Journals

FRUITLANDS

(1843)

September 1st.—I rose at five and had my bath. I love cold water! Then we had our singing-lesson with Mr. Lane. After breakfast I washed dishes, and ran on the hill till nine, and had some thoughts,—it was so beautiful up there. Did my lessons,—wrote and spelt and did sums; and Mr. Lane read a story,“The Judicious Father”: How a rich girl told a poor girl not to look over the fence at the flowers, and was cross to her because she was unhappy. The father heard her do it, and made the girls change clothes. The poor one was glad to do it, and he told her to keep them. But the rich one was very sad; for she had to wear the old ones a week, and after that she was good to shabby girls. I liked it very much, and I shall be kind to poor people.
Father asked us what was God’s noblest work. Anna said men, but I said babies. Men are often bad; babies never are. We had a long talk, and I felt better after it, and cleared up.
We had bread and fruit for dinner. I read and walked and played till supper-time.We sung in the evening. As I went to bed the moon came up very brightly and looked at me. I felt sad because I have been cross today, and did not mind Mother. I cried, and then I felt better, and said that piece from Mrs. Sigourney, “I must not tease my mother.” I get to sleep saying poetry,—I know a great deal.
Thursday, 14th.—Mr. Parker Pillsbury came, and we talked about the poor slaves. I had a music lesson with Miss F. I hate her, she is so fussy. I ran in the wind and played be a horse, and had a lovely time in the woods with Anna and Lizzie.We were fairies, and made gowns and paper wings. I “flied” the highest of all. In the evening they talked about travelling. I thought about Father going to England, and said this piece of poetry I found in Byron’s poems:—
“When I left thy shores, O Naxos,
Not a tear in sorrow fell;
Not a sigh or faltered accent
Told my bosom’s struggling swell.”
It rained when I went to bed, and made a pretty noise on the roof.
Sunday, 24th.—Father and Mr. Lane have gone to N. H. to preach. It was very lovely. . . . Anna and I got supper. In the eve I read “Vicar of Wakefield.” I was cross to-day, and I cried when I went to bed. I made good resolutions, and felt better in my heart. If I only kept all I make, I should be the best girl in the world. But I don’t, and so am very bad.
[Poor little sinner! She says the same at fifty.—L. M. A.]
October 8th.—When I woke up, the first thought I got was, “It’s Mother’s birthday: I must be very good.” I ran and wished her a happy birthday, and gave her my kiss. After breakfast we gave her our presents. I had a moss cross and a piece of poetry for her.
We did not have any school, and played in the woods and got red leaves. In the evening we danced and sung, and I read a story about “Contentment.” I wish I was rich, I was good, and we were all a happy family this day.
Thursday, 12th.—After lessons I ironed. We all went to the barn and husked corn. It was good fun. We worked till eight o’clock and had lamps. Mr. Russell came. Mother and Lizzie are going to Boston. I shall be very lonely without dear little Betty, and no one will be as good to me as mother. I read in Plutarch. I made a verse about sunset:—
Softly doth the sun descend
To his couch behind the hill,
Then, oh, then, I love to sit
On mossy banks beside the rill.
Anna thought it was very fine; but I didn’t like it very well.
Friday, Nov. 2nd.—Anna and I did the work. In the evening Mr. Lane asked us,“What is man?” These were our answers: A human being; an animal with a mind; a creature; a body; a soul and a mind. After a long talk we went to bed very tired.
[No wonder, after doing the work and worrying their little wits with such lessons.—L. M. A.]
 
A sample of the vegetarian wafers we used at Fruitlands:—
Vegetable diet
and sweet repose.
Animal food and
nightmare.
 
Pluck your body
from the orchard;
do not snatch it
from the shamble.
 
Without flesh diet
there could be no
blood-shedding war.
 
Apollo eats no
flesh and has no
beard; his voice is
melody itself.
 
Snuff is no less snuff
though accepted from
a gold box.
Tuesday, 20th.—I rose at five, and after breakfast washed the dishes, and then helped mother work. Miss F. is gone, and Anna in Boston with Cousin Louisa. I took care of Abby (May) in the afternoon. In the evening I made some pretty things for my dolly. Father and Mr. L. had a talk, and father asked us if we saw any reason for us to separate. Mother wanted to, she is so tired. I like it, but not the school part or Mr. L.
Eleven years old. Thursday, 29th.—It was Father’s and my birthday. We had some nice presents.We played in the snow before school. Mother read “Rosamond” when we sewed. Father asked us in the eve what fault troubled us most. I said my bad temper.
I told mother I liked to have her write in my book. She said she would put in more, and she wrote this to help me:—
DEAR LOUY,—Your handwriting improves very fast.Take pains and do not be in a hurry. I like to have you make observations about our conversations and your own thoughts. It helps you to express them and to understand your little self. Remember, dear girl, that a diary should be an epitome of your life. May it be a record of pure thought and good actions, then you will indeed be the precious child of your loving mother.
December 10th.—I did my lessons, and walked in the afternoon. Father read to us in dear Pilgrim’s Progress. Mr. L. was in Boston, and we were glad. In the eve father and mother and Anna and I had a long talk. I was very unhappy, and we all cried. Anna and I cried in bed, and I prayed God to keep us all together.
[Little Lu began early to feel the family cares and peculiar trials. —L. M. A.]

CONCORD

(1845-47)

CONCORD, Thursday.—I had an early run in the woods before the dew was off the grass. The moss was like velvet, and as I ran under the arches of yellow and red leaves I sang for joy, my heart was so bright and the world so beautiful. I stopped at the end of the walk and saw the sunshine out over the wide “Virginia meadows.”
It seemed like going through a dark life or grave into heaven beyond. A very strange and solemn feeling came over me as I stood there, with no sound but the rustle of the pines, no one near me, and the sun so glorious, as for me alone. It seemed as if I felt God as I never did before, and I prayed in my heart that I might keep that happy sense of nearness all my life.
[I have, for I most sincerely think that the little girl “got religion” that day in the wood when dear mother Nature led her to God.—L. M. A., 1885.]
 
HILLSIDE.
March, 1846.—I have at last got the little room I have wanted so long, and am very happy about it. It does me good to be alone, and Mother has made it very pretty and neat for me. My work-basket and desk are by the window, and my closet is full of dried herbs that smell very nice. The door that opens into the garden will be very pretty in summer, and I can run off to the woods when I like.
I have made a plan for my life, as I am in my teens, and no more a child. I am old for my age, and don’t care much for girl’s things. People think I’m wild and queer; but Mother understands and helps me. I have not told any one about my plan; but I’m going to be good. I’ve made so many resolutions, and written sad notes, and cried over my sins, and it doesn’t seem to do any good! Now I’m going to work really, for I feel a true desire to improve, and be a help and comfort, not a care and sorrow, to my dear mother.
Sunday, Oct. 9, 1847.—I have been reading to-day Bettine’s correspondence with Goethe.
She calls herself a child, and writes about the lovely things she saw and heard, and felt and did. I liked it much.
[First taste of Goethe. Three years later R. W. E. gave me “Wilhelm Meister,” and from that day Goethe has been my chief idol.—L. M. A., 1885.]

BOSTON

(1850-57)

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.
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.
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.
April, 1855.—I am in the garret with my papers round me, and a pile of apples to eat while I write my journal, plan stories, and enjoy the patter of rain on the roof, in peace and quiet.
[ Jo in the garret.—L. M. A.]
Being behindhand, as usual, I’ll make note of the main events up to date, for I don’t waste ink in poetry and pages of rubbish now. I’ve begun to live, and have no time for sentimental musing.
In October I began my school; Father talked, Mother looked after her boarders, and tried to help everybody. Anna was in Syracuse teaching Mrs. S——’s children.
My book came out; and people began to think that topsey-turvey Louisa would amount to something after all, since she could do so well as housemaid, teacher, seamstress, and story-teller. Perhaps she may.
In February I wrote a story for which C. paid $5, and asked for more.
In March I wrote a farce for W. Warren, and Dr. W. offered it to him; but W.W. was too busy.
Also began another tale, but found little time to work on it, with school, sewing, and house-work. My winter’s earnings are,—if I am ever paid.
010
A busy and a pleasant winter, because, though hard at times, I do seem to be getting on a little; and that encourages me.
Have heard Lowell and Hedge lecture, acted in plays, and thanks to our rag-money and good cousin H., have been to the theatre several times,—always my great joy.
Summer plans are yet unsettled. Father wants to go to England: not a wise idea, I think. We shall probably stay here, and A. and I go into the country as governesses. It’s a queer way to live, but dramatic, and I rather like it; for we never know what is to come next.We are real “Micawbers,” and always “ready for a spring.”
I have planned another Christmas book, and hope to be able to write it.
1855.—Cousin L. W. asks me to pass the summer at Walpole with her. If I can get no teaching, I shall go; for I long for the hills, and can write my fairy tales there.
I delivered my burlesque lecture on “Woman, and Her Position; by Oronthy Bluggage,” last evening at Deacon G.’s. Had a merry time, and was asked by Mr. W. to do it at H. for money. Read “Hamlet” at our club,—my favorite play. Saw Mrs. W. H. Smith about the farce; says she will do it at her benefit.
May.—Father went to C. to talk with Mr. Emerson about the England trip. I am to go to Walpole. I have made my own gowns, and had money enough to fit up the girls. So glad to be independent.
[I wonder if $40 fitted up the whole family. Perhaps so, as my wardrobe was made up of old clothes from cousins and friends.—L. M. A.]
June, 1857.—Read Charlotte Bronté’s life. A very interesting, but sad one. So full of talent; and after working long, just as success, love, and happiness come, she dies.
Wonder if I shall ever be famous enough for people to care to read my story and struggles. I can’t be a C. B., but I may do a little something yet.
July.—Grandma Alcott came to visit us. A sweet old lady; and I am glad to know her, and see where Father got his nature. Eighty-four; yet very smart, industrious, and wise. A house needs a grandma in it.
As we sat talking over Father’s boyhood, I never realized so plainly before how much he has done for himself. His early life sounded like a pretty old romance, and Mother added the love passages.
I got a hint for a story; and some day will do it, and call it “The Cost of an Idea.” Spindle Hill, Temple School, Fruitlands, Boston, and Concord, would make fine chapters. The trials and triumphs of the Pathetic Family would make a capital book; may I live to do it.
August.—A sad, anxious month. Betty worse; Mother takes her to the seashore. Father decides to go back to Concord; he is never happy far from Emerson, the one true friend who loves and understands and helps him.
September.—An old house near R. W. E.’s is bought with Mother’s money, and we propose to move. Mother in Boston with poor Betty, who is failing fast. Anna and I have a hard time breaking up.
October.—Move to Concord. Take half a house in town till spring, when the old one is to be made ready.
Find dear Betty a shadow, but sweet and patient always. Fit up a nice room for her, and hope home and love and care may keep her.
People kind and friendly, and the old place looks pleasant, though I never want to live in it.
November.—Father goes West, taking Grandma home. We settle down to our winter, whatever it is to be. Lizzie seems better, and we have some plays. Sanborn’s school makes things lively, and we act a good deal.
Twenty-five this month. I feel my quarter of a century rather heavy on my shoulders just now. I lead two lives. One seems gay with plays, etc., the other very sad,—in Betty’s room; for though she wishes us to act, and loves to see us get ready, the shadow is there, and Mother and I see it. Betty loves to have me with her; and I am with her at night, for Mother needs rest. Betty says she feels “strong” when I am near. So glad to be of use.
December.—Some fine plays for charity.

CONCORD

(1858-62)

January, 1858.—Lizzie much worse; Dr. G. says there is no hope. A hard thing to hear; but if she is only to suffer, I pray she may go soon. She was glad to know she was to “get well,” as she called it, and we tried to bear it bravely for her sake. We gave up plays; Father came home; and Anna took the housekeeping, so that Mother and I could devote ourselves to her. Sad, quiet days in her room, and strange nights keeping up the fire and watching the dear little shadow try to wile away the long sleepless hours without troubling me. She sews, reads, sings softly, and lies looking at the fire,—so sweet and patient and so worn, my heart is broken to see the change. I wrote some lines one night on “Our Angel in the House.”
[ Jo and Beth.—L. M. A.]
February.—A mild month; Betty very comfortable, and we hope a little.
Dear Betty is slipping away, and every hour is too precious to waste, so I’ll keep my lamentations over Nan’s [affairs] till this duty is over.
Lizzie makes little things, and drops them out of windows to the school-children, smiling to see their surprise. In the night she tells me to be Mrs. Gamp, when I give her her lunch, and tries to be gay that I may keep up. Dear little saint! I shall be better all my life for these sad hours with you.
March 14th.—My dear Beth died at three this morning, after two years of patient pain. Last week she put her work away, saying the needle was “too heavy,” and having given us her few possessions, made ready for the parting in her own simple, quiet way. For two days she suffered much, begging for ether, though its effect was gone. Tuesday she lay in Father’s arms, and called us round her, smiling contentedly as she said, “All here!” I think she bid us good-by then, as she held our hands and kissed us tenderly. Saturday she slept, and at midnight became unconscious, quietly breathing her life away till three; then, with one last look of the beautiful eyes, she was gone.
A curious thing happened, and I will tell it here, for Dr. G. said it was a fact. A few moments after the last breath came, as Mother and I sat silently watching the shadow fall on the dear little face, I saw a light mist rise from the body, and float up and vanish in the air. Mother’s eyes followed mine, and when I said,“What did you see?” she described the same light mist. Dr. G. said it was the life departing visibly.
For the last time we dressed her in her usual cap and gown, and laid her on her bed,—at rest at last. What she had suffered was seen in the face; for at twenty-three she looked like a woman of forty, so worn was she, and all her pretty hair gone.
On Monday Dr. Huntington read the Chapel service, and we sang her favorite hymn. Mr. Emerson, Henry Thoreau, Sanborn, and John Pratt, carried her out of the old home to the new one at Sleepy Hollow chosen by herself. So the first break comes, and I know what death means,—a liberator for her, a teacher for us.
April.—Came to occupy one wing of Hawthorne’s house (once ours) while the new one was being repaired. Father, Mother, and I kept house together; May being in Boston, Anna at Pratt Farm, and, for the first time, Lizzie absent. I don’t miss her as I expected to do, for she seems nearer and dearer than before; and I am glad to know she is safe from pain and age in some world where her innocent soul must be happy.
Death never seemed terrible to me, and now is beautiful; so I cannot fear it, but find it friendly and wonderful.
May.—A lonely month with all the girls gone, and Father and Mother absorbed in the old house, which I don’t care about, not liking Concord.
On the 7th of April, Anna came walking in to tell us she was engaged to John Pratt; so another sister is gone. J. is a model son and brother,—a true man,—full of fine possibilities, but so modest one does not see it at once. He is handsome, healthy, and happy; just home from the West, and so full of love he is pleasant to look at.
I moaned in private over my great loss, and said I’d never forgive J. for taking Anna from me; but I shall if he makes her happy, and turn to little May for my comfort.
[Now that John is dead, I can truly say we all had cause to bless the day he came into the family; for we gained a son and brother, and Anna the best husband ever known.
For ten years he made her home a little heaven of love and peace; and when he died he left her the legacy of a beautiful life, and an honest name to his little sons.—L. M. A., 1873.]
February, 1860.—Mr.——won’t have “M. L.,” as it is antislavery, and the dear South must not be offended, Got a carpet with my $50, and wild Louisa’s head kept the feet of the family warm.
March.—Wrote “A Modern Cinderella,” with Nan for the heroine and John for the hero.
Made my first ball dress for May, and she was the finest girl at the party. My tall, blond, graceful girl! I was proud of her.
Wrote a song for the school festival, and heard it sung by four hundred happy children. Father got up the affair, and such a pretty affair was never seen in Concord before. He said, “We spend much on our cattle and flower shows; let us each spring have a show of our children, and begrudge nothing for their culture.” All liked it but the old fogies who want things as they were in the ark.
April.—Made two riding habits, and May and I had some fine rides. Both needed exercise, and this was good for us. So one of our dreams came true, and we really did “dash away on horseback.”
Sanborn was nearly kidnapped for being a friend of John Brown; but his sister and A. W. rescued him when he was handcuffed, and the scamps drove off. Great ferment in town. A meeting and general flurry.
Had a funny lover who met me in the cars, and said he lost his heart at once. Handsome man of forty. A Southerner, and very demonstrative and gushing, called and wished to pay his addresses; and being told I didn’t wish to see him, retired, to write letters and haunt the road with his hat off, while the girls laughed and had great fun over Jo’s lover. He went at last, and peace reigned. My adorers are all queer.
Sent “Cinderella” to the “Atlantic,” and it was accepted. Began “By the River,” and thought that this was certainly to be a lucky year; for after ten years hard climbing I had reached a good perch on the ladder, and could look more hopefully into the future, while my paper boats sailed gaily over the Atlantic.
May.—Meg’s wedding.
My farce was acted, and I went to see it. Not very well done; but I sat in a box, and the good Doctor handed up a bouquet to the author, and made as much as he could of a small affair.
Saw Anna’s honeymoon home at Chelsea,—a little cottage in a blooming apple-orchard. Pretty place, simple and sweet. God bless it!
The dear girl was married on the 23d, the same day as Mother’s wedding. A lovely day; the house full of sunshine, flowers, friends, and happiness. Uncle S. J. May married them, with no fuss, but much love; and we all stood round her. She in her silver-gray silk, with lilies of the valley (John’s flower) in her bosom and hair. We in gray thin stuff and roses,—sackcloth, I called it, and ashes of roses; for I mourn the loss of my Nan, and am not comforted.We have had a little feast, sent by good Mrs. Judge Shaw; then the old folks danced round the bridal pair on the lawn in the German fashion, making a pretty picture to remember, under our Revolutionary elm.
Then, with tears and kisses, our dear girl, in her little white bonnet, went happily away with her good John; and we ended our first wedding. Mr. Emerson kissed her; and I thought that honor would make even matrimony endurable, for he is the god of my idolatry, and has been for years.
June.—To Boston to the memorial meeting for Mr. Parker, which was very beautiful, and proved how much he was beloved. Music Hall was full of flowers and sunshine, and hundreds of faces, both sad and proud, as the various speakers told the life of love and labor which makes Theodore Parker’s memory so rich a legacy to Boston. I was very glad to have known so good a man, and been called “friend” by him.
Saw Nan in her nest, where she and her mate live like a pair of turtle doves. Very sweet and pretty, but I’d rather be a free spinster and paddle my own canoe.
August.—“Moods.” Genius burned so fiercely that for four weeks I wrote all day and planned nearly all night, being quite possessed by my work. I was perfectly happy, and seemed to have no wants. Finished the book, or a rough draught of it, and put it away to settle. Mr. Emerson offered to read it when Mother told him it was “Moods” and had one of his sayings for motto.
Daresay nothing will ever come of it; but it had to be done, and I’m the richer for a new experience.
September.—Received $75 of Ticknor “Cinderella,” and feel very rich. Emerson praised it, and people wrote to me about it and patted me on the head. Paid bills, and began to simmer another.
February, 1861.—Another turn at “Moods,” which I remodelled. From the 2d to the 25th I sat writing, with a run at dusk; could not sleep, and for three days was so full of it I could not stop to get up. Mother made me a green silk cap with a red bow, to match the old green and red party wrap, which I wore as a “glory cloak.” Thus arrayed I sat in groves of manuscripts, “living for immortality,” as May said. Mother wandered in and out with cordial cups of tea, worried because I couldn’t eat. Father thought it fine, and brought his reddest apples and hardest cider for my Pegasus to feed upon. All sorts of fun was going on; but I didn’t care if the world returned to chaos if I and my inkstand only “lit” in the same place.
It was very pleasant and queer while it lasted; but after three weeks of it I found that my mind was too rampant for my body, as my head was dizzy, legs shaky, and no sleep would come. So I dropped the pen, and took long walks, cold baths, and had Nan up to frolic with me. Read all I had done to my family; and Father said: “Emerson must see this. Where did you get your metaphysics?” Mother pronounced it wonderful, and Anna laughed and cried, as she always does, over my works, saying, “My dear, I’m proud of you.”
So I had a good time, even if it never comes to any thing; for it was worth something to have my three dearest sit up till midnight listening with wide-open eyes to Lu’s first novel.
I planned it some time ago, and have had it in my mind ever so long; but now it begins to take shape.
April.—War declared with the South, and our Concord company went to Washington. A busy time getting them ready, and a sad day seeing them off; for in a little town like this we all seem like one family in times like these. At the station the scene was very dramatic, as the brave boys went away perhaps never to come back again.
I’ve often longed to see a war, and now I have my wish. I long to be a man; but as I can’t fight, I will content myself with working for those who can.
Sewed a good deal getting May’s summer things in order, as she sent for me to make and mend and buy and send her outfit.
Stories simmered in my brain, demanding to be writ; but I let them simmer, knowing that the longer the divine afflatus was bottled up the better it would be.
John Brown’s daughters came to board, and upset my plans of rest and writing when the report and the sewing were done. I had my fit of woe up garret on the fat rag-bag, and then put my papers away, and fell to work at housekeeping. I think disappointment must be good for me, I get so much of it; and the constant thumping Fate gives me may be a mellowing process; so I shall be a ripe and sweet old pippin before I die.
May, 1862.—School finished for me, and I paid Miss N. by giving her all the furniture, and leaving her to do as she liked; while I went back to my writing, which pays much better, though Mr. F. did say, “Stick to your teaching; you can’t write.” Being wilful, I said, “I won’t teach; and I can write, and I’ll prove it.”
Saw Miss Rebecca Harding, author of “Margret Howth,” which has made a stir, and is very good. A handsome, fresh, quiet woman, who says she never had any troubles, though she writes about woes. I told her I had had lots of troubles; so I write jolly tales; and we wondered why we each did so.
June, July, August.—Wrote a tale for B., and he lost it, and wouldn’t pay.
Wrote two tales for L. I enjoy romancing to suit myself; and though my tales are silly, they are not bad; and my sinners always have a good spot somewhere. I hope it is good drill for fancy and language, for I can do it fast; and Mr. L. says my tales are so “dramatic, vivid, and full of plot,” they are just what he wants.

GEORGETOWN

(1862-63)

November.—Thirty years old. Decided to go to Washington as nurse if I could find a place. Help needed, and I love nursing, and must let out my pent-up energy in some new way. Winter is always a hard and a dull time, and if I am away there is one less to feed and warm and worry over.
I want new experiences, and am sure to get ’em if I go. So I’ve sent in my name, and bide my time writing tales, to leave all snug behind me, and mending up my old clothes,—for nurses don’t need nice things, thank Heaven!
December.—On the 11th I received a note from Miss H. M. Stevenson telling me to start for Georgetown next day to fill a place in the Union Hotel Hospital. Mrs. Ropes of Boston was matron, and Miss Kendall of Plymouth was a nurse there, and though a hard place, help was needed. I was ready, and when my commander said “March!” I marched. Packed my trunk, and reported in B. that same evening.
We had all been full of courage till the last moment came; then we all broke down. I realized that I had taken my life in my hand, and might never see them all again. I said, “Shall I stay, Mother?” as I hugged her close. “No, go! and the Lord be with you!” answered the Spartan woman; and till I turned the corner she bravely smiled and waved her wet handkerchief on the door-step. Shall I ever see that dear old face again?
So I set forth in the December twilight, with May and Julian Hawthome as escort, feeling as if I was the son of the house going to war.
Friday, the 12th, was a very memorable day, spent in running all over Boston to get my pass, etc., calling for parcels, getting a tooth filled, and buying a veil,—my only purchase. A. C. gave me some old clothes; the dear Sewalls money for myself and boys, lots of love and help; and at 5 P.M., saying “good-by” to a group of tearful faces at the station, I started on my long journey, full of hope and sorrow, courage and plans.
A most interesting journey into a new world full of stirring sights and sounds, new adventures, and an ever-growing sense of the great task I had undertaken.
I said my prayers as I went rushing through the country white with tents, all alive with patriotism, and already red with blood.
A solemn time, but I’m glad to live in it; and am sure it will do me good whether I come out alive or dead.
All went well, and I got to Georgetown one evening very tired.Was kindly welcomed, slept in my narrow bed with two other room-mates, and on the morrow began my new life by seeing a poor man die at dawn, and sitting all day between a boy with pneumonia and a man shot through the lungs. A strange day, but I did my best; and when I put mother’s little black shawl round the boy while he sat up panting for breath, he smiled and said,“You are real motherly, ma’am.” I felt as if I was getting on.The man only lay and stared with his big black eyes, and made me very nervous. But all were well behaved; and I sat looking at the twenty strong faces as they looked back at me,—the only new thing they had to amuse them,—hoping that I looked “motherly” to them; for my thirty years made me feel old, and the suffering round me made me long to comfort every one.
January, 1863. Union Hotel Hospital, Georgetown, D. C.—I never began the year in a stranger place than this: five hundred miles from home, alone, among strangers, doing painful duties all day long, and leading a life of constant excitement in this great house, surrounded by three or four hundred men in all stages of suffering, disease, and death. Though often homesick, heartsick, and worn out, I like it, find real pleasure in comforting, tending, and cheering these poor souls who seem to love me, to feel my sympathy though unspoken, and acknowledge my hearty good-will, in spite of the ignorance, awkwardness, and bashfulness which I cannot help showing in so new and trying a situation. The men are docile, respectful, and affectionate, with but few exceptions; truly lovable and manly many of them. John Sulie, a Virginia blacksmith, is the prince of patients; and though what we call a common man in education and condition, to me is all I could expect or ask from the first gentleman in the land. Under his plain speech and unpolished manner I seem to see a noble character, a heart as warm and tender as a woman’s, a nature fresh and frank as any child’s. He is about thirty, I think, tall and handsome, mortally wounded, and dying royally without reproach, repining, or remorse. Mrs. Ropes and myself love him, and feel indignant that such a man should be so early lost; for though he might never distinguish himself before the world, his influence and example cannot be without effect, for real goodness is never wasted.
Monday, 4th.—I shall record the events of a day as a sample of the days I spend:—
Up at six, dress by gaslight, run through my ward and throw up the windows, though the men grumble and shiver; but the air is bad enough to breed a pestilence; and as no notice is taken of our frequent appeals for better ventilation, I must do what I can. Poke up the fire, add blankets, joke, coax, and command; but continue to open doors and windows as if life depended upon it. Mine does, and doubtless many another, for a more perfect pestilence-box than this house I never saw,—cold, damp, dirty, full of vile odors from wounds, kitchens, wash-rooms, and stables. No competent head, male or female, to right matters, and a jumble of good, bad, and indifferent nurses, surgeons, and attendants, to complicate the chaos still more.
After this unwelcome progress through my stifling ward, I go to breakfast with what appetite I may; find the uninvitable fried beef, salt butter, husky bread, and washy coffee; listen to the clack of eight women and a dozen men,—the first silly, stupid, or possessed of one idea; the last absorbed with their breakfast and themselves to a degree that is both ludicrous and provoking, for all the dishes are ordered down the table full and returned empty; the conversation is entirely among themselves, and each announces his opinion with an air of importance that frequently causes me to choke in my cup, or bolt my meals with undignified speed lest a laugh betray to these famous beings that a “chiel’s amang them takin’ notes.”
Till noon I trot, trot, giving out rations, cutting up food for helpless “boys,” washing faces, teaching my attendants how beds are made or floors are swept, dressing wounds, taking Dr. F. P.’s orders (privately wishing all the time that he would be more gentle with my big babies), dusting tables, sewing bandages, keeping my tray tidy, rushing up and down after pillows, bed-linen, sponges, books, and directions, till it seems as if I would joyfully pay down all I possess for fifteen minutes’ rest. At twelve the big bell rings, and up comes dinner for the boys, who are always ready for it and never entirely satisfied. Soup, meat, potatoes, and bread is the bill of fare. Charley Thayer, the attendant, travels up and down the room serving out the rations, saving little for himself, yet always thoughtful of his mates, and patient as a woman with their helplessness.When dinner is over, some sleep, many read, and others want letters written.This I like to do, for they put in such odd things, and express their ideas so comically, I have great fun interiorally, while as grave as possible exteriorally. A few of the men word their paragraphs well and make excellent letters. John’s was the best of all I wrote. The answering of letters from friends after some one had died is the saddest and hardest duty a nurse has to do.
Supper at five sets every one to running that can run; and when that flurry is over, all settle down for the evening amusements, which consist of newspapers, gossip, the doctor’s last round, and, for such as need them, the final doses for the night. At nine the bell rings, gas is turned down, and day nurses go to bed. Night nurses go on duty, and sleep and death have the house to themselves.
My work is changed to night watching, or half night and half day,—from twelve to twelve. I like it, as it leaves me time for a morning run, which is what I need to keep well; for bad air, food, and water, work and watching, are getting to be too much for me. I trot up and down the streets in all directions, sometimes to the Heights, then half way to Washington, again to the hill, over which the long trains of army wagons are constantly vanishing and ambulances appearing. That way the fighting lies, and I long to follow.
Ordered to keep my room, being threatened with pneumonia. Sharp pain in the side, cough, fever, and dizziness. A pleasant prospect for a lonely soul five hundred miles from home! Sit and sew on the boys’ clothes, write letters, sleep, and read; try to talk and keep merry, but fail decidedly, as day after day goes, and I feel no better. Dream awfully, and wake unrefreshed, think of home, and wonder if I am to die here, as Mrs. R., the matron, is likely to do. Feel too miserable to care much what becomes of me. Dr. S. creaks up twice a day to feel my pulse, give me doses, and ask if I am at all consumptive, or some other cheering question. Dr. O. examines my lungs and looks sober. Dr. J. haunts the room, coming by day and night with wood, cologne, books, and messes, like a motherly little man as he is. Nurses fussy and anxious, matron dying, and everything very gloomy.They want me to go home, but I won’t yet.
January 16th.—Was amazed to see Father enter the room that morning, having been telegraphed to by order of Mrs. R. without asking leave. I was very angry at first, though glad to see him, because I knew I should have to go. Mrs. D. and Miss Dix came, and pretty Miss W., to take me to Willard’s to be cared for by them. I wouldn’t go, preferring to keep still, being pretty ill by that time.
On the 21st I suddenly decided to go home, feeling very strangely, and dreading to be worse. Mrs. R. died, and that frightened the doctors about me; for my trouble was the same,—typhoid pneumonia. Father, Miss K., and Lizzie T. went with me. Miss Dix brought a basket full of bottles of wine, tea, medicine, and cologne, besides a little blanket and pillow, a fan, and a testament. She is a kind old soul, but very queer and arbitrary.
Was very sorry to go, and “my boys” seemed sorry to have me. Quite a flock came to see me off; but I was too sick to have but a dim idea of what was going on.
Had a strange, excited journey of a day and night,—half asleep, half wandering, just conscious that I was going home; and, when I got to Boston, of being taken out of the car, with people looking on as if I was a sight. I daresay I was all blowzed, crazy, and weak. Was too sick to reach Concord that night, though we tried to do so. Spent it at Mr. Sewall’s; had a sort of fit; they sent for Dr. H., and I had a dreadful time of it.
Next morning felt better, and at four went home. Just remember seeing May’s shocked face at the depot, Mother’s bewildered one at home, and getting to bed in the firm belief that the house was roofless, and no one wanted to see me.
As I never shall forget the strange fancies that haunted me, I shall amuse myself with recording some of them.
The most vivid and enduring was the conviction that I had married a stout, handsome Spaniard, dressed in black velvet, with very soft hands, and a voice that was continually saying, “Lie still, my dear!” This was Mother, I suspect; but with all the comfort I often found in her presence, there was blended an awful fear of the Spanish spouse who was always coming after me, appearing out of closets, in at windows, or threatening me dreadfully all night long. I appealed to the Pope, and really got up and made a touching plea in something meant for Latin, they tell me. Once I went to heaven, and found it a twilight place, with people darting through the air in a queer way,—all very busy, and dismal, and ordinary. Miss Dix, W. H. Channing, and other people were there; but I thought it dark and “slow,” and wished I hadn’t come.
A mob at Baltimore breaking down the door to get me, being hung for a witch, burned, stoned, and otherwise maltreated, were some of my fancies. Also being tempted to join Dr. W. and two of the nurses in worshipping the Devil. Also tending millions of rich men who never died or got well.
February.—Recovered my senses after three weeks of delirium, and was told I had had a very bad typhoid fever, had nearly died, and was still very sick. All of which seemed rather curious, for I remembered nothing of it. Found a queer, thin, big-eyed face when I looked in the glass; didn’t know myself at all; and when I tried to walk discovered that I couldn’t, and cried because my legs wouldn’t go.
Never having been sick before, it was all new and very interesting when I got quiet enough to understand matters. Such long, long nights; such feeble, idle days; dozing, fretting about nothing; longing to eat, and no mouth to do it with,—mine being so sore, and full of all manner of queer sensations, it was nothing but a plague. The old fancies still lingered, seeming so real I believed in them, and deluded Mother and May with the most absurd stories, so soberly told that they thought them true.
Dr. B. came every day, and was very kind. Father and Mother were with me night and day, and May sang “Birks of Aberfeldie,” or read to me, to wile away the tiresome hours. People sent letters, money, kind inquiries, and goodies for the old “Nuss.” I tried to sew, read, and write, and found I had to begin all over again. Received $10 for my labors in Washington. Had all my hair, a yard and a half long, cut off, and went into caps like a grandma. Felt badly about losing my one beauty. Never mind, it might have been my head, and a wig outside is better than a loss of wits inside.

MOODS

(1864-65)

April.—At Father’s request I sent “Moods” to T., and got a very friendly note from him, saying they had so many books on hand that they could do nothing about it now. So I put it back on the shelf, and set about my other work. Don’t despair, “Moods,” we’ll try again by and by!
[Alas! we did try again.—L. M. A.]
September.—Mrs. D. made a visit, and getting hold of my old book of stories liked them, and insisted on taking “Moods” home to read. As she had had experience with publishers, was a good business woman, and an excellent critic, I let her have it, hoping she might be able to give the poor old book the lift it has been waiting for all these years. She took it, read it, and admired it heartily, saying that “no American author had showed so much promise; that the plan was admirable; the execution unequal, but often magnificent; that I had a great field before me, and my book must be got out.”
Mrs. D. sent it to L., who liked it exceedingly, and asked me to shorten it if I could, else it would be too large to sell well.Was much disappointed, said I’d never touch it again, and tossed it into the spidery little cupboard where it had so often returned after fruitless trips.
October.—Wrote several chapters of “Work,” and was getting on finely, when, as I lay awake one night, a way to shorten and arrange “Moods” came into my head.The whole plan laid itself smoothly out before me, and I slept no more that night, but worked on it as busily as if mind and body had nothing to do with one another. Up early, and began to write it all over again. The fit was on strong, and for a fortnight I hardly ate, slept, or stirred, but wrote, wrote, like a thinking machine in full operation. When it was all rewritten without copying, I found it much improved, though I’d taken out ten chapters, and sacrificed many of my favorite things; but being resolved to make it simple, strong, and short, I let everything else go, and hoped the book would be better for it.
[It wasn’t. 1867.]
Sent it to L.; and a week after, as I sat hammering away at the parlor carpet,—dusty, dismal, and tired,—a letter came from L. praising the story more enthusiastically than ever, thanking me for the improvements, and proposing to bring out the book at once. Of course we all had a rapture, and I finished my work “double quick,” regardless of weariness, toothache, or blue devils.
Next day I went to Boston and saw L. A brisk, business-like man who seemed in earnest and said many complimentary things about “Hospital Sketches” and its author. It was agreed to bring out the book immediately, and Mrs. D. offered to read the proof with me.
Was glad to have the old thing under way again, but didn’t quite believe it would ever come out after so many delays and disappointments.
Sewed for Nan and Mary, heard Anna Dickinson and liked her. Read “Emily Chester” and thought it an unnatural story, yet just enough like “Moods” in a few things to make me sorry that it came out now.
On Mother’s sixty-fourth birthday I gave her “Moods” with this inscription, —“To Mother, my earliest patron, kindest critic, dearest reader, I gratefully and affectionately inscribe my first romance.”
A letter from T. asking me to write for the new magazine “Our Young Folks,” and saying that “An Hour” was in the hands of the editors.
November.—Proof began to come, and the chapters seemed small, stupid, and no more my own in print. I felt very much afraid that I’d ventured too much and should be sorry for it. But Emerson says “that what is true for your own private heart is true for others.” So I wrote from my own consciousness and observation and hope it may suit some one and at least do no harm.
I sent “An Hour” to the “Commonwealth” and it was considered excellent. Also wrote a Christmas Story, “Mrs. Todger’s Teapot.” T. asked to see the other fairy tales and designs and poems, as he liked “Nelly’s Hospital” so much.
On my thirty-second birthday received Richter’s Life from Nan and enjoyed it so much that I planned a story of two men something like Jean Paul and Goethe, only more every-day people. Don’t know what will come of it, but if “Moods” goes well “Success” shall follow.
Sewed for Wheeler’s colored company and sent them comfort-bags, towels, books, and bed-sacks. Mr.W. sent me some relics from Point Look Out and a pleasant letter.
December.—Earnings, 1864,—$476.
On Christmas Eve received ten copies of “Moods” and a friendly note from L. The book was hastily got out, but on the whole suited me, and as the inside was considered good I let the outside go. For a week whereever I went I saw, heard, and talked “Moods;” found people laughing or crying over it, and was continually told how well it was going, how much it was liked, how fine a thing I’d done. I was glad but not proud, I think, for it has always seemed as if “Moods” grew in spite of me, and that I had little to do with it except to put into words the thoughts that would not let me rest until I had. Don’t know why.
By Saturday the first edition was gone and the second ready. Several booksellers ordered a second hundred, the first went so fast, and friends could not get it but had to wait till more were ready.
Spent a fortnight in town at Mary’s, shopping, helping Nan, and having plays. Heard Emerson once. Gave C.“Mrs.Todger’s Teapot,” which was much liked. Sent L. the rest of his story and got $50. S. paid $35 for “An Hour.” R. promised $100 for “Love and Loyalty,” so my year closes with a novel well-launched and about $300 to pay debts and make the family happy and comfortable till spring. Thank God for the success of the old year, the promise of the new!
January, 1865.—The month began with some plays at the town hall to raise funds for the Lyceum. We did very well and some Scenes from Dickens were excellent. Father lectured and preached a good deal, being asked like a regular minister and paid like one. He enjoyed it very much and said good things on the new religion which we ought to and shall have. May had orders from Canada and England for her pretty pen-and-ink work and did well in that line.
Notices of “Moods” came from all directions, and though people didn’t understand my ideas owing to my shortening the book so much, the notices were mostly favorable and gave quite as much praise as was good for me. I had letters from Mrs. Parker, Chadwick, Sanborn, E. B. Greene, the artist, T. W. Higginson and some others. All friendly and flattering.
Saw more notices of “Moods” and received more letters, several from strangers and some very funny. People seemed to think the book finely written, very promising, wise, and interesting; but some fear it isn’t moral, because it speaks freely of marriage.
Wrote a little on poor old “Work” but being tired of novels, I soon dropped it and fell back on rubbishy tales, for they pay best, and I can’t afford to starve on praise, when sensation stories are written in half the time and keep the family cosey.
Earned $75 this month.
I went to Boston and heard Father lecture before the Fraternity. Met Henry James, Sr., there, and he asked me to come and dine, also called upon me with Mrs. James. I went, and was treated like the Queen of Sheba. Henry Jr. wrote a notice of “Moods” for the “North American,” and was very friendly. Being a literary youth he gave me advice, as if he had been eighty and I a girl. My curly crop made me look young, though thirty-one.
Acted in some public plays for the N. E.Women’s Hospital and had a pleasant time.
L. asked me to be a regular contributor to his new paper, and I agreed if he’d pay beforehand; he said he would, and bespoke two tales at once, $50 each, longer ones as often as I could, and whatever else I liked to send. So here’s another source of income and Alcott brains seem in demand, whereat I sing “Hallyluyer” and fill up my inkstand.
April.—Richmond taken on the 2d. Hurrah! Went to Boston and enjoyed the grand jollification. Saw Booth again in Hamlet and thought him finer than ever. Had a pleasant walk and talk with Phillips.
On the 15th in the midst of the rejoicing came the sad news of the President’s assassination, and the city went into mourning. I am glad to have seen such a strange and sudden change in a nation’s feelings. Saw the great procession, and though few colored men were in it, one was walking arm in arm with a white gentleman, and I exulted thereat.
Nan went to housekeeping in a pleasant house at Jamaica Plain, and I went to help her move. It was beautiful to see how Freddy enjoyed the freedom, after being cooped up all winter, and how every morning, whether it rained or shone, he looked out and said, with a smile of perfect satisfaction, “Oh, pretty day!”—for all days were pretty to him, dear little soul!
Had a fine letter from Conway, and a notice in the “Reader,”—an English paper. He advised sending copies to several of the best London papers. English people don’t understand “transcendental literature,” as they call “Moods.” My next book shall have no ideas in it, only facts, and the people shall be as ordinary as possible; then critics will say it’s all right. I seem to have been playing with edge tools without knowing it.The relations between Warwick, Moor, and Sylvia are pronounced impossible; yet a case of the sort exists, and the woman came and asked me how I knew it. I did not know or guess, but perhaps felt it, without any other guide, and unconsciously put the thing into my book, for I changed the ending about that time. It was meant to show a life affected by moods, not a discussion of marriage, which I knew little about, except observing that very few were happy ones.

LITTLE WOMEN

(1868-69)

May, 1868.—Father saw Mr. Niles about a fairy book. Mr. N. wants a girls’ story, and I begin “Little Women.” Marmee, Anna, and May all approve my plan. So I plod away, though I don’t enjoy this sort of thing. Never liked girls or knew many, except my sisters; but our queer plays and experiences may prove interesting, though I doubt it.
[Good joke.—L. M. A.]
June.—Sent twelve chapters of “L. W.” to Mr. N. He thought it dull; so do I. But work away and mean to try the experiment; for lively, simple books are very much needed for girls, and perhaps I can supply the need.
Wrote two tales for Ford, and one for F. L. clamors for more, but must wait.
July 15th.—Have finished “Little Women,” and sent it off,—402 pages. May is designing some pictures for it. Hope it will go, for I shall probably get nothing for “Morning Glories.”
Very tired, head full of pain from overwork, and heart heavy about Marmee, who is growing feeble.
[Too much work for one young woman. No wonder she broke down. 1876.—L. M. A.]
August.—Roberts Bros. made an offer for the story, but at the same time advised me to keep the copyright; so I shall.
[An honest publisher and a lucky author, for the copyright made her fortune, and the “dull book” was the first golden egg of the ugly duckling. 1885.—L. M. A.]
August 26th.—Proof of whole book came. It reads better than I expected. Not a bit sensational, but simple and true, for we really lived most of it; and if it succeeds that will be the reason of it. Mr. N. likes it better now, and says some girls who have read the manuscripts say it is “splendid!” As it is for them, they are the best critics, so I should be satisfied.
September.—Father’s book [“Tablets”] came out.Very simple outside, wise and beautiful within. Hope it will bring him praise and profit, for he has waited long.
No girl, Mother poorly, May busy with pupils, Nan with her boys, and much work to be done. We don’t like the kitchen department, and our tastes and gifts lie in other directions, so it is hard to make the various Pegasuses pull the plan steadily.
October 8th.—Marmee’s birthday; sixty-eight. After breakfast she found her gifts on a table in the study. Father escorted her to the big red chair, the boys prancing before blowing their trumpets, while we “girls” marched behind, glad to see the dear old Mother better and able to enjoy our little fête. The boys proudly handed her the little parcels, and she laughed and cried over our gifts and verses.
I feel as if the decline had begun for her; and each year will add to the change which is going on, as time alters the energetic, enthusiastic home-mother into a gentle, feeble old woman, to be cherished and helped tenderly down the long hill she has climbed so bravely with her many burdens.
October 26th.—Came to Boston, and took a quiet room in Brookline Street. Heard Emerson in the evening. Sent a report of it to A. P. for the “Standard” at his desire.
Anna is nicely settled in her new house, and Marmee is with her. Helped put down carpets and settle things.
30th.—Saw Mr. N. of Roberts Brothers, and he gave me good news of the book. An order from London for an edition came in. First edition gone and more called for. Expects to sell three or four thousand before the New Year.
Mr. N. wants a second volume for spring. Pleasant notices and letters arrive, and much interest in my little women, who seem to find friends by their truth to life, as I hoped.
November 1st.—Began the second part of “Little Women.” I can do a chapter a day, and in a month I mean to be done. A little success is so inspiring that I now find my “Marches” sober, nice people, and as I can launch into the future, my fancy has more play. Girls write to ask who the little women marry, as if that was the only end and aim of a woman’s life. I won’t marry Jo to Laurie to please any one.
Monday, 16th.—To the Club for a change, as I have written like a steam engine since the 1st.Weiss read a fine paper on “Woman Suffrage.” Good talk afterward. Lunched with Kate Field, Celia Thaxter, and Mr. Linton.Woman’s Club in P.M.
17th.—Finished my thirteenth chapter. I am so full of my work, I can’t stop to eat or sleep, or for anything but a daily run.
29th.—My birthday; thirty-six. Spent alone, writing hard. No presents but Father’s “Tablets.”
I never seem to have many presents, as some do, though I give a good many. That is best perhaps, and makes a gift very precious when it does come.
December.—Home to shut up the house, as Father goes West and Mother to Anna’s. A cold, hard, dirty time; but was so glad to be off out of C. that I worked like a beaver, and turned the key on Apple Slump with joy.
May and I went to the new Bellevue Hotel in Beacon Street. She doesn’t enjoy quiet corners as I do, so we took a sky-parlor, and had a queer time whisking up and down in the elevator, eating in a marble café, and sleeping on a sofa bed, that we might be genteel. It did not suit me at all. A great gale nearly blew the roof off. Steam pipes exploded, and we were hungry. I was very tired with my hard summer, with no rest for the brains that earn the money.
January, 1869.—Left our lofty room at Bellevue and went to Chauncey Street. Sent the sequel of “L. W.” to Roberts on New Year’s Day. Hope it will do as well as the first, which is selling finely, and receives good notices. F. and F. both want me to continue working for them, and I shall do so if I am able; but my headaches, cough, and weariness keep me from working as I once could, fourteen hours a day.
In March we went home, as Mother was restless at Nan’s, and Father wanted his library. Cold and dull; not able to write; so took care of Marmee and tried to rest.
Paid up all the debts, thank the Lord!—every penny that money can pay,—and now I feel as if I could die in peace. My dream is beginning to come true; and if my head holds out I’ll do all I once hoped to do.
April.—Very poorly. Feel quite used up. Don’t care much for myself, as rest is heavenly even with pain; but the family seem so panic-stricken and helpless when I break down, that I try to keep the mill going. Two short tales for L., $50; two for Ford, $20; and did my editorial work, though two months are unpaid for. Roberts wants a new book, but am afraid to get into a vortex lest I fall ill.

EMERSON’S DEATH

(1882)

Thursday, 27th.—Mr. Emerson died at 9 P.M. suddenly. Our best and greatest American gone. The nearest and dearest friend Father has ever had, and the man who has helped me most by his life, his books, his society. I can never tell all he has been to me,—from the time I sang Mignon’s song under his window (a little girl) and wrote letters à la Bettine to him, my Goethe, at fifteen, up through my hard years, when his essays on Self-Reliance, Character, Compensation, Love, and Friendship helped me to understand myself and life, and God and Nature. Illustrious and beloved friend, good-by!
Sunday, 30th.—Emerson’s funeral. I made a yellow lyre of jonquils for the church, and helped trim it up. Private services at the house, and a great crowd at the church. Father read his sonnet, and Judge Hoar and others spoke. Now he lies in Sleepy Hollow among his brothers, under the pines he loved.
I sat up till midnight to write an article on R. W. E. for the “Youth’s Companion,” that the children may know something of him. A labor of love.