MISS ALCOTT'S LIFE AND LETTERS.*
"Nor a bit sensational, but simple and true, for we really lived most of it; and if it succeeds, that will be the reason," says the author of Little Women on receiving its proof in 1868. It is almost startling to find how ranch of herself Miss Alcoa dared to put into her books for girls of whom she was no unmeet representative. Exceptional in character and in cir- cumstances as was Louisa May Alcott—child of Alcott, pupil of Emerson—she belonged by stress of poverty to the great army of girls who work, struggle, weep, and enjoy themselves in a life unknown to society, in surroundings which give family ties and local associations a concentrated power for good and evil now felt by few of us. I like," she said, in days of success, "to help the class of silent poor to which we belonged for so many years,—needy, but respectable, and forgotten because too proud to beg." Miss Alcott and her heroines made the best of things, and it is the girls who have to make the best of things who for two generations have been her • Louisa H. Alcott: her Life, Letters, and Journals. Edited by Ednah D. Cheney. London: Sampson Low and Co. 1889.
readers. They at least understand all the sublimer flights of heroism that are involved in such a record as this :—
" My bonnet has nearly been the death of me Mrs.
P — promised a bit of gray silk, and I built on that She
wanted the silk herself, kindly offering me a flannel petticoat instead ! I was in woe for a spell, having one dollar in the world, and scorning debt even for that prop of life, a bonnet. Then I roused myself, flew to Dodge. demanded her cheapest bonnet, found one for a dollar, and went home wondering if the sky would open and drop me a trimming—sky did not open." From her old r.bbon-box "I extracted the remains of the old white ribbon (used up, I thought, two years ago), and the bits of black lace that have adorned a long line of departed hats. Of the lace I made a dish, on which I thriftily served up bows of ribbon, like meat on toast. Inside put the lace bow which adorns my form anywhere when needed. A white flower A. H— gave me sat airily on the brim, fearfully unbecoming, but pretty in itself and in keeping. Strings are yet to be evolved from chaos. I feel that they await me some- where in the dim future. Green ones pro tern, hold this wonder of the age upon my gifted brow, and I survey my hat with respect- ful awe. I trust you will also."
Such experiences may seem trivial enough, but (this is out of a letter to a sister, not from one of her tales) the good-temper, resourcefulness, and self-sacrifice of the girl (who was earning money to help her family) appeal to other girls as something that they can thoroughly understand. We talk much from day to day of the great books which affect great minds ; we forget that they are too large for the little minds that love the little books.
Whilst placed by poverty in such straits, and enabled after- w mis to exult in the fact that all her success was made out of the despised Alcott brains, Louisa had an education which some might be glad to secure for richer children,—first, the care of a sympathetic mother, whose wise neglect, yet constant watchfulness, helped self-development ; and then "something to reverence" in the father and his friends, whose looks and books were alike eagerly read by the impulsive girl. Very early in life she tried to solve her father's philosophical problems by practical experience. "I've never eaten any meat, and I'm awful cross very often," remarked the little girl during one of his discourses on the angelic nature of the vegetarian ; and later in life she compared philosophers to captive-balloons, which were held down to earth only by the unwearying exertion of family and friends. No student, but an omnivorous reader, like most women whose intellectual life has been of any service to little worlds, she was from childhood accustomed to the free handling of books, and used to listen to those who could make them. A girlish reverence for the simplest and serenest of mortals, Emerson (not only philosopher, but " providence " to her family), is scarcely dis- tinguishable from hero-worship ; the " Master " remained entirely unconscious of the incense burnt before his shrine, and the child-worshipper grew into the woman-disciple, upon whatever equality of terms may prevail between calm age and stormy youth. It is possible that, although this was pure hero- worship, it had something to do with the fact that Miss Alcott was difficult to please as regarded mankind. It is not ascer- tainable from the pages before us whether or no she ever seriously thought of marriage, but she, declared that "all her adorers were queer" (a clever woman usually has to refuse some who, to her disgust, declare themselves "able to appre- ciate" her). She avowed that she would soon be tired of any hisband ; but " L. M. A.," who put so much of herself into her tales, recorded how clever Jo wept in the garret for loneliness. Louisa never found her Professor, and evinced a sort of impatience against the unsuitable matches she was asked to make between her heroes and her heroines.
She was a practical, busy woman, who could put her hand to anything, as the saying goes, and did do so for the benefit of family and friends. Excellent daughter, devoted sister, and in later life an adopting mother, her heart was full of kindness and self-sacrificing generosity. As a child she had been trained to discipline her own nature, and the intentions of self-improvement are evident even when. at twelve years old, she records that she wishes she had less of such vices as "idleness, impatience, Ste., vanity, pride, and love of cats."
Her youth was one typical of a large class of conscientious girls. Many at first seem exceptional, and a few at last remain so, to become influential mothers or otherwise sympa- thetic teachers by pen or deed. Thus, it is in accordance with all the traditions of girls who have made themselves inde- pendent, that at seventeen she writes : "Every-day Life is a battle, and rm so tired, I don't want to live ; only it's cowardly to die till you've done something." But at twenty-seven : "Twenty-seven years old, and so happy !" She remarks else- where, that at twenty-two "I began to see the strong con- trasts and the fun and follies in every-day life about this time." Sorrows and joys were to mingle all through her days. Always well before she went as nurse to the wounded of the war, her health then was shattered for life. But she had from the time of her sister Beth's death, a sense of self- mastery which extreme youth in vain struggles for. Youth fears its weapons as well as the fight that, when these have been proved, it endures and enjoys. Her religious creed seemed vague ; it was definite to herself—Emersonian teaching framing the personal impulses of a soul living from childhood in consciousness of trust. In later life, with the pupil's reverence for "the Master," she was able also to recognise the humorous side of his lecturing :—" The believers glow when the oracle is stuck, rustle and beam when he is audible, and nod and smile as if they understood perfectly when he murmurs under the desk. We are a foolish set."
Her literary life was one also common to her kind. In after- years, she would adjure youngsters to do anything rather than attempt to write, especially for a living; but she had been one of them in her own time, and had then declared : "I won't teach ; and I can write, and I'll prove it." Success came slowly, or rather, as fast as, in a literary sense, it was deserved; a good heart and clear head carried her over the years of work and waiting till she was no longer obliged to write sensational tales. because she could not starve upon praise, till publishers competed for her tales, and a newspaper-boy brandished her new volume in her face, with : " Bully book that ! buy it, M'm ! "
Manuscripts were then no longer returned to the "spidery cup- board" in disgrace, but the autograph-bunters and celebrity- handshakers spun canning webs for their author's capture.
Louisa Alcoa's life (1832-1888) is a record which will please the more thoughtful young girls who think they will be "great authors" one day, or who have enjoyed Little Women and Good Wives; most girls belong to one or other class. For them, there- fore, these letters and journals will be a great treat. Neither Miss Alcott's own work nor this biography are to be reviewed on the level of permanent literature. The latter has suffered, as more important works must suffer if biography-fright gains ground, and authors, in fear of literary executors, destroy the more personal, and therefore the most interesting, records of their careers. Further, as is easily imagined, the profes- sional writer is like the schoolboy who avoids anything to do with lessons : her letters become rarer and more necessary or personal; nor does she care to write without something to say.
But Miss Cheney has done her beat with her subject and with her materials, and we may be glad to have for girls such a compact and interesting memorial of a writer whose appre- ciation can do them nothing but good. And further, it would be a pity to leave the impression that no others should read this volume. It throws side-lights on domestic and literary America before the war, and is by no means without such humour and pathos as appeal to any who love their fellow-men, in spite of the feeling :—
" Salt of the earth ! in what queer guys Thou'rt fond of crystallising !"
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