Ten American Girls From History

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Meanwhile she kept on helping Anna with her school, and to liven up
the daily routine of a rather dull existence she began to write
thrilling plays, which she always read to Anna, who criticized and
helped revise them with sisterly severity. The plays were acted by a
group of the girls' friends, with Anna and Louisa usually taking the
principal parts. From creating these wonderful melodramas, which
always won loud applause from an enthusiastic audience, and because of
her real ability to act, Louisa now decided that she would go on the
real stage. "Anna wants to be an actress, and so do I," she wrote in
her diary. "We could make plenty of money perhaps, and it is a very
gay life. Mother says we are too young, and must wait."

Wise mother, and firm as wise! The girls were obliged to accept her
decree, and Louisa was so depressed by it that for a time she made
every one miserable by her downcast mood. Then, fortunately, an
interested relative showed one of her plays to the manager of the
Boston Theater. He read "The Rival Prima Donnas" with kindly eyes, and
offered to stage it. Here was good luck indeed! The entire Alcott
family held as great a jubilation when they heard the news as if they
had fallen heir to a fortune, and Louisa at once forgot her ambition
to act, in her ambition to be known as a successful play-wright.

Unfortunately, there was some hitch in the arrangements, and the play
was never produced, but the manager sent Louisa a free pass to the
theater, which gave her a play-wright's pride whenever she used it,
and her enjoyment in anticipating the production had been so great
that she was able to bear the actual disappointment with real
philosophy. And by that time her mood had changed. Although she always
loved to act, and acted well, her own good sense had asserted itself,
and she had set aside a dramatic career, realizing that it included
too many difficulties and hardships.

Her next adventure was quite different. To her mother's employment
office came a gentleman who wished a companion for his old father and
sister. The position offered only light work, and seemed a good one in
every respect, and impulsive Louisa, who happened to hear the request,
asked her mother, eagerly: "Can't I go? Oh, do let _me_ take it!" Her
mother, thinking the experience would not be harmful, let her accept
the position, and as a result she had two of the most disillusioning
and hard months of her life. She had her revenge later by writing a
story called "How I Went Out to Service," in which she described the
experience in a vivid way.

An extract from her "heart journal," as she now called her diary, is a
revelation of home life which gave to Louisa much of that
understanding of human nature which has made her books so popular. She
says: "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 their
time, sympathy, help, and if blessings would make them rich they would
be millionaires. This is practical Christianity."

At that time they were living in a small house, with Beth as
housekeeper, while Anna and Louisa taught, May went to school, and the
mother attended to her own work. Mr. Alcott, too, was doing all he
could to add to the family income by his lectures, and by writing
articles on his favorite subjects, so all together, they managed to
live in some sort of fashion. But Louisa had now made up her mind that
she must do more for the comfort of the beloved mother, who was always
over-worked and worried, despite her courage and cheery manner, and
she decided to try to publish a story.

Full of the intention, one night, she sat down on the floor and
searched through the pile of papers which included most of her
"scribblings" since her first use of a pen. Plays, poems and many
other closely written sheets were thrown aside. At last she found what
she was looking for, and read and re-read it three times, then set it
aside until morning, when, with the greatest possible secrecy, she put
it in an envelope, sealed, addressed and mailed it. From that time she
went about her work with the air of one whose mind is on greater
things, but she was always wide awake enough when it came time for
some one to go for the mail, and her sisters joked her about her
eagerness for letters, which she bore good-naturedly enough. Then came
a wonderful day when she was handed a letter from a well-known firm of
publishers. Her hand shook as she opened it, and she gave a suppressed
cry of joy as she read the short note, and looked with amazement at
the bit of paper enclosed.

Later in the day, when the housework was done and school was over, she
sauntered into the room where the family was gathered in a sewing-bee.
Throwing herself into a chair with an indifferent air, she asked:

"Want to hear a good story?"

Of course they did. The Alcotts were always ready for a story, and
Louisa read extremely well. Her audience listened to the thrilling
tale with eager attention, and at the end there was a chorus of cries:
"How fine! How lovely! How interesting!" Then Anna asked: "Who wrote
it?" With shining eyes and crimson cheeks Louisa jumped to her feet
and, waving the paper overhead, cried:

"_Your sister! I wrote it!_ Yes, I really did!"

One can imagine the great excitement of the group who then clustered
around the authoress and asked questions all at once.

That first published story was pronounced by its creator to be "great
rubbish," and she only received the sum of five dollars for it, but
it was a beginning, and from that time in her active brain plots for
stories long and short began to simmer, although she still taught, and
often did sewing in the evenings, for which she was fairly well paid.

In mid-winter of 1853 Mr. Alcott went West on a lecture tour, full of
hope for a financial success. He left the home group as busy as usual,
for Mrs. Alcott had several boarders, as well as her employment
office. Anna had gone to Syracuse to teach in a school there, Louisa
had opened a home school with ten pupils, and the calm philosopher
felt that he could leave them with a quiet mind, as they were all
earning money, and this was his opportunity to broaden the field in
which the seeds of unique ideas were sown.

So off he went, full of eager courage, followed by the good wishes of
the girls, who fondly hoped that "father would be appreciated at
last." Alas for hopes! On a February night, when all the household
were sleeping soundly, the bell rang violently. All were awakened, and
Louisa says, "Mother flew down, crying 'my husband!' We rushed after,
and five white figures embraced the half-frozen wanderer who came in
tired, hungry, cold and disappointed, but smiling bravely, and as
serene as ever. We fed and warmed and brooded over him," says Louisa,
"longing to ask if he had made any money, but none 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 traveling is costly, but I have opened the way, and
another year shall do better.'

"I shall never forget," adds Louisa, "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 lesson in real love
which we never forgot.... It was half tragic and comic, for father was
very dirty and sleepy, and mother in a big night-cap and funny old
jacket."

Surely no one ever had a better opportunity to probe to the heart of
the real emotions that make up the most prosaic as well as the most
heroic daily lives than a member of that generous, happy, loving
Alcott family.

And still Louisa kept on doing other things besides the writing, which
was such a safety valve for her intense nature. For a short time she
worked for a relative in the country, and she also taught and sewed
and did housework, and made herself useful wherever her strong hands
and willing heart could find some way of earning a dollar.

The seven years spent in Boston had developed her into a capable young
woman of twenty-two, who was ready and eager to play her part in the
great drama of life of which she was an interested spectator as she
saw it constantly enacted around her.

Even then, before she had stepped across the threshold of her career,
she unconsciously realized that the home stage is the real background
of the supreme world drama, and she shows this by the intimate, tender
domestic scenes which made all of her stories bits of real life, with
a strong appeal to those whose homes are joyous parts of the present,
or sacred memories.

When she was determined to achieve an end, Louisa Alcott generally
succeeded, even in the face of obstacles; and now having decided to
take on her own broad shoulders some of the burdens which were
weighing heavily on her beloved mother, she turned to the talent which
had recently yielded her the magnificent sum of five dollars. In the
days at Concord she had told many stories about fairies and flowers
to the little Emerson children and their friends, who eagerly drank in
all the mystic tales in which wood-nymphs, water sprites, giants and
fairy queens played a prominent part, and the stories were thrilling,
because their teller believed absolutely in the fairy creatures she
pictured in a lovely setting of woodland glades and forest dells.
These stones, which she had written down and called "Flower Fables,"
she found among her papers, and as she read them again she felt that
they might interest other children as they had those to whom they were
told. She had no money to publish them, however, and no publisher
would bear the expense of a venture by an untried writer. But it took
more than that to daunt Louisa when her mind was made up. With great
enthusiasm she told a friend of the family, Miss Wealthy Stevens, of
her desire, and she generously offered to pay for publication, but it
was decided not to tell the family until the book should come out.
Then in radiant secrecy Louisa burned the midnight oil and prepared
the little book for the press. One can fancy the proud surprise of
Mrs. Alcott when, on the following Christmas morning, among her pile
of gifts she found the little volume with this note:

December 25, 1854.

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, 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.

Recompense enough, that note, for all a loving mother's sacrifices and
attempts to give her daughter understanding sympathy and love--and it
is small wonder if that Christmas gift always remained one of her most
precious possessions.

Six hundred copies of the little "Flower Fables" were published, and
the book sold very well, although their author only received the sum
of $32 for them, which was in sharp contrast, she says in her journal,
"to the receipts of six months only in 1886, being _eight thousand
dollars_ for the sale of books and no new one; but" she adds, "I was
prouder over the thirty-two dollars than the eight thousand."

Louisa Alcott was now headed toward her destiny, although she was
still a long way from the shining goal of literary success, and had
many weary hills yet to climb.

As soon as _Flower Fables_ was published, she began to plan for a new
volume of fairy tales, and as she was invited to spend the next summer
in the lovely New Hampshire village of Walpole, she thankfully
accepted the invitation, and decided to write the new book there in
the bracing air of the hill town. In Walpole, she met delightful
people, who were all attracted to the versatile, amusing young woman,
and she was in great demand when there was any entertainment on foot.
One evening she gave a burlesque lecture on "Woman, and Her Position,
by Oronthy Bluggage," which created such a gale of merriment that she
was asked to repeat it for money, which she did; and so there was
added to her store of accomplishments another, from which she was to
reap some rewards in coming years.

Her enjoyment of Walpole was so great that her family decided to try
its fine air, as they were tired of city life and needed a change of
scene. A friend offered them a house there, rent free, and in their
usual impromptu way they left Boston and arrived in the country
village, bag and baggage. Mr. Alcott was overjoyed to have a garden in
which to work, and Mrs. Alcott was glad to be near her niece, whose
guest Louisa had been up to that time.

Louisa's comment on their arrival in her diary was:

"Busy and happy times as we settle in the little house in the lane,
near by my dear ravine--plays, picnics, pleasant people and good
neighbors." Despite the good times, it is evident that she was not
idle, for she says, "Finished fairy book in September.... Better than
_Flower Fables_. Now, I must try to sell it."

In September Anna had an offer to become a teacher in the great idiot
asylum in Syracuse. Her sensitive nature shrank from the work, but
with real self-sacrifice she accepted it for the sake of the family,
and went off in October. Meanwhile Louisa had been thinking deeply
about her future, and her diary tells the story of a decision she
made, quite the most important one of her life. She writes:

"November; decided to seek my fortune, so with my little trunk of
home-made clothes, $40 earned by stories sent to the _Gazette_, and my
MSS., I set forth with mother's blessing one rainy day in the dullest
month in the year."

She went straight to Boston, where she writes:

"Found it too late to do anything with the book (the new one she had
written at Walpole) so put it away and tried for teaching, sewing, or
any honest work. Won't go home to sit idle while I have a head and a
pair of hands."

Good for you, Louisa--you are the stuff that success is made of! That
her courage had its reward is shown by the fact that her cousins, the
Sewalls, generously offered her a home for the winter with them which
she gratefully accepted, but insisted on paying for her board by doing
a great deal of sewing for them. She says in her diary: "I sew for
Mollie and others and write stories. C. gave me books to notice. Heard
Thackeray. Anxious times; Anna very home-sick. Walpole very cold and
dull, now the summer butterflies have gone. Got $5 for a tale and $12
for sewing; sent home a Christmas box to cheer the dear souls in the
snow-banks."

In January she writes: "C. paid $6 for _A Sister's Trial_, gave me
more books to notice, and wants more tales." The entries that follow
give a vivid picture of her pluck and perseverance in that first
winter of fortune-seeking, and no record of deeds could be more
graphic than the following entries:

"Sewed for L. W. Sewall and others. Mr. Field took my farce to Mobile
to bring out; Mr. Barry of the Boston Theater has the play. Heard
Curtis lecture. Began a book for summer, _Beach Bubbles_. Mr. F. of
the _Courier_ printed a poem of mine on 'Little Nell'. Got $10 for
'Bertha' and saw great yellow placards stuck up announcing it. Acted
at the W's. March; got $10 for 'Genevieve'. Prices go up as people
like the tales and ask who wrote them.... Sewed a great deal, and got
very tired; one job for Mr. G. of a dozen pillow-cases, one dozen
sheets, six fine cambric neck-ties, and two dozen handkerchiefs, at
which I had to work all one night to get them done, ... I got only
$4.00." The brave, young fortune-seeker adds sensibly, "Sewing won't
make my fortune, but I can plan my stories while I work."

In May she had a welcome visit from Anna on her way home from
Syracuse, as the work there was too hard for her, and the sisters
spent some happy days together in Boston. Then they were obliged to go
home, as dear little Beth was very sick with scarlet-fever which she
caught from some poor children Mrs. Alcott had been nursing. Both Beth
and May had the dangerous disease, and Beth never recovered from the
effects of it, although she lived for two years, a serene, patient
invalid, who shed a benediction on the sorrowing household. That
summer was an anxious time for the family. In her usual way Louisa
plunged headlong into housework and nursing, and when night came she
would scribble one of the stories which the papers were now glad to
accept whenever she could send them. So with varying degrees of
apprehension and rejoicing, the weary months passed, and as Beth was
slowly improving and she was not needed at home, Louisa decided to
spend another winter in the city. Her diary says:

"There I can support myself and help the family. C. offers $10 a month
and perhaps more.... Others have plenty of sewing; the play may come
out, and Mrs. R. will give me a sky-parlor for $3 a week, with fire
and board. I sew for her also." With practical forethought, she adds,
"If I can get A. L. to governess I shall be all right."

Then in a burst of the real spirit which had animated her ever since
she first began to write and sew and teach and act, and make over old
clothes given her by rich friends that she need not spend any money on
herself, she declares in her diary:

"I was born with a boy's spirit under my bib and tucker. I _can't
wait_ when I _can work_; so I took my little talent in my hand and
forced the world again, braver than before, and wiser for my
failures."

That the decision was no light one, and that the winter in Boston was
not merely an adventure, is shown by her declaration:

"I don't often pray in words; but when I set out that day with all my
worldly goods in the little old trunk, my own earnings ($25) in my
pocket, and much hope and resolution in my soul, my heart was very
full, and I said to the Lord, 'Help us all, and keep us for one
another,' as I never said it before, while I looked back at the dear
faces watching me, so full of love, and hope, and faith."

Louisa Alcott's childhood and girlhood, with all the hardships and
joys which went into the passing years, had been merged in a
triumphant young womanhood--a fitting preface to the years of fame and
fortune which were to follow. A brave, interesting girl had become a
courageous older woman, who faced the untried future with her small
earnings in her pocket, her worldly goods in her trunk, and hopeful
determination in her heart to do some worth-while thing in the world,
for the sake of those she dearly loved. She had started up the steep
slope of her life's real adventuring, and despite the rough paths over
which she must still travel before reaching her goal, she was more and
more a sympathetic comrade to the weak or weary, ever a gallant
soldier, and a noble woman, born to do great deeds. So enthusiastic
was she in playing her part in the world's work, that when she was
twenty-seven years old, and still toiling on, with a scant measure of
either wealth or fame, she exclaimed at a small success:

"Hurrah! My story was accepted and Lowell asked if it was not a
translation from the German, it was so unlike other tales. I felt much
set up, and my fifty dollars will be very happy money.... I have not
been pegging away all these years in vain, and I may yet have books
and publishers, and a fortune of my own. Success has gone to my head,
and I wander a little.

"Twenty-seven years old and very happy!"

* * * * *

The prediction of "books, publishers and a fortune" came true in 1868,
when a Boston firm urged her to write a story for girls, and she had
the idea of describing the early life of her own home, with its many
episodes and incidents. She wrote the book and called it _Little
Women_, and was the most surprised person in the world, when from her
cozy corner of Concord she watched edition after edition being
published, and found that she had become famous. From that moment
Louisa Alcott belonged to the public, and one has but to turn to the
pages of her ably edited _Life, Letters and Journals_, to realize the
source from which she got the material for her "simple story of simple
girls," bound by a beautiful tie of family love, that neither poverty,
sorrow nor death could sever. Four little pilgrims, struggling onward
and upward through all the difficulties that beset them on their way,
in Concord, Boston, Walpole and elsewhere, had provided human
documents which the genius of Louisa Alcott made into an imperishable
story for the delight and inspiration of succeeding generations of
girls.

_Little Women_ was followed by _Little Men_, _Old Fashioned Girl_,
_Eight Cousins_, _Rose in Bloom_, _Under the Lilacs_, and a long line
of other charming books for young people. And, although the incidents
in them were not all taken from real life as were those of her first
"immortal," yet was each and every book a faithful picture of
every-day life. That is where the genius of Louisa Alcott came in.
From the depicting of fairies and gnomes, princes and kings, she early
turned to paint the real, the vital and the heroic, which is being
lived in so many households where there is little money and no luxury,
but much light-hearted laughter, tender affection for one another, and
a deep and abiding love of humanity.

Well may all aspiring young Americans take example from the author of
_Little Women_, and when longing to set the world on fire in the
expression of their genius, learn not to despise or to turn away from
the simple, commonplace details of every-day life.

And for successful life and work, there is no better inspiration than
the three rules given Louisa Alcott in girlhood for her daily
guidance:

Rule yourself;
Love your neighbor;
Do the duty which lies nearest you.

CLARA MORRIS: THE GIRL WHO WON FAME AS AN ACTRESS

A certain young person who lived in a boarding-house in the city of
Cleveland, Ohio, was approaching her thirteenth birthday, which fact
made her feel very old, and also very anxious to do some kind of work,
as she saw her mother busily engaged from morning to night, in an
effort to earn a living for her young daughter and herself.

Spring came in that year with furious heat, and the young person,
seeing her mother cruelly over-worked, felt hopelessly big and
helpless. The humiliation of having some one working to support
her--and with the dignity of thirteen years close upon her, was more
than she could bear. Locking herself into her small room, she flung
herself on her knees and with a passion of tears prayed that God would
help her.

"Dear God," she cried, "just pity me and show me what to do. Please!"
Her entreaty was that of the child who has perfect confidence in the
Father to whom she is speaking. "Help me to help my mother. If you
will, I'll never say 'No!' to any woman who comes to me all my life
long!"

In her story of her life, which the young person wrote many years
later, she says, in telling of that agonized plea: "My error in trying
to barter with my Maker must have been forgiven, for my prayer was
answered within a week.... I have tried faithfully to keep my part of
the bargain, for no woman who has ever sought my aid has ever been
answered with a 'No!'"

Somewhat relieved at having made known her longing to Some One whom
she believed would understand and surely help, the young person went
through the dreary routine of boarding-house days more cheerfully, to
her mother's joy. And at night, when she lay tossing and trying to
sleep despite the scorching heat, she seemed to be reviewing the
thirteen years of her existence as if she were getting ready to
pigeon-hole the past, to make ready for a fuller future.

With clear distinctness she remembered having been told by her mother,
in the manner of old-fashioned tellers, that, "Once upon a time, in
the Canadian city of Toronto, in the year 1849, on the 17th of
March--the day of celebrating the birth of good old St. Patrick, in a
quiet house not far from the sound of the marching paraders, the
rioting of revelers and the blare of brass bands, a young person was
born." Memory carried on the story, as she lay there in the dark,
still hours of the night, and she repeated to herself the oft-told
tale of those few months she and her mother spent in the Canadian city
before they journeyed back to the United States, where in Cleveland
the mother tried many different kinds of occupations by which to
support the child and herself. It was a strange life the young person
remembered in those early days. She and her mother had to flit so
often--suddenly, noiselessly. Often she remembered being roused from a
sound sleep, sometimes being simply wrapped up without being dressed,
and carried through the dark to some other place of refuge. Then, too,
when other children walked in the streets or played, bare-headed or
only with hat on, she wore a tormenting and heavy veil over her face.
At an early age she began to notice that if a strange lady spoke to
her the mother seemed pleased, but if a man noticed her she looked
frightened, and hurried her away as fast as possible. At first this
was all a mystery to the child, but later she understood that the
great fear in her mother's eyes, and the hasty flights, were all to be
traced to a father who had not been good to the brave mother, and so
she had taken her little girl and fled from him. But he always found
her and begged for the child. Only too well the young person
remembered some of those scenes of frantic appeal on the father's
side, of angry refusal by her mother, followed always by another hasty
retreat to some new place of concealment. At last--never-to-be
forgotten day--there was a vivid recollection of the time when the
father asserted brutally that "he would make life a misery to her
until she gave up the child"--that "by fair means or foul he would
gain his end." Soon afterward he did kidnap the young person, but the
mother was too quick for him, and almost immediately her child was in
her own arms again.

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