters from Mother, received during these early
years. I preserve them to show the ever tender, watchful help she
gave to the child who caused her the most anxiety, yet seemed to
be the nearest to her heart till the end.--L. M. A.]
No. 1.--MY DEAR LITTLE GIRL,--Will you accept this doll from me
on your seventh birthday? She will be a quiet playmate for my
active Louisa for seven years more. Be a kind mamma, and love her
for my sake.
YOUR MOTHER.
BEACH STREET, BOSTON, 1839.
_From her Mother._
COTTAGE IN CONCORD.
DEAR DAUGHTER,--Your tenth birthday has arrived. May it be a
happy one, and on each returning birthday may you feel new
strength and resolution to be gentle with sisters, obedient to
parents, loving to every one, and happy in yourself.
I give you the pencil-case I promised, for I have observed that
you are fond of writing, and wish to encourage the habit.
Go on trying, dear, and each day it will be easier to be and do
good. You must help yourself, for the cause of your little
troubles is in yourself; and patience and courage age only will
make you what mother prays to see you,--her good and happy girl.
CONCORD, 1843.
DEAR LOUY,--I enclose a picture for you which I always liked very
much, for I imagined that you might be just such an industrious
daughter and I such a feeble but loving mother, looking to your
labor for my daily bread.
Keep it for my sake and your own, for you and I always liked to
be grouped together.
MOTHER.
The lines I wrote under the picture in my journal:--
TO MOTHER.
I hope that soon, dear mother,
You and I may be
In the quiet room my fancy
Has so often made for thee,--
The pleasant, sunny chamber,
The cushioned easy-chair,
The book laid for your reading,
The vase of flowers fair;
The desk beside the window
Where the sun shines warm and bright:
And there in ease and quiet
The promised book you write;
While I sit close beside you,
Content at last to see
That you can rest, dear mother,
And I can cherish thee.
[The dream came true, and for the last ten years of her life
Marmee sat in peace, with every wish granted, even to the
"grouping together;" for she died in my arms.--L. M. A.]
A passage in Louisa's story of "Little Men" (p. 268) describes one of
their childish plays. They "made believe" their minds were little
round rooms in which the soul lived, and in which good or bad things
were preserved. This play was never forgotten in after life, and the
girls often looked into their little rooms for comfort or guidance in
trial or temptation.
Louisa was very fond of animals, as is abundantly shown in her
stories. She never had the happiness of owning many pets, except cats,
and these were the delight of the household. The children played all
manner of plays with them, tended them in sickness, buried them with
funeral honors, and Louisa has embalmed their memory in the story of
"The Seven Black Cats" in "Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag."
Dolls were an equal source of pleasure. The imaginative children
hardly recognized them as manufactured articles, but endowed them with
life and feeling. Louisa put her dolls through every experience of
life; they were fed, educated, punished, rewarded, nursed, and even
hung and buried, and then resurrected in her stories. The account of
the "Sacrifice of the Dolls" to the exacting Kitty Mouse in "Little
Men" delights all children by its mixture of pathetic earnestness and
playfulness. It is taken from the experience of another family of
children.
Miss Alcott twice says that she never went to any school but her
father's; but there were some slight exceptions to this rule. She went
a few months to a little district school in Still River Village. This
was a genuine old-fashioned school, from which she took the hint of
the frolics in "Under the Lilacs." Miss Ford also kept a little school
in Mr. Emerson's barn, to which the children went; and Mary Russell
had a school, which Louisa attended when eight or nine years old.
These circumstances, however, had small influence in her education.
During this period of life in Concord, which was so happy to the
children, the mother's heart was full of anxious care. She however
entered into all their childish pleasures, and her watchful care over
their moral growth is shown by her letters and by Louisa's journals.
The youngest child, Abba May, who was born in the cottage, became the
pet of the family and the special care of the oldest sister, Anna.
Louisa's childish journal gives us many hints of this happy life. She
revised these journals in later years, adding significant comments
which are full of interest. She designed them to have place in her
autobiography, which she hoped to write.
From three different sources--her journals, an article written for
publication, and a manuscript prepared for a friend,--we give her own
account of these childish years. She has not followed the order of
events strictly, and it has not been possible, therefore, to avoid all
repetition; but they give the spirit of her early life, and clearly
show the kind of education she received from her father and from the
circumstances around her.
_Sketch of Childhood, by herself._
One of my earliest recollections is of playing with books in my
father's study,--building houses and bridges of the big
dictionaries and diaries, 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 remain
in Bacon's Essays, Plutarch's Lives, and other works of a serious
nature, my infant taste being for solid literature, apparently.
On one occasion we built a high tower round baby Lizzie as she
sat playing with her toys on the floor, and being attracted by
something out-of-doors, forgot our little prisoner. A search was
made, and patient baby at last discovered curled up and fast
asleep in her dungeon cell, out of which she emerged so rosy and
smiling after her nap that we were forgiven for our carelessness.
Another memory is of my fourth birthday, which was celebrated at
my father's school-room in Masonic Temple. All the children were
there. I wore a crown of flowers, and stood upon a table to
dispense cakes to each child as the procession marched past. By
some oversight the cakes fell short, and I saw that if I gave
away the last one I should have none. As I was queen of the
revel, I felt that I ought to have it, and held on to it tightly
till my mother said,--
"It is always better to give away than to keep the nice things;
so I know my Louy will not let the little friend go without."
The little friend received the dear plummy cake, and I a kiss and
my first lesson in the sweetness of self-denial,--a lesson which
my dear mother beautifully illustrated all her long and noble
life.
Running away was one of the delights of my early days; and I
still enjoy sudden flights out of the nest to look about this
very interesting world, and then go back to report.
On one of these occasions I passed a varied day with some Irish
children, who hospitably shared their cold potatoes, salt-fish,
and crusts with me as we revelled in the ash-heaps which then
adorned the waste lands where the Albany Depot now stands. A trip
to the Common cheered the afternoon, but as dusk set in and my
friends deserted me, I felt that home was a nice place after all,
and tried to find it. I dimly remember watching a lamp-lighter as
I sat to rest on some doorsteps in Bedford Street, where a big
dog welcomed me so kindly that I fell asleep with my head
pillowed on his curly back, and was found there by the
town-crier, whom my distracted parents had sent in search of me.
His bell and proclamation of the loss of "a little girl, six
years old, in a pink frock, white hat, and new green shoes," woke
me up, and a small voice answered out of the darkness,--
"Why, dat's me!"
Being with difficulty torn from my four-footed friend, I was
carried to the crier's house, and there feasted sumptuously on
bread-and-molasses in a tin plate with the alphabet round it. But
my fun ended next day when I was tied to the arm of the sofa to
repent at leisure.
I became an Abolitionist at a very early age, but have never been
able to decide whether I was made so by seeing the portrait of
George Thompson hidden under a bed in our house during the
Garrison riot, and going to comfort "the poor man who had been
good to the slaves," or because I was saved from drowning in the
Frog Pond some years later by a colored boy. However that may be,
the conversion was genuine; and my greatest pride is in the fact
that I 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.
Another recollection of her childhood was of a "contraband" hidden in
the oven, which must have made her sense of the horrors of slavery
very keen.
I never went to school except to my father or such governesses as
from time to time came into the family. Schools then were not
what they are now; so we had lessons each morning in the study.
And very happy hours they were to us, for my father taught in the
wise way which unfolds what lies in the child's nature, as a
flower blooms, rather than crammed it, like a Strasburg goose,
with more than it could digest. I never liked arithmetic nor
grammar, and dodged those branches on all occasions; but reading,
writing, composition, history, and geography I enjoyed, as well
as the stories read to us with a skill peculiarly his own.
"Pilgrim's Progress," Krummacher's "Parables," Miss Edgeworth,
and the best of the dear old fairy tales made the reading 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 doll's
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 neighbors' hens, who were hotly
hunted down, that I might tweak out their downiest feathers to
adorn the dolls' headgear.
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.
Pilgrims journeyed over the hill with scrip and staff and
cockle-shells in their hats; fairies held their pretty revels
among the whispering birches, and strawberry parties in the
rustic arbor were honored by poets and philosophers, who fed us
on their wit and wisdom while the little maids served more mortal
food.
FOOTNOTE:
[4] Written at eight years of age.