LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER V.

       AUTHORSHIP.

       Table of Contents

      OUR ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.

      Sitting patient in the shadow

       Till the blessed light shall come,

       A serene and saintly presence

       Sanctifies our troubled home.

       Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows

       Break like ripples on the strand

       Of the deep and solemn river,

       Where her willing feet now stand.

      O my sister, passing from me

       Out of human care and strife,

       Leave me as a gift those virtues

       Which have beautified your life.

       Dear, bequeath me that great patience

       Which has power to sustain

       A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit

       In its prison-house of pain.

      Give me–for I need it sorely–

       Of that courage, wise and sweet,

       Which has made the path of duty

       Green beneath your willing feet.

       Give me that unselfish nature

       That with charity divine

       Can pardon wrong for love's dear sake,–

       Meek heart, forgive me mine!

      Thus our parting daily loseth

       Something of its bitter pain,

       And while learning this hard lesson

       My great loss becomes my gain;

       For the touch of grief will render

       My wild nature more serene,

       Give to life new aspirations,

       A new trust in the unseen.

      Henceforth safe across the river

       I shall see forevermore

       A beloved household spirit

       Waiting for me on the shore;

       Hope and faith, born of my sorrow,

       Guardian angels shall become;

       And the sister gone before me

       By their hands shall lead me home.

      WHEN only twenty-two years old Miss Alcott began her career of authorship by launching a little flower bark, which floated gaily on the stream. She had always written poems, plays, and stories for her own and her friends' pleasure, and now she gathered up some tales she had written for Mr. Emerson's daughter, and published them under the name of "Flower Fables." She received the small amount of thirty-two dollars for the book; but it gave her the great satisfaction of having earned it by work that she loved, and which she could do well. She began to have applications for stories from the papers; but as yet sewing and teaching paid better than writing. While she sewed her brain was busy with plans of poems, plays, and tales, which she made use of at a later period.

      The following letter to her mother shows how closely she associated her with this early success:–

      20 Pinckney Street, Boston, Dec. 25, 1854.

       (With "Flower Fables,")

      Dear Mother,–Into your Christmas stocking I have put my "first-born," knowing that you will accept it with all its faults (for grandmothers are always kind), and look upon it merely as an earnest of what I may yet do; for, with so much to cheer me on, I hope to pass in time from fairies and fables to men and realities.

      Whatever beauty or poetry is to be found in my little book is owing to your interest in and encouragement of all my efforts from the first to the last; and if ever I do anything to be proud of, my greatest happiness will be that I can thank you for that, as I may do for all the good there is in me; and I shall be content to write if it gives you pleasure.

      Jo is fussing about;

       My lamp is going out.

      To dear mother, with many kind wishes for a happy New Year and merry Christmas.

      I am ever your loving daughter

      Louy.

      This letter shows that she had already begun to see that she must study not only fairies and fancies, but men and realities; and she now began to observe life, not in books, but as it went on around her. In the intense excitement of the anti-slavery struggles of that period she might well learn how full of dramatic situations and the elements of both tragedy and comedy real human life is. She says: "I began to see the strong contrasts and fun and frolic in every day life about this time." She also considered her reading, and tried to make it more thorough and profitable; and she did not "waste even ink on poems and fancies," but planned stories, that everything might help toward her great object of earning support for her family.

      In June, 1855, Miss Alcott went to Walpole, N. H., where she had a free life among the hills for a few months. It must have been a great refreshment to her after the winter's work in the city. In July the family followed her thither, and occupied a small house. The country life and joy soon began to find expression, and she wrote a little story called "King Goldenrod," which she says "ought to be fresh and true," as written at that beautiful time and place. But this pleasant country life was for a short season only; and in chill November she set out for the city, with brave heart and scanty outfit, to seek her fortune once more. While still continuing to sew as a means of livelihood, she began to try a great variety of literary ventures. She wrote notices of books for the papers, and at one time got five dollars for a story, besides twelve dollars for sewing. The following year the publishers began to find out the value of her work, and to call for more stories. Even her poems were accepted. Little Nell was then the favorite heroine of Dickens, and Louisa's poem on that subject was published in the "Courier." Although she at first enjoyed the beautiful scenery of Walpole, she found the dull little town did not offer her the opportunities for work that she needed; and leaving her family there, she came down to Boston to seek her fortune, and went to the well-known boarding-house of Mrs. David Reed on Chauncey Street. The happy home which she had here during the winter is represented as Mrs. Kirke's house in "Little Women," and Jo's garret is the sky-parlor in which she lived and wrote. She had a rich winter, hearing many of the finest lectures, and enjoying her free pass to the theatre. One of her greatest helps, however, was the friendship of Theodore Parker, who took great interest in her struggles, and wisely strengthened and encouraged her. She loved to go to his Sunday evening receptions, and sit quietly watching the varied company who collected there; and a word or pressure of the hand from her host was enough to cheer her for the whole week. She has gratefully recorded this influence in her sketch of Mr. Power in "Work;" but she has not given to that delineation the striking personality of her subject which we should have expected of her. She then perhaps looked up to him too much to take note of the rich elements of wit and humor in his nature, and has painted him wholly seriously, and with a colorless brush.

      Journal.

      Twenty-two Years Old.

      Pinckney

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