VI.
MISS LOUISA MAY ALCOTT, as every one who has read "Little Women" would easily believe, is the original of her own harum-scarum "Jo." The personal appearance of her heroine corresponds almost exactly to her own at the same age. Tall, blue-eyed, endowed with the thick clustering chestnut "mane," which was poor Jo's sole pride, she was doubtless in her teens somewhat angular and awkward, although at the present time a lady of fine figure and carriage.
Miss Alcott was born in Germantown, Pennsylvania, about fifty years ago. Two years after her birth the family moved to Boston, where her father established a school, which soon became a noted one, in the Temple Building, near the Common. Some of its features, among them the singular rule which compelled an offending pupil to ferule the master, are described in the pages of "Little Men." But the peculiarity of such methods was more apparent than their excellence, and the school soon declined in popularity, partly on this account, and still more because Mr. Alcott refused to deny admission to a colored student. Scholar after scholar left, until at last his only remaining pupils were a little colored boy, one white boy, his daughter Louisa, then between six and seven years old, and her two sisters, the Meg and Beth of "Little Women." At last, he gave up the struggle and removed to Concord. Shortly afterward he went to the neighboring town of Harvard, where he and some friends tried to establish a religious and vegetarian community, 
MISS LOUISE M. ALCOTT.
somewhat after the pattern of Brook Farm, where each was to do his fair share of Labor for the common good. It failed, of course, and the failure furnished the material for Miss Alcott's amusing story, entitled "Transcendental Wild Oats."
The family then returned to Concord, where they spent three years in the house afterwards occupied by Hawthorne. It was about this time that Miss Alcott became acquainted with Ralph Waldo Emerson, to whom she frequently refers in her works, always with a peculiar mingling of tenderness and reverence. She went to school for some time with his children in their father's barn, and she draws a pleasant picture of the illustrious philosopher taking a merry company of young folks, crowded into a gayly decorated hay-wagon, to bathe, gather berries, or picnic at Walden Pond. He made a delightful play-fellow, and always found pleasant nooks for them in the woods and meadows, and told them wonderful stories of the woodland pets of his friend Thoreau, upon whose shoulder the wild birds would light fearlessly, and who could dip his hand into the pond and lift it out with a shining fish lying in the palm. When she grew older and was seized by the "book-mania," as she calls it, she used to haunt his library and ask him to recommend to her books to read, always inquiring for something new and very interesting, and seldom failing, through his patient help, to find it. Sometimes, when she wished to try something far above her girlish comprehension, he would advise her to wait awhile for that, and offer something else to take its place.
"For many of these wise books," she adds, "I am waiting still, very patiently, because in his own I have found the truest delight, the best inspiration of my life."
She tells, too, with humorous relish, a characteristic anecdote of her kind and great friend, whose books, on the occasion of his house taking fire, were thrown unceremoniously out of the window into the yard.
"As I stood guarding the scorched, wet pile," she says, "Mr. Emerson passed by, and surveying the devastation with philosophical calmness, only said in answer to my lamentations, 'I see my library under a new aspect. Could you tell me where my good neighbors have flung my boots? '"
It was in Concord, in a pretty summer-house which Mr. Alcott had built for his daughters near a brook, that Miss Alcott first tried composing stories, but only to amuse her sisters and friends. When she was sixteen they all went back to Boston to live, and there she began to teach school. It was not a pleasant occupation to her, and, ere long, she ventured to offer a story to a Boston newspaper. She has herself related, in an interesting letter to the Saturday Evening Gazette, how it fared with her in her early attempts to write for publication.
"I still have," she wrote, "a very vivid recollection of the mingled hope and fear with which I sent my second story to try its fate in a newspaper. My first appeared in Ballou's Pictorial Museum, and the five dollars paid for it was the most welcome money I ever earned. 'The Rival Prima Donnas' fared still better, for it brought me ten dollars and a request for more; at which delightful news the heart of the young authoress sang for joy: and she set bravely forth along the literary lane, which for twenty years showed no sign of turning.
"I always considered this tale a very successful one, not only because it was so hospitably received, but because when dramatized, at a hint from the kind friend who said a good word for me, both to editor and manager, it was accepted by Mr. Barry of the Boston Theatre. The ladies who were to play the prima donnas were actually rivals on the stage, and between the two the poor play fared ill. But I gladly added and altered, and felt quite satisfied in spite of the delay; for a free pass was given me, and I went forty times to the theatre that winter. Rich treat to a stage-struck girl; though the play never came out, and was wisely given to the flames at last, to the great relief of all parties."
"Other stories followed this fortunate one; and, after a first timid call at the office, I was emboldened by my kind reception to go often, and soon went peddling my wares in other places, but never with equal success in the courteous treatment and prompt payment which is so welcome to the soul of the bashful yet ambitious beginner.
"One of the memorable moments of my life is that in which, as I trudged to my little school on a wintry day, my eyes fell upon a large yellow poster with these delicious words: 'Bertha,' a new tale, by the author of 'The Rival Prima Donnas,' will appear in the Saturday Evening Gazette. I was late; it was bitter cold; people jostled me; I was mortally afraid I should be recognized; but there I stood, feasting my eyes on the fascinating pester, and saying proudly to myself, in the words of the great Vincent Crummles, 'This, this is fame!' That day my pupils had an indulgent teacher; for, while they struggled with their pot-hooks, I was writing immortal works; and, when they droned out the multiplication table, I was counting up the noble fortune my pen was to earn for me in the dim, delightful future. That afternoon my sisters made a pilgrimage to behold this famous placard, and, finding it torn by the wind, boldly stole it, and came home to wave it like a triumphal banner in the bosom of the excited family. The tattered paper still exists, folded away with other relics of those early days, so hard and yet so sweet, when the first small victories were won, and the enthusiasm of youth lent romance to life's drudgery.
"A dozen or more of these stories were written during those winters when I first set out to seek my fortune, which began with twenty dollars from the good old Gazette.
"With what eagerness did I unfold that generous sheet, and read aloud these foolish tales to my partial audience, who all predicted a future which would eclipse the fame of Shakspeare, Scott, and Dickens! Only those who have known this experience can understand the intense satisfaction one feels on seeing his first literary efforts actually in print, and the sheet in which they appear always finds a warm place in the heart of the grateful scribbler. For to no other work ever goes so much love and labor, hope and fear, as to these faulty darlings, whom we secretly cherish long after we are heartily ashamed of them.
"This training in the production of short dramatic stories proved very useful in after years, when orders for tales of certain lengths were plentiful; and a dozen a month were easily turned off, and well paid for, especially while a certain editor labored under the delusion that the writer was a man. The moment the truth was known the price was lowered; but the girl had learned the worth of her wares, and would not write for less, so continued to earn her fair wages in spite of sex."
Miss Alcott urges ladies who write for publication, not to submit to injustice of this kind, and to inform themselves as to their rights. She says:
"Now that women have made a place for themselves in journalism and literature, it is wise for them to cultivate, not only their intellectual faculties, but their practical ones also, and understand the business details of their craft. The ignorance and helplessness of women writers is amazing, and only disastrous experience teaches them what they should have learned before. The brains that can earn money in this way can understand how to take care of it by a proper knowledge of contracts, copyrights, and the duties of publisher and author toward one another. Then there will be less complaint on both sides, and fair play for those who win, not only admiration for their work, but respect for their wisdom in the affairs of their trade."
It is the earlier portion of her literary career that Miss Alcott describes so amusingly in "Little Women." I wish my own knowledge enabled me to say exactly what passages of that popular work may be accepted as accurate pictures of real events. I should deem it a privilege could I but vouch for the reality of the top-boots and tin money, those twin glories of the drama in the March household, or state upon good authority that Jo's first visit to the "Spread Eagle" office was Miss Alcott's own experience. It is not my fortune, however, to know just where fact ends and fiction begins, although I think that I could guess and come very near the mark. But, as most of Miss Alcott's readers have probably the same feeling, it is perhaps better that all should be left free to believe just what they prefer, and cherish undisturbed a harmless pride in their own discernment.
The amusing feminine Pickwick Club, at least, we are at liberty to believe in, since Miss Alcott herself, after giving at length the Pickwick Portfolio, says that it is "a bona-fide copy of one written by bona-fide girls once upon a time." The benevolent Pickwick, the accomplished Winkle, the plump Tupman, and the poetical Snodgrass were doubtless enacted with great spirit by the four merry sisters, and their paper, as given by its former editor, is certainly attractive reading.
The blast of war sounded in the ears of this young writer, the child of an enthusiast. She was one of the women in New England who volunteered for service in the military hospitals during the late war. She was promptly at her work, and in circumstances that would soon have discouraged her if the impulse which brought her thither had been but a romantic fancy. She had charge at first, all inexperienced as she was, of a ward containing forty beds, where she spent her days, as she remarks, in "washing faces, serving rations, giving medicine, and sitting in a very hard chair, with pneumonia on one side, diphtheria on the other, two typhoids opposite, and a dozen dilapidated patriots hopping, lying, and lounging about, all staring more or less at the new 'Nuss'."
What a change from the tranquil life of a New England home! She almost desired the arrival of wounded men, since unhappily there were such, for there was nothing heroic in rheumatism or liver complaint.
The wounded men came all too soon.
In the gray of early morning, but three days after her arrival, she was roused by a hurried knock at her door, and an excited black contraband of six years thrust in his woolly head and told her that forty ambulances, filled with the wounded from Fredericksburg, were at the door, and the matron required her help at once.
She hastened down, and was greeted as she descended by dreadful odors, which she was told would thenceforth pervade the place, since there was no way to get rid of them. On reaching the large hall, she found numbers of soldiers lying about on the floor or seated with their backs against the wall, while more were continually arriving, some staggering in supported upon rude crutches, others borne upon stretchers or carried in men's arms. Nurses, surgeons, and attendants were hurrying to and fro, and the scene was one of horror and confusion. She remained a moment, dazed with wonder and compassion, looking on, and then repaired to her ward to receive orders from the matron. They were brief and to the point; all her patients were to be washed and put to bed as quickly as possible.
These directions, although simple, did not appear to the new nurse very easy to follow, but sensibly resolving to put away her scruples, and do as much good as she could, she took her basin and towels and approached the nearest sufferer. He was an old Irishman, wounded in the head, and was at once so brave, so grateful, and so funny, that her task did not seem difficult. Most of the men were at first far too exhausted and sleepy to talk, and merely dozed wherever they chanced to drop down until the smell of food aroused them. But after receiving their rations many became quite communicative, and the new nurse, eager for news, received numerous graphic accounts of the battle, some fierce and brief, some spiced with genuine Yankee humor, as she passed from one bed to another, bathing, bandaging, and feeding her way down the long aisle.
The courage with which the wounded men endured their sufferings, Miss Alcott describes as something marvelous. Rarely did a cry or a groan escape their lips, although during the painful examination and dressing of neglected wounds that day, there was no ether used, the doctors considering it unnecessary because the amputations were deferred until the morrow. One or two irrepressible Irishmen swore at the surgeons or called upon the Virgin, "but as a general thing the work went on in silence, broken only by some quiet request for instruments or plaster, a sigh from the patient, or a sympathizing murmur from the nurse."
The hospital in which Miss Alcott served, and which she has exhibited to the public under the expressive title of "Hurlyburly House," had been a hotel before the war, and was by no means well-suited for the purpose to which it was afterwards put. The arrangement of the wards was inconvenient, and there were no proper quarters for the nurses and attendants. Her own room, which she shared with another lady, the day-nurse of the ward, was a small, uncarpeted apartment in the fourth story, with a window every pane of which was cracked, a fireplace possessing neither tongs nor shovel, and a miserable closet infested by rats and black bugs. Its furniture consisted of two iron bedsteads provided with unpleasantly meager mattresses, two trunks, two tables, two chairs, a tiny mirror, a tin basin, a blue pitcher, and a pair of yellow mugs. The walls were whitewashed, and the windows were draped with sheets.
Her fare was in accordance with these surroundings. It rarely varied, and it was not good. Moreover, she did not have enough of it, since if she did not appear promptly at table she found nothing left there for her to eat, and it was impossible for her to be punctual with so many sick men demanding her attention. The attendants, too, were convalescents, and were not physically able to cope with the tasks assigned them, so that to spare them she did the work of at least three persons. Under such circumstances it is scarcely to be wondered at that her health broke down and her hospital experiences terminated in a dangerous attack of typhoid fever.
Her struggle with the disease was protracted and severe, and although, thanks to an originally fine constitution, she at last recovered, she lost her beautiful hair, and has never since been the strong and healthy woman she was before she enlisted as a nurse.
The "Hospital Sketches," in which she describes the scenes among which she labored, first appeared separately in a Boston paper, and were afterwards gathered together into a volume. They were her first great literary success. Issued at a time when the public was hungry for every scrap of news from camp or hospital, these articles, hasty, faulty, often extravagant in fancy and diction, but yet written in the spirit of patriotism and with an honest desire to tell the truth, were read with passionate interest.
Five years later, she gained her second popular triumph: she published "Little Women." This story—for novel it was not—was at once received into wide favor, and is still pre-eminently the book of the American girl. Its charm lies in the reality of its incidents, the bright every-day character of its four heroines and their friends, and the breezy spirit with which the simple narrative is given. An ill-natured critic might descant upon the occasional hasty workmanship, but the best answer to all carping is the unflagging interest with which our young ladies still discuss the question, whether or not Jo should have married Laurie. Most of them, it may be added, think she should; indeed, the amiable Bhaer has scarcely met with the favor he deserves.
Miss Alcott is a busy and voluminous writer. Her "Eight Cousins," "Rose in Bloom," "Under the Lilacs," "Old-fashioned Girl," "Jack and Jill," together with "Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag Series," and several volumes of short stories, are now established favorites, and a new story appearing above her signature in one of the magazines creates a pleasant stir among the younger members of many households, and in some of the older ones, too. Several hundred thousand copies of her works have been sold in America, and nearly as many more in England and other European countries. A translation of "Little Women" was published not long ago in a children's magazine in Paris, under the title of Les Quatre Filles du Docteur Marsch (The Four Daughters of Dr. March). It included, however, only the first volume, with an added chapter in which the interesting sisters are suitably provided with husbands according to the pleasure of the translator, who owns to never having seen the second volume. The eminently respectable Bhaer, therefore, does not appear, and Jo and Laurie are comfortably established upon a farm in wedded happiness.
The home of Miss Alcott in Concord, Massachusetts, is an object of interest to visitors. It is described in one of the letters of Lydia Maria Child, written in 1876:
"The house of the Alcotts took my fancy greatly. When they bought the place the house was so very old, that it was thrown into the bargain with the supposition that it was fit for nothing but fire-wood. But Mr. Alcott has an architectural taste more intelligible than his Orphic sayings. He let every old rafter and beam stay in its place, changed old ovens and ash-holes into Saxon arched alcoves, and added a wash-woman's old shanty to the rear. The result is a house full of queer nooks and corners and all manner of juttings in and out. It seems as if the spirit of some old architect had brought it from the Middle Ages and dropped it down in Concord, preserving much better resemblance to the place whence it was brought than does the Virgin Mary's house, which the angel carried from Bethlehem to Loretto. The capable Alcott daughters painted and papered the interior themselves. And gradually the artist daughter filled up all the nooks and corners with panels on which she had painted birds or flowers, and over the open fire-places she painted mottoes in ancient English characters. Owls blink at you and faces peep from the most unexpected places. The whole leaves a general impression of harmony of a mediaeval sort, though different parts of the house seem to have stopped in a dance that became confused because some of the party did not keep time. The walls are covered with choice engravings and paintings by the artist daughter. She really is an artist."