THE SENTIMENTAL PERIOD.
A SONG FROM THE SUDS.
Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
While the white foam rises high,
And sturdily wash, and rinse, and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry;
Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.
I wish we could wash from our hearts and our souls
The stains of the week away,
And let water and air by their magic make
Ourselves as pure as they;
Then on the earth there would be indeed
A glorious washing-day!
Along the path of a useful life
Will heart's-ease ever bloom;
The busy mind has no time to think
Of sorrow, or care, or gloom;
And anxious thoughts may be swept away
As we busily wield a broom.
I am glad a task to me is given
To labor at day by day;
For it brings me health, and strength, and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say,--
"Head, you may think; heart, you may feel;
But hand, you shall work alway!"
The period of free, happy childhood was necessarily short, and at
about the age of fifteen Louisa Alcott began to feel the pressure of
thoughts and duties which made life a more solemn matter. In spite of
the overflowing fun which appears in her books, her nature was very
serious, and she could not cast aside care lightly. So many varying
tendencies existed in her character that she must have struggled with
many doubts and questions before finding the true path. But she always
kept the pole-star of right strictly in view, and never failed in
truth to that duty which seemed to her nearest and most imperative. If
she erred in judgment, she did not err in conscientious fidelity.
Her mother's rules for her guidance were--
Rule yourself.
Love your neighbor.
Do the duty which lies nearest you.
She never lost sight of these instructions.
I will introduce this period in her own words, as written later for
the use of a friend.
My romantic period began at fifteen, when I fell to writing
poetry, keeping a heart-journal, and wandering by moonlight
instead of sleeping quietly. About that time, in browsing over
Mr. Emerson's library, I found Goethe's "Correspondence with a
Child," and at once was fired with a desire to be a Bettine,
making my father's friend my Goethe. So I wrote letters to him,
but never sent them; sat in a tall cherry-tree at midnight,
singing to the moon till the owls scared me to bed; left wild
flowers on the doorstep of my "Master," and sung Mignon's song
under his window in very bad German.
Not till many years later did I tell _my_ Goethe of this early
romance and the part he played in it. He was much amused, and
begged for his letters, kindly saying he felt honored to be so
worshipped. The letters were burnt long ago, but Emerson remained
my "Master" while he lived, doing more for me,--as for many
another,--than he knew, by the simple beauty of his life, the
truth and wisdom of his books, the example of a great, good man,
untempted and unspoiled by the world which he made better while
in it, and left richer and nobler when he went.
The trials of life began about this time, and happy childhood
ended. One of the most memorable days of my life is a certain
gloomy November afternoon, when we had been holding a family
council as to ways and means. In summer we lived much as the
birds did, on our fruit and bread and milk; the sun was our fire,
the sky our roof, and Nature's plenty made us forget that such a
thing as poverty existed.
In 1850 she heads her diary "The Sentimental Period." She was then
seventeen years old, but her diary gives no hint of the sentimental
notions that often fill the heads of young girls at that period. The
experiences of Jo with her charming young neighbor in "Little Women"
do not represent hers at all.
One bit of romance was suggested by Goethe's "Correspondence with a
Child." It may be difficult for readers of to-day to understand the
fascination which this book exercised upon young minds of the last
generation, yet it is certain that it led more than one young girl to
form an ideal attachment to a man far older than herself, but full of
nobility and intellectual greatness. Theodore Parker said of letters
addressed to him by a young New Hampshire girl, "They are as good as
Bettine's without the lies." This mingling of idealism and
hero-worship was strongly characteristic of that transcendental period
when women, having little solid education and less industrial
employment, were full of noble aspirations and longings for fuller and
freer life, which must find expression in some way.
The young woman of to-day, wearing waterproof and india-rubber boots,
skating, driving, and bicycling, studying chemistry in the laboratory,
exhibiting her pictures in open competition, adopting a profession
without opposition, and living single without fear of reproach, has
less time for fancies and more regard for facts.
Miss Alcott was safe in choosing her idol. Worship of Emerson could
only refine and elevate her thoughts, and her intimate acquaintance
with his beautiful home chastened her idolatry into pure reverent
friendship which never failed her. She kept her worship to herself,
and never sent him the letters in which she poured out the longings
and raptures which filled her girlish heart.
Her diary, which was revised by herself in later years, tells the
story of this period quite fully. The details may seem trifling, but
they help to illustrate this important formative period of her life.
_Journal._
THE SENTIMENTAL PERIOD.
BOSTON, _May, 1850._--So long a time has passed since I kept a
journal that I hardly know how to begin. Since coming to the city
I don't seem to have thought much, for the bustle and dirt and
change send all lovely images and restful feelings away. Among my
hills and woods I had fine free times alone, and though my
thoughts were silly, I daresay, they helped to keep me happy and
good. I see now what Nature did for me, and my "romantic tastes,"
as people called that love of solitude and out-of-door life,
taught me much.
This summer, like the last, we shall spend in a large house
(Uncle May's, Atkinson Street), with many comforts about us which
we shall enjoy, and in the autumn I hope I shall have something
to show that the time has not been wasted. Seventeen years have I
lived, and yet so little do I know, and so much remains to be
done before I begin to be what I desire,--a truly good and useful
woman.
In looking over our journals, Father says, "Anna's is about other
people, Louisa's about herself." That is true, for I don't _talk_
about myself; yet must always think of the wilful, moody girl I
try to manage, and in my journal I write of her to see how she
gets on. Anna is so good she need not take care of herself, and
can enjoy other people. If I look in my glass, I try to keep down
vanity about my long hair, my well-shaped head, and my good nose.
In the street I try not to covet fine things. My quick tongue is
always getting me into trouble, and my moodiness makes it hard to
be cheerful when I think how poor we are, how much worry it is to
live, and how many things I long to do I never can.
So every day is a battle, and I'm so tired I don't want to live;
only it's cowardly to die till you have done something.
I can't talk to any one but Mother about my troubles, and she has
so many now to bear I try not to add any more. I know God is
always ready to hear, but heaven's so far away in the city, and
I so heavy I can't fly up to find Him.
FAITH.
Written in the diary.
Oh, when the heart is full of fears
And the way seems dim to heaven,
When the sorrow and the care of years
Peace from the heart has driven,--
Then, through the mist of falling tears,
Look up and be forgiven.
Forgiven for the lack of faith
That made all dark to thee,
Let conscience o'er thy wayward soul
Have fullest mastery:
Hope on, fight on, and thou shalt win
A noble victory.
Though thou art weary and forlorn,
Let not thy heart's peace go;
Though the riches of this world are gone,
And thy lot is care and woe,
Faint not, but journey hourly on:
True wealth is not below.
Through all the darkness still look up:
Let virtue be thy guide;
Take thy draught from sorrow's cup,
Yet trustfully abide;
Let not temptation vanquish thee,
And the Father will provide.
[We had small-pox in the family this summer, caught from some
poor immigrants whom mother took into our garden and fed one day.
We girls had it lightly, but Father and Mother were very ill, and
we had a curious time of exile, danger, and trouble. No doctors,
and all got well.--L. M. A.]
_July_, 1850.--Anna is gone to L. after the varioloid. She is to
help Mrs. ---- with her baby. I had to take A.'s school of twenty
in Canton Street. I like it better than I thought, though it's
very hard to be patient with the children sometimes. They seem
happy, and learn fast; so I am encouraged, though at first it was
very hard, and I missed Anna so much I used to cry over my dinner
and be very blue. I guess this is the teaching I need; for as a
_school-marm_ I must behave myself and guard my tongue and temper
carefully, and set an example of sweet manners.
I found one of mother's notes in my journal, so like those she
used to write me when she had more time. It always encourages me;
and I wish some one would write as helpfully to her, for she
needs cheering up with all the care she has. I often think what a
hard life she has had since she married,--so full of wandering
and all sorts of worry! so different from her early easy days,
the youngest and most petted of her family. I think she is a very
brave, good woman; and my dream is to have a lovely, quiet home
for her, with no debts or troubles to burden her. But I'm afraid
she will be in heaven before I can do it. Anna, too, she is
feeble and homesick, and I miss her dreadfully; for she is my
conscience, always true and just and good. She must have a good
time in a nice little home of her own some day, as we often plan.
But waiting is so _hard_!
_August_, 1850.--School is hard work, and I feel as though I
should like to run away from it. But my children get on; so I
travel up every day, and do my best.
I get very little time to write or think; for my working days
have begun, and when school is over Anna wants me; so I have no
quiet. I think a little solitude every day is good for me. In
the quiet I see my faults, and try to mend them; but, deary me, I
don't get on at all.
I used to imagine my mind a room in confusion, and I was to put
it in order; so I swept out useless thoughts and dusted foolish
fancies away, and furnished it with good resolutions and began
again. But cobwebs get in. I'm not a good housekeeper, and never
get my room in nice order. I once wrote a poem about it when I
was fourteen, and called it "My Little Kingdom." It is still hard
to rule it, and always will be I think.
Reading Miss Bremer and Hawthorne. The "Scarlet Letter" is my
favorite. Mother likes Miss B. better, as more wholesome. I fancy
"lurid" things, if true and strong also.
Anna wants to be an actress, and so do I. We could make plenty of
money perhaps, and it is a very gay life. Mother says we are too
young, and must wait. A. acts often splendidly. I like tragic
plays, and shall be a Siddons if I can. We get up fine ones, and
make harps, castles, armor, dresses, water-falls, and thunder,
and have great fun.
It was at this period of her life that she was violently attacked by a
mania for the stage, and the greater part of her leisure time was
given to writing and enacting dramas. Her older sister, Anna, had the
same taste, and assisted her in carrying out all her plans. A family
of great talent with whom they were intimate joined with them, and
their mother always allowed them to have all the private theatricals
they wished to perform.
Some of these early plays are preserved in manuscripts as she wrote
them. They are written in stilted, melodramatic style, full of
highstrung sentiments of loyalty, honor and devotion, with the most
improbable incidents and violent devices, and without a touch of
common life or the slightest flavor of humor. The idea of
self-sacrifice always comes into them; but they are thoroughly
girlish. It is so that girls dream and feel before they know life at
all. Their hearts are full of vague, restless longings, and they seek
some vent for the repressed energies of their natures away from the
prosaic realities of the present. While Louisa sat sewing the tedious
seams of her daily task what a relief it was to let her imagination
run riot among the wildest and most exciting scenes. Of course she had
a "Bandit's Bride" among her plays. "The Captive of Castile; or, The
Moorish Maiden's Vow," is preserved entire, and is a good specimen of
these girlish efforts. It is full of surprises and concealments, and
the denouement is as unnatural as could well be imagined. The dialogue
is often bright and forcible, and the sentiments always lofty, and we
have no doubt it seemed very grand to the youthful audience. It is
taken from her reading, with no touch of her own life in it. This is
not the same play described with such a ludicrous finale in "Little
Women," although the heroine bears the same favorite name of Zara. Her
own early amusement was, however, fully in her mind when she wrote
that scene, which is true to fact.
A friend and relative of the family living in Roxbury, Dr. Windship,
was much interested in the development of Louisa's dramatic talent.
The girls always enjoyed delightful visits at his house. He tried to
help the young dramatist to public success, and writes to her
mother:--
I have offered to Mr. Barry of the Boston Theatre Louisa's "Prima
Donnas." He is very much pleased with it just as it is, and will
bring it out this season in good style. He thinks it will have a
fine run.
Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Wood consented to take the principal characters.
But from some difficulty in the arrangements "The Rival Prima Donnas"
was not produced. One great pleasure was gained, however, as Mr. Barry
gave her a free pass to the theatre, which proved a source of constant
refreshment and delight.
Of course Louisa was eager to go on to the stage herself. She had
indeed extraordinary dramatic power, and could at any time quickly
transform herself into Hamlet, and recite a scene with tragic effect.
But the careful mother knew better than the girl the trials and
dangers of the profession, and dissuaded her from it. She also knew
how little such youthful facility of expression indicates the power
which will make a great actress. Louisa has reproduced her dramatic
experience in "Work," which gives a picture faithful in spirit and in
many of its details to this phase of her life. She here indicates a
knowledge of her own limitation of talent. "Christie's gala" was a
part quite after her own heart.
A farce, called "Nat Batchelor's Pleasure Trip; or, The Trials of a
Good-natured Man," was brought out at the Howard Athenaeum. The papers
of the day said of it: "It is a creditable first attempt at dramatic
composition, and received frequent applause." Another critic says: "It
proved a full success." This performance, however, took place in
1860,--a later period than that of which I am now speaking.
An incident which occurred at this representation probably suggested
scenes which recur in "Work" and other of Miss Alcott's stories.
Quite a hit was made by a little girl, a Miss Jones, who, having
to speak but a few lines, spoke them so well that upon her exit
she received the rare compliment of an enthusiastic recall from
the audience, despite the fact that "some necessary question of
the play was then to be considered." For the time being she
certainly was the sensation of the piece.
Miss Alcott had in Dr. Windship a kind and judicious helper in her
dramatic undertakings, with whom she kept up a correspondence under
the names of Beaumont and Fletcher.
In 1851 Louisa had an experience which she has reproduced in her story
called "How I Went Out to Service." Her mother's work among the poor
of Boston led to her being applied to for employment, and at one time
she kept a regular intelligence office. A gentleman came to her
seeking a companion for his aged father and sister, who was to do only
light work, and to be treated with the greatest respect and kindness.
As Mrs. Alcott did not readily think of any who would fill the place,
the impulsive Louisa suggested, "Why couldn't I go, Mother?" She went,
and had two months of disappointment and painful experience which she
never forgot. She wrote out the story which was published later,
called "How I Went Out to Service."
The story has an important lesson for those who condemn severely young
girls who prefer the more independent life of the factory or shop to
what is considered the safety and comfort of service in families. If a
girl like Louisa Alcott, belonging to a well-known, highly esteemed
family, and herself commanding respect by her abilities and character,
could be treated with such indignity by a family in which no one would
have feared to place her, how much may not a poor unfriended girl be
called upon to endure!
_Journal._
1851.--We went to a meeting, and heard splendid speaking from
Phillips, Channing, and others. People were much excited, and
cheered "Shadrack and liberty," groaned for "Webster and
slavery," and made a great noise. I felt ready to do
anything,--fight or work, hoot or cry,--and laid plans to free
Simms. I shall be horribly ashamed of my country if this thing
happens and the slave is taken back.
[He was.--L. M. A.]
1852.--_High Street, Boston._--After the small-pox summer, we
went to a house in High Street. Mother opened an intelligence
office, which grew out of her city missionary work and a desire
to find places for good girls. It was not fit work for her, but
it paid; and she always did what came to her in the way of duty
or charity, and let pride, taste, and comfort suffer for love's
sake.
Anna and I taught; Lizzie was our little housekeeper,--our angel
in a cellar kitchen; May went to school; father wrote and talked
when he could get classes or conversations. Our poor little home
had much love and happiness in it, and was a shelter for lost
girls, abused wives, friendless children, and weak or wicked men.
Father and Mother had no money to give, but gave them time,
sympathy, help; and if blessings would make them rich, they would
be millionnaires. This is practical Christianity.
My first story was printed, and $5 paid for it. It was written in
Concord when I was sixteen. Great rubbish! Read it aloud to
sisters, and when they praised it, not knowing the author, I
proudly announced her name.
Made a resolution to read fewer novels, and those only of the
best. List of books I like:--
Carlyle's French Revolution and Miscellanies.
Hero and Hero-Worship.
Goethe's poems, plays, and novels.
Plutarch's Lives.
Madame Guion.
Paradise Lost and Comus.
Schiller's Plays.
Madame de Staël.
Bettine.
Louis XIV.
Jane Eyre.
Hypatia.
Philothea.
Uncle Tom's Cabin.
Emerson's Poems.
In "Little Women" (p. 174), she has told a story which has usually
been supposed to represent her first success in literature; but she
has transferred the incident from her sister to her own
representative, Jo. It was the quiet Anna who had secretly written a
story and fastened it inside of a newspaper. She read it to her mother
and sisters, as described in the book, and was very much delighted
with their approbation and astonishment.
1853.--In January I started a little school,--E. W., W. A., two
L's, two H's,--about a dozen in our parlor. In May, when my
school closed, I went to L. as second girl. I needed the change,
could do the wash, and was glad to earn my $2 a week. Home in
October with $34 for my wages. After two days' rest, began school
again with ten children. Anna went to Syracuse to teach; Father
to the West to try his luck,--so poor, so hopeful, so serene. God
be with him! Mother had several boarders, and May got on well at
school. Betty was still the home bird, and had a little romance
with C.
Pleasant letters from Father and Anna. A hard year. Summer
distasteful and lonely; winter tiresome with school and people I
didn't like. I miss Anna, my one bosom friend and comforter.
1854.--_Pinckney Street._--I have neglected my journal for
months, so must write it up. School for me month after month.
Mother busy with boarders and sewing. Father doing as well as a
philosopher can in a money-loving world. Anna at S.
I earned a good deal by sewing in the evening when my day's work
was done.
In February Father came home. Paid his way, but no more. A
dramatic scene when he arrived in the night. We were waked by
hearing the bell. Mother flew down, crying "My husband!" We
rushed after, and five white figures embraced the half-frozen
wanderer who came in hungry, tired, cold, and disappointed, but
smiling bravely and as serene as ever. We fed and warmed and
brooded over him, longing to ask if he had made any money; but no
one did till little May said, after he had told all the pleasant
things, "Well, did people pay you?" Then, with a queer look, he
opened his pocket-book and showed one dollar, saying with a smile
that made our eyes fill, "Only that! My overcoat was stolen, and
I had to buy a shawl. Many promises were not kept, and travelling
is costly; but I have opened the way, and another year shall do
better."
I shall never forget how beautifully Mother answered him, though
the dear, hopeful soul had built much on his success; but with a
beaming face she kissed him, saying, "I call that doing _very
well_. Since you are safely home, dear, we don't ask anything
more."
Anna and I choked down our tears, and took a little lesson in
real love which we never forgot, nor the look that the tired man
and the tender woman gave one another. It was half tragic and
comic, for Father was very dirty and sleepy, and Mother in a big
nightcap and funny old jacket.
[I began to see the strong contrasts and the fun and follies in
every-day life about this time.--L. M. A.]
Anna came home in March. Kept our school all summer. I got
"Flower Fables" ready to print.
Louisa also tried service with a relative in the country for a short
time, but teaching, sewing, and writing were her principal occupations
during this residence in Boston.
These seven years, from Louisa's sixteenth to her twenty-third year,
might be called an apprenticeship to life. She tried various paths,
and learned to know herself and the world about her, although she was
not even yet certain of success in the way which finally opened before
her and led her so successfully to the accomplishment of her
life-purpose. She tried teaching, without satisfaction to herself or
perhaps to others. The kind of education she had herself received
fitted her admirably to understand and influence children, but not to
carry on the routine of a school. Sewing was her resource when nothing
else offered, but it is almost pitiful to think of her as confined to
such work when great powers were lying dormant in her mind. Still,
Margaret Fuller said that a year of enforced quiet in the country
devoted mainly to sewing was very useful to her, since she reviewed
and examined the treasures laid up in her memory; and doubtless Louisa
Alcott thought out many a story which afterward delighted the world
while her fingers busily plied the needle. Yet it was a great
deliverance when she first found that the products of her brain would
bring in the needed money for family support.
_L. in Boston to A. in Syracuse._
THURSDAY, 27th.
DEAREST NAN,--I was so glad to hear from you, and hear that all
were well.
I am grubbing away as usual, trying to get money enough to buy
Mother a nice warm shawl. I have eleven dollars, all my own
earnings,--five for a story, and four for the pile of sewing I
did for the ladies of Dr. Gray's society, to give him as a
present.
... I got a crimson ribbon for a bonnet for May, and I took my
straw and fixed it nicely with some little duds I had. Her old
one has haunted me all winter, and I want her to look neat. She
is so graceful and pretty and loves beauty so much, it is hard
for her to be poor and wear other people's ugly things. You and I
have learned not to mind _much_; but when I think of her I long
to dash out and buy the finest hat the limited sum of ten dollars
can procure. She says so sweetly in one of her letters: "It is
hard sometimes to see other people have so many nice things and I
so few; but I try not to be envious, but contented with my poor
clothes, and cheerful about it." I hope the little dear will like
the bonnet and the frills I made her and some bows I fixed over
from bright ribbons L. W. threw away. I get half my rarities from
her rag-bag, and she doesn't know her own rags when fixed over. I
hope I shall live to see the dear child in silk and lace, with
plenty of pictures and "bottles of cream," Europe, and all she
longs for.
For our good little Betty, who is wearing all the old gowns we
left, I shall soon be able to buy a new one, and send it with my
blessing to the cheerful saint. She writes me the funniest notes,
and tries to keep the old folks warm and make the lonely house in
the snowbanks cosey and bright.
To Father I shall send new neckties and some paper; then he will
be happy, and can keep on with the beloved diaries though the
heavens fall.
Don't laugh at my plans; I'll carry them out, if I go to service
to do it. Seeing so much money flying about, I long to honestly
get a little and make my dear family more comfortable. I feel
weak-minded when I think of all they need and the little I can
do.
Now about you: Keep the money you have earned by so many tears
and sacrifices, and clothe yourself; for it makes me mad to know
that my good little lass is going round in shabby things, and
being looked down upon by people who are not worthy to touch her
patched shoes or the hem of her ragged old gowns. Make yourself
tidy, and if any is left over send it to Mother; for there are
always many things needed at home, though they won't tell us. I
only wish I too by any amount of weeping and homesickness could
earn as much. But my mite won't come amiss; and if tears can add
to its value, I've shed my quart,--first, over the book not
coming out; for that was a sad blow, and I waited so long it was
dreadful when my castle in the air came tumbling about my ears.
Pride made me laugh in public; but I wailed in private, and no
one knew it. The folks at home think I rather enjoyed it, for I
wrote a jolly letter. But my visit was spoiled; and now I'm
digging away for dear life, that I may not have come entirely in
vain. I didn't mean to groan about it; but my lass and I must
tell some one our trials, and so it becomes easy to confide in
one another. I never let Mother know how unhappy you were in S.
till Uncle wrote.
My doings are not much this week. I sent a little tale to the
"Gazette," and Clapp asked H. W. if five dollars would be enough.
Cousin H. said yes, and gave it to me, with kind words and a nice
parcel of paper, saying in his funny way, "Now, Lu, the door is
open, go in and win." So I shall try to do it. Then cousin L. W.
said Mr. B. had got my play, and told her that if Mrs. B. liked
it as well, it must be clever, and if it didn't cost too much, he
would bring it out by and by. Say nothing about it yet. Dr. W.
tells me Mr. F. is very sick; so the farce cannot be acted yet.
But the Doctor is set on its coming out, and we have fun about
it. H. W. takes me often to the theatre when L. is done with me.
I read to her all the P.M. often, as she is poorly, and in that
way I pay my debt to them.
I'm writing another story for Clapp. I want more fives, and mean
to have them too.
Uncle wrote that you were Dr. W.'s pet teacher, and every one
loved you dearly. But if you are not well, don't stay. Come home,
and be cuddled by your old
LU.