ing of glass in the hard frozen snow of the streets, and when the luxurious comfort within the house was the more deliciously appreciable from the deadly frostiness of the bone-piercing wind without. Only Phillida of all the throng found her comfort disturbed by remembering the coachmen who returned for their mistresses before the end of the discourse. It cost those poor fellows a pang to do despite to their wonted dignity of demeanor by smiting their arms against their bodies to keep from perishing. But even a coachman accustomed to regard himself as the main representative of the unbending perpendicularity of a tenmillion family must give way a little before a January north wind in the middle of a cold wave, when his little fur cape becomes a mockery and his hard high hat a misery. However admirable Mrs. Frankland's prolonged sessions may have seemed to the ladies with tear-stained cheeks within the house, it appeared far from laudable as seen from the angle of a coachman's box.

The address on this day followed a reading of the eleventh chapter of Hebrews, which is itself the rhapsody of an eloquent man upon faith. If this were written, as some suppose, by Apollos, the orator of the early Church, one may almost fancy that he reads here a bit of one of those addresses wherein speaker and hearer are lifted up together above the meanness and exigencies of mere realism. Mrs. Frankland accompanied the reading of this summary of faith's victory by a comment consisting largely of modern instances carefully selected and told with the tact of a raconteur, so as to leave the maximum impression of each incident unimpaired by needless details. Some of these stories were little short of miraculous; but they were dignified by the manner of telling, which never for an instant degenerated into the babble of a mere wonder-monger.

As usual, Mrs. Frankland, or the oratorical part of her, which was quite the majority of her mind, was carried away by the force of her own speech, and in lauding the success of faith it seemed to her most praiseworthy to push her eulogies unfalteringly to the extreme. You are not to understand that by doing this she vociferated or indulged in vehement gesture. He is only a bastard orator who fancies that loudness and shrillness of tone can enforce conviction. When Mrs. Frankland felt herself about to say extravagant things she intuitively set off her transcendent utterances by assuming a calm demeanor and the air of one who expresses with deliberation the most assured and long-meditated conclusions. So to-day she closed her little Oxford Bible and laid it on the richly inlaid table before her, deliberately depositing her handkerchief upon it and looking

VOL. XLII.-8.

about before she made her peroration, which was in something like the following words, delivered with impressive solemnity in a deep, rich voice:

"Why should we always praise faith for what it has done? Has God changed? Faith is as powerful to-day as ever it was since this old world began. If the sick are not healed, if the dead are not raised to-day, be sure it is not God's fault. I am asked if I believe in faithcure. There is the Bible. It abounds in the divine healing. Nowhere are we told that faith shall some day cease to work wonders. The arm of the Lord is not shortened. O ye of little faith! the victory is within your reach, if you will but rise and seize upon it. I see a vision of a new Church yet to come that shall believe, and, believing as those of old believed, shall see wonders such as the faithful of old saw. The sick shall be healed; women shall receive their dead raised to life again. Why not now? Rise up, O believing heart, and take the Lord at his word!"

Perhaps Mrs. Frankland did not intend that declamation should be taken at its face value; certainly she did not expect it. After a hymn, beautifully and touchingly sung, and a brief prayer, ladies put on their sealskin sacques, thrust their jeweled hands into their muffs, and went out to beckon their impatient coachmen, and to carry home with them the solemn impressions made by the discourse, which were in most cases too vague to produce other than a sentimental result. Yet one may not scatter fire with safety unless he can be sure there are no dangerous combustibles within reach. The harm of credulity is that it is liable to set a great flame a-going whenever it reaches that which will burn. A belief in witches is comparatively innocuous until it finds favorable conditions, as at Salem a couple of centuries ago, but, in favorable conditions, the idle speculations of a pedant, or the chimney-corner chatter of old women, may suddenly become as destructive as a pestilence.

It was in the sincere and susceptible soul of Phillida that Mrs. Frankland's words had their full effect. The lust after perfection— the realest peril of great souls was hers, and she was stung and humiliated by Mrs. Frankland's rebuke to her lack of faith, for the words so impressively spoken seemed to her like a divine message. The whole catalogue of worthies in the eleventh of Hebrews rose up to reprove her.

"I suppose Mrs. Frankland 's been talking some more of her stuff," said Agatha at the dinner that evening. "I declare, Phillida, you 're a victim of that woman. She is n't so bad. She does n't mean what she says to be taken as she says it. People always make allowances

UR age has grown almost blasé of fiction; biographies interest us more than romance, and the record of the unseen inner life more than the most ingenious network of invention. In proportion as the individuality that reveals itself is marked and potent and the hidden springs of action are decisive and direct, the study is a fruitful one; and judged by these standards, the biography of Miss Alcott is a notable book, well worthy of careful and sympathetic consideration. Louisa Alcott's figure stands out clear-cut in the keen New England air, and firmly set upon the soil-native and typical in every line. "Her fame," says her biographer, "rests upon her works; her American publishers compute the sale of a million copies, from which she realized more than $200,000." And how charming a fame! The happy, guileless world of children claims her as its own. She comes freely among them—a child herself in her simplicity and camaraderie, with that undefinable "something" which means sympathy, comprehension, and, above all, appreciation. We have all been under the spell, whether we can fairly conjure it up anew or not. But now that the story of her life has been told, with its unswerving purpose and will, its gentle and absolutely disinterested affections, her works seem to fade into insignificance, while her fame lifts itself upon a broader basis, and takes ampler scope and proportions. It is the woman who rises before us, single-minded and single-hearted, with no distractions, no bewilderment, no vagaries, and always a master-voice in her life to be obeyed, and who comes freely among us, children no more, but struggling men and women less well trained and equipped than she, but all the more grateful to be helped, to be sustained, and even to be rebuked by so valiant an example as hers. It is difficult to realize that Louisa Alcott, the capable, practical bread-winner who resolutely set aside every idea that could not become an active working principle, should have been the daughter of Bronson Alcott, the visionary and mystic philosopher, the transcendentalist par excellence, whose whole life was spent in the clouds. Her journal begins, September 1, 1843, at Fruitlands, the little settlement near Concord established by Mr. Alcott and his friends to carry out their views of social reform. Louisa is ten years old. The child rises

at five o'clock and takes her cold bath. After breakfast she washes the dishes and does housework and ironing. Then a run on the hills, when she has "some thoughts—it was so beautiful up there." Lessons and problems such as these: "Father asked us what was God's noblest work. Anna said, ' Men,' but I said 'Babies.' Men are often bad; babies never are." And again: "What is man? A human being; an animal with a mind; a creature; a body; a soul and a mind." Bread and fruit for dinner, for no meat is allowed. A run in the wind again, playing horse," and had a lovely time in the woods with Anna and Lizzie [her sisters]. We were fairies, and made gowns and paper wings. I'flied' the highest of all." Songs in the evening, and to bed, where she cries because she has been naughty; makes good resolutions and puts herself to sleep reciting poetry - Mrs. Sigourney's lines, "I must not tease my mother!" At eleven she writes: "Life is pleasanter than it used to be, and I don't care about dying any more. Had a splendid run, and got a box of cones to burn. Sat and heard the pines sing a long time. Read Miss Bremer's 'Home' in the eve. Had good dreams, and woke now and then to think, and watch the moon. I had a pleasant time with my mind, for it was happy." She reads "dear" "Pilgrim's Progress," Martin Luther, Plutarch, Scott, Bettine's "Correspondence" with Goethe, and much poetry, which she also takes to writing. She begins now to realize the family cares and straits. Mr. Alcott's schemes do not prosper; the children are taken into the counsels, and go crying to bed. " More people coming to live with us," says Louisa; "I wish we could be together, and no one else. I don't see who is to clothe and feed us all when we are so poor now." She is very dismal and writes a poem, "Despondency." But her courage revives, and the light bursts upon her path again. "I had an early run in the woods before the dew was off the grass," she writes. "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 sun shine 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 done. It seemed as if I felt God as I never did berore, and I prayed in my heart that I migh, keep that happy sense of nearness all my 'Fee" The pages of the journal are thus saturated with the Child's moral experience. She gives samples of her father's teachingSocratic dialogues on the elements of hope and faith, the virtues and vices. Among the vices to be eradicated she names " love of cats." But of greatest influence in her life were the confidential httle notes exchanged between mother and daughter-tender words of sympathy and love, but of wise and gentle guidance as well; the constant presentation of life as a task, a discipline, and a conquest, and, on the child's part, no less a sense of conscience and of duty; of struggle and temptation in her own little world, and of heights to be attained. The mother's code was, Rule yourself, love your neighbor, do the duty which lies nearest you. At thirteen she sums up her plan of life. She is going to work really to be good. No use making good resolutions, or writing sad notes and crying over her sins, if it has no result. But now she feels a "true desire to improve, and be a help and comfort, not a care and sorrow, to my dear mother." To offset all these rather austere conditions and practice, we have just at the same time a delightful glimpse of merry, romping children-Louisa as the ringleader bursting in unexpectedly upon Mr. Emerson and Margaret Fuller, who were gravely discoursing upon education, and had asked to see Mr. Alcott's "model children."

Fruitlands collapsed, and with it Mr. Alcott's "resources of mind, body, and estate." In "Transcendental Wild Oats " Miss Alcott has given a humorous and yet touching account of the catastrophe, showing up with gentle irony the extravagances and aberrations of an idealism not mated with common sense. Mr. Alcott roused himself after a time and sought manual labor, which naturally proved inadequate for their support, and they found themselves obliged to accept shelter and assistance from friends in Concord. Later on it was decided that they should remove to Boston, where Mrs. Alcott found employment in benevolent societies as a visitor among the poor, and afterward opened an intelligence office. Mr. Alcott began his "Conversations," which furnished mental if not pecuniary resource, and were a means of escape from the sordid cares of life into the intellectual and speculative regions which he loved.

For the children the free, happy life of childhood had come to an end. Pent up in their small city quarters, they missed the range of the fields and woods, and, moreover, found themselves called upon to take part in the actual struggle for existence. Louisa resumed

her diary in Boston, May, 1850. "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." She bewails her shortcomings and temptations. "If I look in my glass, I try to keep down vanity about my long hair, my wellshaped 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." Strangely enough she heads this, "The Sentimental Period," and confides to us her romance, which dated from the reading of a book she found in Mr. Emerson's library,- none other than "The Correspondence of Goethe with a Child,"

which fired her with the desire to be a Bettine to her father's friend. "So I wrote letters to him, but never sent them; sat in a tall cherry tree at midnight, singing to the moon till the owls scared me to bed; left wild flowers on the doorstep of my 'Master,' and sung Mignon's song under his window in very bad German. Not till many years later," she says, “did I tell my Goethe of this early romance and the part he played in it. He was much amused, and begged for his letters, kindly saying he felt honored to be so worshiped. The letters were burnt long ago, but Emerson remained my 'Master' while he lived, doing more for me as for many another-than he knew, by the simple beauty of his life, the truth and wisdom of his books, the example of a great, good man, untempted and unspoiled by the world which he made better while in it, and left richer and nobler when he went." But a still wilder vein of romance was her passion for the stage. From her childhood she had composed and acted plays; apparently she was not without dramatic talent, and she was seized now with the fever to become an actress- -a great tragic actress. I"shall be a Siddons, if I can," writes the demure Puritan maiden, shrewdly saying, "I could make plenty of money perhaps, and it is a very gay life." But it is her prudent and sensible mother who dissuades her from it, knowing the other side of this "gay life," and realizing that her daughter's gifts were not sufficient to make her a really great actress. One of her plays, however, "The Rival Prima Donnas," was accepted by a leading manager. Owing to some difficulty, it was not brought out, but it procured for her a free pass to the theater, which was a source of never-failing delight.

In the mean while the hard realities of life,

the hand-to-hand struggle with poverty, had every day to be faced. The girls each did their part. "Anna and I taught," says Louisa; "Lizzie was our little housekeeper-our angel in a cellar-kitchen; May went to school; father wrote and talked when he could get classes and conversations." Poor as they were, their home was rich in love and happiness and in a practical charity which made it a refuge for those poorer than themselves-the friendless and the lost, whom Mr. and Mrs. Alcott took into their home without fear, satisfied that the children could not better learn the misery of sin and the habit of sympathy and help. Many a meal was shared-the comforts, and even the necessaries of life, sacrificed for those whose need was greater than their own. In a footnote to the journal, at this time, Louisa says: "We had smallpox 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." After the smallpox, Louisa started a little school, which kept her busy through the winter. In the evening, when her day's work was over, she sewed in order to add to her earnings. The school closed in the spring, and she engaged herself to go out to service with a relative" as second girl. I needed the change," she says; "could do the wash, and was glad to earn my $2 a week. Home in October with $34 for my wages." Then school again, month after month. Mrs. Alcott was occupied with boarders and sewing. Mr. Alcott went "West to try his luck-so poor, so hopeful, so serene," says Louisa. "In February father came home. . . . 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 not 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 pocketbook 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 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." So the brave girl looks on and learns the best that life can teach, plucking up spirit and hope where many another would despond, and shouldering the burden more courageously than ever. "I am grubbing away as usual," she says, "trying to get money enough to buy mother a nice warm shawl." She counts up her earnings-eleven dollars in all, five for a story, and four for a pile of sewing which she sat up all night to finish. She buys a crimson ribbon to trim a bonnet for May, the youngest sister, for whom the finery seems always reserved, a new gown for "good little Betty, who is wearing all the old gowns "; and for her father new neckties and some paper, so that "he can keep on with the beloved diaries though the heavens fall."

Thus passed the years of first youth-no gilded years for her, but full of "hard facts, irksome duties, many temptations, and the daily sacrifice of self," accepted at the time without bitterness or complaint, and, later on, as the schooling of the spirit which had taught her "the sweet uses of adversity, the value of honest work, the beautiful law of compensation, which gives more than it takes, and the real significance of life." Disdaining no service however humble which fell to her lot, she was gradually drifting towards her true vocation. She was now twenty-two, but from childhood she had written poems, stories, and plays of a melodramatic type, among them a "Bandit's Bride," and "The Captive of Castile; or, the Moorish Maiden's Vow." One of her stories had already been published, and now, under the title of " Flower Fables," she published a little collection of tales written by her at sixteen for Mr. Emerson's daughter Ellen. The book had quite a little success. The edition of sixteen hundred sold well, and she received $32. From this time she was seldom without literary work of some kind. She wrote book-notices and poems for the papers, and planned stories, which she worked at when she could, in the intervals of school, sewing, and housework. Her winter's earnings are, school $50, sewing $50, stories $20-"if I am ever paid," she adds. But evidently her spirits do not flag with all these exertions. She is again negotiating to have her play brought out, goes all over the great new theater, she says, and dances a jig on the immense stage. "In the eve I saw La Grange as Norma. Quite stage-struck, and imagined myself in her place, with white robes and oak-leaf crown." Besides the excite