Chapter IX: Europe (1)

THE LAY OF A GOLDEN GOOSE.

Long ago in a poultry yard
One dull November morn,
Beneath a motherly soft wing
A little goose was born.

Who straightway peeped out of the shell
To view the world beyond,
Longing at once to sally forth
And paddle in the pond.

"Oh! be not rash," her father said,
A mild Socratic bird;
Her mother begged her not to stray
With many a warning word.

But little goosey was perverse,
And eagerly did cry,
"I've got a lovely pair of wings,
Of course I ought to fly."

In vain parental cacklings,
In vain the cold sky's frown,
Ambitious goosey tried to soar,
But always tumbled down.

The farm-yard jeered at her attempts,
The peacocks screamed, "Oh fie!
You're only a domestic goose,
So don't pretend to fly."

Great cock-a-doodle from his perch
Crowed daily loud and clear,
"Stay in the puddle, foolish bird,
That is your proper sphere."

The ducks and hens said, one and all,
In gossip by the pool,
"Our children never play such pranks;
My dear, that fowl's a fool."

The owls came out and flew about,
Hooting above the rest,
"No useful egg was ever hatched
From transcendental nest."

Good little goslings at their play
And well-conducted chicks
Were taught to think poor goosey's flights
Were naughty, ill-bred tricks.

_They_ were content to swim and scratch,
And not at all inclined
For any wild-goose chase in search
Of something undefined.

Hard times she had as one may guess,
That young aspiring bird,
Who still from every fall arose
Saddened but undeterred.

She knew she was no nightingale,
Yet spite of much abuse,
She longed to help and cheer the world,
Although a plain gray goose.

She could not sing, she could not fly,
Nor even walk with grace,
And all the farm-yard had declared
A puddle was her place.

But something stronger than herself
Would cry, "Go on, go on!
Remember, though an humble fowl,
You're cousin to a swan."

So up and down poor goosey went,
A busy, hopeful bird.
Searched many wide unfruitful fields,
And many waters stirred.

At length she came unto a stream
Most fertile of all _Niles_,
Where tuneful birds might soar and sing
Among the leafy isles.

Here did she build a little nest
Beside the waters still,
Where the parental goose could rest
Unvexed by any _bill_.

And here she paused to smooth her plumes,
Ruffled by many plagues;
When suddenly arose the cry,
"This goose lays golden eggs."

At once the farm-yard was agog;
The ducks began to quack;
Prim Guinea fowls relenting called,
"Come back, come back, come back."

Great chanticleer was pleased to give
A patronizing crow,
And the contemptuous biddies clucked,
"I wish my chicks did so."

The peacocks spread their shining tails,
And cried in accents soft,
"We want to know you, gifted one,
Come up and sit aloft."

Wise owls awoke and gravely said,
With proudly swelling breasts,
"Rare birds have always been evoked
From transcendental nests!"

News-hunting turkeys from afar
Now ran with all thin legs
To gobble facts and fictions of
The goose with golden eggs.

But best of all the little fowls
Still playing on the shore,
Soft downy chicks and goslings gay,
Chirped out, "Dear Goose, lay more."

But goosey all these weary years
Had toiled like any ant,
And wearied out she now replied,
"My little dears, I can't.

"When I was starving, half this corn
Had been of vital use,
Now I am surfeited with food
Like any Strasbourg goose."

So to escape too many friends,
Without uncivil strife,
She ran to the Atlantic pond
And paddled for her life.

Soon up among the grand old Alps
She found two blessed things,
The health she had so nearly lost,
And rest for weary limbs.

But still across the briny deep
Couched in most friendly words,
Came prayers for letters, tales, or verse,
From literary birds.

Whereat the renovated fowl
With grateful thanks profuse,
Took from her wing a quill and wrote
This lay of a Golden Goose.

BEX, SWITZERLAND, August, 1870.

The year 1869 was less fruitful in work than the preceding one. Miss Alcott spent the winter in Boston and the summer in Concord. She was ill and very tired, and felt little inclined for mental effort. "Hospital Sketches," which had been first published by Redpath, was now republished by Roberts Brothers, with the addition of six shorter "Camp and Fireside Stories." The interest of the public in either the author or the work had not lessened; for two thousand copies of the book in its new form were sold the first week. In her weary condition she finds her celebrity rather a burden than a pleasure, and says in her journal:--

People begin to come and stare at the Alcotts. Reporters haunt
the place to look at the authoress, who dodges into the woods _à
la_ Hawthorne, and won't be even a very small lion.

Refreshed my soul with Goethe, ever strong and fine and alive.
Gave S. E. S. $200 to invest. What richness to have a little not
needed!

Miss Alcott had some pleasant refreshment in travelling during the summer.

_July._-- ... Spent in Canada with my cousins, the Frothinghams,
at their house at Rivière du Loup,--a little village on the St.
Lawrence, full of queer people. Drove, read, and walked with the
little ones. A pleasant, quiet time.

_August._-- ... A month with May at Mt. Desert. A gay time, and a
little rest and pleasure before the old pain and worry began
again.

Made up $1,000 for S. E. S. to invest. Now I have $1,200 for a
rainy day, and no debts. With that thought I can bear neuralgia
gayly.

In the autumn the whole family went to Boston, the father and mother staying with Mrs. Pratt; while Louisa and her sister May, "the workers," occupied rooms in Pinckney Street. Not being well enough to do much new work, Louisa began using up her old stories, and found that the little women "helped their rejected sisters to good places where once they went a-begging." In January, 1870, she suffered from loss of voice, for which she tried "heroic treatment" under a distinguished physician. She got well enough to write a little, and in February wrote the conclusion to "The Old-fashioned Girl," which was published in March. She says:--

I wrote it with left hand in a sling, one foot up, head aching,
and no voice. Yet, as the book is funny, people will say, "Didn't
you enjoy doing it?" I often think of poor Tom Hood as I
scribble, rather than lie and groan. I certainly earn my living
by the sweat of my brow.

The book does not reveal this condition; for nothing could be fresher, brighter, and more wholesome than the heroine Polly, many of whose adventures are drawn from the author's own experience. She steps out of her usual surroundings into the fashionable life of the city, but betrays her own want of sympathy with it. The book has always been very popular.

In 1870, the success of "Hospital Sketches" and the continued receipts from "Little Women" put their author in a pecuniary position which enabled her to go abroad for the rest and refreshment which she sorely needed. The younger sister was invited to go by her friend A. B. on condition that Louisa would accompany them. This journey was very free and independent. She has given an account--somewhat travestied certainly, but very true to the general facts--in "Shawl Straps," although the reader would hardly suppose the old lady described in that book had not yet reached her fortieth year. These sketches were arranged after her return, at the request of Mrs. Stowe, for the "Christian Union," and were published in a book forming one volume of "Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag" in 1872.

Fortunately we have many of Louisa's original letters preserved in her father's copies, which have escaped the destruction of her correspondence. With some extracts from her journals, they give a sufficient account of this journey. In many respects the contrast to her former visit to Europe is most pleasant. She has now become pecuniarily independent by her own exertions, and has a popular reputation which brings her welcome and recognition wherever she goes. But she has paid a heavy price for these gains. Her health has become seriously shattered. The long application to writing, sometimes even for fourteen hours a day,--a pressure of excitement which kept her from eating and sleeping,--added to sorrow and anxiety, have told upon her nerves and strength, and she is often unfitted to enjoy the pleasures which are open to her. Yet her journal and letters are as full of wit and humor as ever; and she laid up stores of pleasant memories which lasted her through life. Readers of "Shawl Straps" will recognize the originals of those bright sketches in the series of letters from Dinan.

_Second Trip to Europe._

_April._--... On the first day of the month (fit day for _my_
undertaking I thought) May and I went to N. Y. to meet A. B.,
with John for escort. Every one very kind. Thirty gifts, a
parting ball among our house-mates, and a great cake.
Half-a-dozen devoted beings at the station to see us off. But I
remember only Father and Mother as they went away the day before,
leaving the two ambitious daughters to sail away, perhaps
forever.

Marmee kept up bravely, and nodded and smiled; but at the corner
I saw the white handkerchief go up to the eyes, after being
gayly waved to us. May and I broke down, and said, "We won't go;"
but next day we set forth, as young birds will, and left the nest
empty for a year.

Sailed on the 2d in a gale of wind in the French steamer
"Lafayette" for Brest. Our adventures are told in "Shawl Straps."

"O. F. G." came out in March, and sold well. Train-boy going to
N. Y. put it into my lap; and when I said I didn't care for it,
exclaimed with surprise,--

"Bully book, ma'am! Sell a lot; better have it."

John told him I wrote it; and his chuckle, stare, and astonished
"No!" was great fun. On the steamer little girls had it, and came
in a party to call on me, very sea-sick in my berth, done up like
a mummy.

Spent some charming weeks in Brittany.

_June and July._--"O. F. G." was published in London by Sampson
Low & Co. We left Dinan on the 15th, and had a lovely trip
through France to Vevay and Bex.

Talk of war between France and Prussia.

Much excitement at Vevay. Refugees from Lyons come in. Isabella
and Don Carlos were there, with queer followers.

_September._--... On the 3d came news of the Emperor's surrender.
Great wailing among the French here. All well at home. Books
going finely; no debts.

We decide to go to Rome for the winter, as May pines for the
artist's Paradise; and war will not trouble us I hope.

SHIP "LAFAYETTE," April 9, 1870.

DEAREST MARMEE,--To-morrow we come to our long journey's end
[Brest, France], thank the Lord. It has been a good one on the
whole, and I have got along as well as I expected. But it is
tiresome to be day after day doing nothing; for my head will not
let me read. May has done well, and has been very kind to me and
good, and is the life of the table, I guess. I never go up to
meals, for Marie takes such good care of me; I lie and peck all
sorts of funny messes, and receive calls in my den. People seem
to think we are "guns," and want to know us; but as they are not
interesting, we are on the reserve, and it has a fine effect.
About three thousand miles away does not seem possible in so
little while. How do you all get along,--Marmee, Father, the
laddies, my lass, and dear old John? He was so good and kind all
the way I had no care or worry, but just lopped round and let him
do all the work. Bless the dear!

I shall despatch a good long letter as soon as we arrive and have
something to tell. We send this to ease your mind. Letters here
are not prepaid, so pay for mine out of my money. Don't forget to
tell the post-master in Boston about my letters.

Bless you all, says your

LU.

MORLAIX, April 14, 1870.

DEAREST MARMEE,--Having got our "poise" a bit by a day and night
on land, I begin at once to scribble to you, as I mean to keep a
letter on hand all the time, and send them off as fast as they
are done. We had a twelve days' passage, owing to a double screw
which they were trying and which delayed us, though it is safer
than one. The weather was cold and rainy, and the sea rough, so I
only went up once or twice, and kept warm in my den most of the
time. After the first two days I didn't feel sick, except my head
as usual. I slept, ate, ruminated, and counted the hours. May
poked about more, and was liked by all.

We got to Brest about noon Wednesday. A. and I got our trunks
through the custom-house, and after some squabbling with the men,
got all aboard for Morlaix, which is a curious old place worth
seeing. It was a lovely day, warm as our June, and we had a
charming trip of three hours through a country already green and
flowery. We reached our hotel all right, and after a nice dinner
had baths and went to bed. May's room being some way from mine,
she came and bunked in with me in my little bed, and we slept.

To-day is lovely, warm, and I am sitting at an open window
looking at the square, enjoying the queer sights and sounds; for
the air resounds with the rattle of wooden shoes on the stones.

Market-women sit all about selling queer things, among which are
snails; they buy them by the pint, pick them out with a pin like
nuts, and seem to relish them mightily. We went out this A.M.
after breakfast, and took a stroll about the queer old town. May
was in heaven, and kept having raptures over the gables, the
turrets with storks on them, the fountains, people, and churches.
She is now sketching the tower of St. Melanie, with a crowd of
small boys round her enjoying the sight and criticising the work.
It don't seem very new to me, but I enjoy it, and feel pretty
well. We are to study French every day when we settle, and I am
to do the mending, etc., for A., who is to talk for us, and make
our bargains. So far we go well together.

To-morrow we go on to Lamballe, where we take the diligence to
Dinan, fourteen miles farther, and there settle for some weeks. I
wish the boys could see the funny children here in little wooden
shoes like boats, the girls in blue cloth caps, aprons, and
shawls, just like the women, and the boys in funny hats and
sheepskin jackets. Now I must go and get May, who can't speak a
word of French, and has a panic if any one speaks to her. The
beggars afflict her, and she wants to give them money on all
occasions. This P.M. we go for a drive to see all there is, as
neither A. nor I are good walkers; "adoo" till by and by. I wish
I could send you this balmy day.

DINAN, Sunday, April 17, 1870.

Here we are, all settled at our first neat stopping-place, and
are in clover, as you will see when I tell you how plummy and
lovely it is. We left Morlaix Friday at 8 A.M., and were so
amazed at the small bill presented us that we couldn't praise the
town enough. You can judge of the cheapness of things, when I say
that my share of the expenses from Brest here, including two days
at a hotel, car, 'bus, and diligence fare, fees, and everything,
was $8. The day was divine, and we had a fine little journey to
Lamballe, where the fun began; for instead of a big diligence, we
found only a queer ramshackle thing like an insane carryall, with
a wooden boot and queer porch for the driver.

Our four trunks were piled up behind and tied on with old ropes,
our bags stowed in a wooden box on top, and ourselves inside with
a fat Frenchman. The humpbacked driver "ya hooped" to the horses,
and away we clattered at a wild pace, all feeling dead sure that
something would happen, for the old thing bounded and swayed
awfully, the trunks were in danger of tumbling off, and to our
dismay we soon discovered that the big Frenchman was tipsy. He
gabbled to A. as only a tipsy person could, quoted poetry; said
he was Victor Hugo's best friend, and a child of Nature; that
English ladies were all divine, but too cold,--for when he
pressed A.'s hand she told him it was not allowed in England, and
he was overwhelmed with remorse; bowed, sighed, rolled his eyes,
and told her that he drank much ale, because it flew to his head
and gave him "commercial ideas."

I never saw anything so perfectly absurd as it was, and after we
got used to it we laughed ourselves sick over the lark. You ought
to have seen us and our turnout, tearing over the road at a
breakneck pace, pitching, creaking, and rattling, the funny
driver hooting at the horses, who had their tails done up in
chignons, blue harness, and strings of bells, the drunken man
warbling, exhorting, and languishing at us all by turns, while A.
headed him off with great skill. I sat, a mass of English dignity
and coolness, suffering alternate agonies of anxiety and
amusement, and May, who tied her head up in a bundle, looked like
a wooden image.

It was rich; and when we took up first a peasant woman in wooden
shoes and fly-away cap, and then a red-nosed priest smoking a
long pipe, we were a superb spectacle. In this style we banged
into Dinan, stopped at the gate, and were dumped bag and baggage
in the square. Finding Madame Coste's man was not here for us, we
hired a man to bring our trunks up. To our great amazement, an
oldish woman, who was greasing the wheels of a diligence, came,
and catching up our big trunks, whipped them into two broad
carts, and taking one trotted down the street at a fine pace,
followed by the man with the other. That was the finishing touch;
and we went laughing after them through the great arched gate
into the quaintest, prettiest, most romantic town I ever saw.
Narrow streets with overhanging gables, distracting roofs,
windows, and porches, carved beams, and every sort of richness.
The strong old lady beat the man, and finally landed us close by
another old gate at a charming house fronting the south,
overlooking a lovely green valley, full of gardens, blooming
plum and peach trees, windmills, and a ruined castle, at sight of
which we all skipped. Madame Coste received us with rapture, for
A. brought a letter from Mrs. L., who stayed here and was the joy
of the old lady's soul. We were in great luck, for being early in
the season she had three rooms left, and we nabbed them at
once,--a salon with old oak walls and wardrobes, blue damask
furniture, a fireplace, funny windows, and quaint furniture. A
little room out of it for A., and upstairs a larger room for May
and me, with two beds draped in green chintz, and carved big
wardrobe, etc., and best of all, a sunny window toward the
valley. For these rooms and our board we each pay $1 a day, and I
call that cheap. It would be worth that to get the fun and air
alone, for it is like June, and we sit about with open windows,
flowers in the fields, birds singing, and everything spring-like.

We took possession at once, and dressed for a dinner at six. We
were then presented to our fellow-boarders,--Madame Forney, a
buxom widow, her son Gaston, a handsome Frenchy youth of
twenty-three, and her daughter, a homely girl of twenty, who is
to be married here on the 3d of May. After a great bowing and
scraping we had a funny fish dinner, it being Good Friday. When
they found we didn't speak French they were "desolated," and
begged us to learn at once, which we solemnly vowed to do. Gaston
"knew English," so May at once began to teach him more, and the
ice being broken we got gay and friendly at once. I could
understand them pretty well, but can't talk, and A. told them
that I was forbidden to say much on account of my throat. This
will give me a chance to get a fair start. May pegs away at her
grammar, and with that and the elegant Gaston, she will soon
begin to "parlez-vous."

After dinner we were borne to the great salon, where a fire,
lights, and a piano appeared. Every one sat round and gabbled
except the Alcotts, who looked and laughed. Mademoiselle Forney
played, and then May convulsed them by singing some _Chants
Amériques_, which they thought very lively and droll. They were
all attention and devotion to Madame Coste,--a tall old lady with
whiskers, who kept embracing A. and beaming at us in her great
content at being friends of _chère_ Madame L. A. told them that I
was a celebrated authoress, and May a very fine artist, and we
were beamed at more than ever. Being tired, we turned in early,
after a jolly time in our own little salon, eating chocolate and
laying plans.

DINAN, April 20, 1870.

... A. and I went shopping. A. got a little bird to enliven our
parlor, a sort of sparrow, gray with a red head and a lively
song. We named him Bernard du Guesclin (the hero of the town),
and call him Bernie. I got some nice gloves for three francs
(sixty cents), and a white sun-umbrella for May (forty cents).
She needs it when she sketches, and there is always a crowd of
children round her to watch and admire; she gives one of them a
sou to hold the umbrella, and so gets on nicely.

In the P.M. A. and I went to the little village of Lahou, in the
valley where the ruined castle is, to a fair. It was a very
picturesque sight, for the white-capped women, sitting about on
the green hillside, looked like flowers, and the blue blouses of
the men and wide-brimmed hats added to the effect. The little
street was lined with booths, where they sold nuts, queer cakes,
hot sausages, and pancakes, toys, etc. I got a funny cake, just
the size and shape of a deep pie-dish, and a jack-knife, for a
sou. We also indulged in nuts, and sat on our campstools in a
shady place and ate them boldly in the public mart, while
enjoying the lively scene. French and English people went by in
droll parties, and we coolly sat and stared at them. May is going
to sketch the castle, so I won't waste paper describing the
pretty place with the ruined church full of rooks, the old mill
with the waterwheel housed in vines, or the winding river, and
meadows full of blue hyacinths and rosy daisies.

Yesterday, A. and I had to return the call of Mademoiselle M.,
and as she speaks English I got on very well. The stairs to her
apartment were so steep that we held on by a velvet-covered rope
as we climbed up. In the P.M. we had fun, for we took two donkey
carriages and rode to the mineral spring. Gaston was sick and
couldn't go, as we had planned, so May drove herself in one, and
A. and I in the other. I wish the boys could have seen us, it was
so funny. The carriages were bath-chairs with a wee donkey
harnessed to each, so small, so neat, and looking so venerable
with thin long ears and bits of feet that I felt as if I was
driving my grandmother. May was a very imposing sight, alone in
her chair under her new umbrella, in her gray suit, with bright
gloves and a big whip, driving a gray rat who wouldn't trot
unless pounded and banged and howled at in the maddest way. Our
steed was bigger, but the most pig-headed old scamp you ever saw,
for it took two big women to make him go. I drove, and A.
thrashed away with all her might,--our joint efforts only
producing occasional short trots which enraged us dreadfully.

We laughed till we were sick, it was so very absurd; while May
trundled serenely along, enjoying the fine views regardless of
her rat, who paced along at his ease, wagging his ears and
meditating.

We had a nice trip, but didn't drink the water, as iron don't
suit us. Coming home, we passed the home of the donkeys, and they
at once turned in, and were with much difficulty persuaded to go
on by two short girls in caps and short gowns, who ran and
shouted "E! E! va oui!" and punched sticks into the poor asses,
rattling us over the stones till our eyes danced in our heads. We
found it rather hard work, and A. means to buy a horse and straw
pony-chaise, so we can drive ourselves in peace where we like....

A. is bargaining for a horse which an Englishman wishes to sell
for $50, including harness and cart. We can't hire horses for
less than $2 a drive, and donkeys are vile, so it is cheaper to
buy, and sell when we go away, and so drive as much as we like.
A. knows about such things, and takes all the responsibility....
To-morrow we go on a little excursion in the steamboat down the
river, and return _à la_ donkey with the English ladies, who have
returned our call and are very friendly.

Please forward this little note in an envelope to its address.
The child wrote me a pretty letter, which N. sent, and the pa
said I wouldn't answer. The child said, "I know she will, she is
so nice." So I do. Best love to every one. Don't go home too
soon. I shall write to Fred and Jack next time. Good-by.

LU.

_To M. S._

... They call each other pet names that convulse us,--"my little
pig," "my sweet hen," "my cabbage," and "my tom-cat." A French
lady with her son and daughter board here, and their ways amuse
us mightily. The girl is to be married next week to a man whom
she has seen twice, and never talked to but an hour in her life.
She writes to him what her mother dictates, and says she should
be ashamed to love him before they were married. Her wedding
clothes absorb her entire mind, and her Jules will get a pretty
doll when he takes Mademoiselle A. F. to wife. Gaston, the son,
puts on _blasé_ airs, though only twenty-two, and languishes at
May, for they can't talk, as he does not know English nor she
French.

April 27.

I left my letter to drive to a ruined château, which we went all
over, as a part is inhabited by a farmer who keeps his hog in the
great banqueting hall, his grain in the chapel, and his hens in
the lady's chamber. It was very picturesque; the old rooms, with
ivy coming in at the windows, choking up the well, and climbing
up the broken towers. The lady of the château was starved to
death by her cruel brothers, and buried in the moat, where her
bones were found long afterward, and her ghost still haunts the
place they say. Here we had cider, tell Pa.

Coming home we saw a Dolmen, one of the Druidical remains. It
stood in a grove of old pines,--a great post of gray stone, some
twenty-five feet high, and very big round. It leaned as if
falling, and had queer holes in it. Brittany is full of these
relics, which no one can explain, and I was glad to see the
mysterious things.

Yesterday we took a little trip down the river in a tiny steamer,
going through a lock and skimming along between the green banks
of the narrow river to Miss M.'s country-house, where we had new
milk, and lay on the grass for an hour or so. Then May and Miss
M. walked home, and A. and I went in a donkey cart.

To-day the girls have gone to La Garaye with Gaston on donkeys.
The weather has been cold for a day or two with easterly winds.
So I feel it at once and keep warm. It is very unusual at this
time, but comes, I suppose, because I've travelled hundreds of
miles to get rid of them. It won't last long, and then we shall
be hot enough.

We lead such quiet, lazy lives I really have nothing to tell.

Oh, yes, the _fiancé_ of Mademoiselle has arrived, and amuses us
very much. He is a tiny man in uniform, with a red face, big
moustache, and blue eyes. He thinks he talks English, and makes
such very funny mistakes. He asked us if we had been to
"promenade on monkeys" meaning donkeys, and called the Casino
"the establishment of dance." He addresses all his attentions to
the ma, and only bows to his future wife, who admires her
diamonds and is contented. We are going away on the day of the
wedding, as it is private.

The girls have just returned in great spirits, for A.'s donkey
kept lying down, and it took all three to get him up again. They
sat in a sort of chair, and looked very funny with the four
little legs under them and long ears flopping before. I shall go
to Garaye some fine day, and will tell you about it.

Adieu, love to all.

Yours,
LU.

_Dinan_, May 6, 1870.

DEAR PEOPLE,--I have just got a fat letter full of notices from
N.,--all good, and news generally pleasant.

The great event of the season is over, and Miss F. is Mrs. C. It
was a funny scene, for they had a breakfast the day before, then
on Tuesday the wedding. We did not go, as the church is like a
tomb, but we saw the bride, in white satin, pearls, orange
flowers, and lace, very pretty, and like other brides. Her ma, in
purple moire and black lace, was fine to see; and the little
groom, in full regimentals, with a sabre as large as himself, was
very funny. A lot of people came in carriages to escort them to
church; and our little square was full of queer turnouts, smartly
dressed people, and a great bustle. There was some mistake about
the bride's carriage, and it did not drive up in time, so she
stood on the steps till it came as near as it could, and then she
trotted out to it on Gaston's arm, with her maid holding up her
satin train. Uncle, ma, bride, and brother drove off, but the
groom's carriage was delayed by the breaking of a trace, and
there he sat, with his fat pa and ma, after every one had gone,
fuming, and poking his little cocked hat out of the window, while
the man mended the harness, and every one looked on with
breathless interest.

We went to D---- with Coste in the P.M., and had a fine view of
the sea and San Malo. We didn't like D----, and won't go there.
When we got home about eight o'clock the wedding dinner was in
full blast, and I caught a glimpse of a happy pair at the head of
the table, surrounded by a lot of rigged-up ladies and fine men,
all gabbing and gabbling as only French folk can. The couple are
still here, resting and getting acquainted before they go to
Lamballe for a week of festivity. A church wedding is a very
funny thing, and I wish you could have seen it.

The dry season continues, and the people have processions and
masses to pray for rain. One short flurry of hail is all we have
had, and the cold winds still blow. When our month is out we
shall go somewhere near the sea if it is at all warm. Nothing
could be kinder than dear old Coste, and I couldn't be in a
better place to be poorly in than this; she coddles me like a
mother, and is so grieved that I don't get better.

Send Ma a bit of the gorse flower with which the fields are now
yellow.

Yours,
LU.

DINAN, May 13, 1870.

DEAREST FOLKS,--We drove to Guildo yesterday to see if we should
like it for July. It is a queer little town on the seashore, with
ruins near by, bright houses, and lots of boats. Rooms a franc a
day, and food very cheap. The man of the house--a big, brown,
Peggotty sailor--has a sloop, and promised the girls as much
sailing as they liked. We may go, but our plans are very vague,
and one day we say we will go to one place and the next to
another, and shall probably end by staying where we are.

Yours,
LU.

DINAN, May 17, 1870.

DEAREST PEOPLE,--We run out and do errands in the cool before
breakfast at ten, then we write, sew, and read, and look round,
till four, when we go to drive. May and I in the cherry bounce
with M. Harmon to drive us, and A. on horseback; for, after
endless fuss, she has at last evoked a horse out of chaos, and
comes galloping gayly after us as we drive about the lovely roads
with the gallant hotel-keeper, Adolph Harmon. We are getting
satiated with ruins and châteaux, and plan a trip by water to
Nantes; for the way they do it is to hire a big boat and be towed
by a horse in the most luxurious manner.

_To Anna._

DINAN, May 25, 1870.

DEAR BETSEY,[8]--All well. We have also had fun about the queer
food, as we don't like brains, liver, etc. A. does; and when we
eat some mess, not knowing what it is, and find it is sheep's
tails or eels, she exults over us, and writes poems.

I wander dreadfully, but the girls are racketing, birdie singing
like mad, and nine horses neighing to one another in the place,
so my ideas do not flow as clearly as they should. Besides, I
expect Gaston to come in every minute to show us his rig; for he
is going to a picnic in Breton costume,--a very French affair,
for the party are to march two and two, with fiddlers in front,
and donkeys bearing the feast in the rear. Such larks!

Yesterday we had a funny time. We went to drive in a basket
chair, very fine, with a perch behind and a smart harness; but
most of the horses here are stallions, and act like time. Ours
went very well at first, but in the town took to cutting up, and
suddenly pounced on to a pile of brush, and stuck his head into a
bake-shop. We tried to get him out, but he only danced and
neighed, and all the horses in town seemed to reply. A man came
and led him on a bit, but he didn't mean to go, and whisked over
to the other side, where he tangled us and himself up with a long
string of team horses. I flew out and May soon followed. A. was
driving, and kept in while the man led the "critter" back to the
stable. I declined my drive with the insane beast, and so we left
him and bundled home in the most ignominious manner. All the
animals are very queer here, and, unlike ours, excessively big.

We went to a ruin one day, and were about to explore the castle,
when a sow, with her family of twelve, charged through the
gateway at us so fiercely that we fled in dismay; for pigs are
not nice when they attack, as we don't know where to bone 'em,
and I saw a woman one day whose nose had been bitten off by an
angry pig. I flew over a hedge; May tried to follow. I pulled
her over head first, and we tumbled into the tower like a routed
garrison. It wasn't a nice ruin, but we were bound to see it,
having suffered so much. And we did see it, in spite of the pigs,
who waylaid us on all sides, and squealed in triumph when we
left,--dirty, torn, and tired. The ugly things wander at their
own sweet will, and are tall, round-backed, thin wretches, who
run like race horses, and are no respecters of persons.

Sunday was a great day here, for the children were confirmed. It
was a pretty sight to see the long procession of little girls, in
white gowns and veils, winding through the flowery garden and the
antique square, into the old church, with their happy mothers
following, and the boys in their church robes singing as they
went. The old priest was too ill to perform the service, but the
young one who did announced afterward that if the children would
pass the house the old man would bless them from his bed. So all
marched away down the street, with crosses and candles, and it
was very touching to see the feeble old man stretch out his hands
above them as the little white birds passed by with bended heads,
while the fresh, boyish voices chanted the responses. This old
priest is a very interesting man, for he is a regular saint,
helping every one, keeping his house as a refuge for poor and old
priests, settling quarrels among the people, and watching over
the young people as if they were his own. I shall put him in a
story.

_Voilà!_ Gaston has just come in, rigged in a white embroidered
jacket, with the Dinan coat-of-arms worked in scarlet and yellow
silk on it fore and aft; a funny hat, with streamers, and a belt,
with a knife, horn, etc. He is handsome, and as fond of finery as
a girl. I'll send you his picture next time, and one of Dinan.

You will see that Marmee has all she needs, and a girl, and as
much money as she wants for being cosey and comfortable. S. E. S.
will let her have all she wants, and make her take it. I'm sorry
the chapel $100 didn't come, for she likes to feel that she has
some of her very own.

I have written to Conway and Mrs. Taylor, so that if we decide to
take a run to England before we go to Italy, the way will be
open....

But Dinan is so healthy and cosey, that we shall linger till the
heat makes us long for the sea. Roses, cherries, strawberries,
and early vegetables are come, and we are in clover. Dear old
Coste broods over us like a motherly hen, and just now desired me
to give her affectionate and respectful compliments to my _bonne
mère_.

Now I'm spun out; so adieu, my darling Nan. Write often, and I
will keep sending,--trusting that you will get them in time.

Kisses all round.

Yours,
LU.

DINAN, May 30, 1870.

DEAR FOLKS,--May has made up such a big letter that I will only
add a line to give you the last news of the health of her
Highness Princess Louisa. She is such a public character nowadays
that even her bones are not her own, and her wails of woe cannot
be kept from the long ears of the world,--old donkey as it is!

Dr. Kane, who was army surgeon in India, and doctor in England
for forty years, says my leg trouble and many of my other woes
come from the calomel they gave me in Washington. He has been
through the same thing with an Indian jungle fever, and has never
got the calomel out of him.... I don't know anything about it,
only my leg is the curse of my life. But I think Dr. K.'s iodine
of potash will cure it in the end, as it did his arms, after
taking it for three months. It is simple, pleasant, and seems to
do something to the bones that gives them ease; so I shall sip
away and give it a good trial.

We are now revelling in big strawberries, green peas, early
potatoes, and other nice things, on which we shall grow fat as
pigs.

We are beginning to think of a trip into Normandy, where the H.'s
are.

Love to all. By-by!

Your loving
LU.

No news except through N., who yesterday sent me a nice letter
with July account of $6,212,--a neat little sum for "the Alcotts,
who can't make money!" With $10,000 well invested, and more
coming in all the time, I think we may venture to enjoy
ourselves, after the hard times we have all had.

The cream of the joke is, that we made our own money ourselves,
and no one gave us a blessed penny. That does soothe my rumpled
soul so much that the glory is not worth thinking of.

_To Anna._

DINAN, June 4, 1870.

* * * * *

The present excitement is the wood which Coste is having put in.
Loads keep coming in queer, heavy carts drawn by four horses
each, and two men to work the machine. Two men chop the great oak
stumps, and a woman puts it in down cellar by the armful. The men
get two francs a day,--forty cents! (Wouldn't our $3 a day
workmen howl at that sort of wages!) When several carts arrive at
once the place is a lively scene. Just now there were three carts
and twelve horses, and eight were all up in a snarl, while
half-a-dozen ladies stood at their doors and gave advice. One
had a half-dressed baby in her arms; one a lettuce she was
washing; another her distaff; and a fourth her little bowl of
soup, which she ate at on the sidewalk, in the intervals
gesticulating so frantically that her sabots rattled on the
stones. The horses had a free fight, and the man couldn't seem to
manage one big one, who romped about like a wild elephant, till
the lady with the baby suddenly set the half-naked cherub on the
doorsteps, charged in among the rampant beasts, and, by some
magic howl or jerk, brought the bad horse to order, when she
quietly returned to her baby, who had sat placidly eating dirt,
and with a calm _Voilà, messieurs_, she skipped little Jean into
his shirt, and the men sat down to smoke.

We are now in great excitement over Gaston, who has lately become
so very amiable that we don't know him. We began by letting the
spoiled child severely alone. This treatment worked well, and now
he offers us things at table, bows when we enter, and to-day
presented us with green tulips, violet shrubs, and queer medals
all round. We have let little bits of news leak out about us, and
they think we are dukes and duchesses in _Amérique_, and
pronounce us _très spirituelles; très charmantes; très seductives
femmes_. We laugh in private, and are used to having the entire
company rise when we enter, and embrace us with ardor, listen
with uplifted hands and shrieks of _mon Dieu! grand ciel!_ etc.,
to all remarks, and point us out in public as _les dames
Américaines_. Such is fame!

An English lady arrived to-day--a Miss B.--dressed, with English
taste, in a little green skirt, pink calico waist, a large
crumpled frill, her hair in a tight knot, one front tooth
sticking straight out, and a golden oriole in a large cage. She
is about forty, very meek and pursy, and the old ladies have been
sitting in a heap since breakfast, talking like mad.

May has "sack" on the brain just now, and A. has "hose" on the
brain; and at this moment they are both gabbling wildly, one
saying, "I shall trim it with blue and have it pinked!" the other
shrieking, "My hose must be red, with little dragons in black all
over it, like small-pox!" and the bird flies to her upper perch
in dismay at the riot, while I sit and laugh, with an occasional
duennaish, "Young ladies, less noise if you please!"

It rained last eve, and we are waiting for it to dry before going
out in the donkey chaise to buy a warm bun and some strawberries
for lunch, to be eaten as we parade the town and drink ale at
intervals.

* * * * *

Do tell me how things are about my pictures. I see they are
advertised, and if they sell I want my share of the profits. Send
me one of those that are in the market, after taking off the
heavy card.

Love to all, and the best of luck.

Ever your
LU.

HOTEL D'UNIVERSE, TOURS, June 17, 1870.

DEAREST PEOPLE,--Our wanderings have begun again, and here we are
in this fine old city in a cosey hotel, as independent and happy
as three old girls can be. We left Dinan Wednesday at 7 A.M.
Gaston got up to see us off,--a most unusual and unexpected
honor; also Mrs. B. and all the old ladies, whom we left
dissolved in tears.

We had a lovely sail down the river to St. Malo, where we
breakfasted at Hotel Franklin, a quaint old house in a flowery
corner. At twelve we went by rail to Le Mans,--a long trip,--and
arrived at 6 P.M. so tired that we went to bed in the moonlight
while a band played in the square before the hotel, and the
sidewalks before the café were full of people taking ices and
coffee round little tables.

Next morning we went to see the famous cathedral and had
raptures, for it is like a dream in stone. Pure Gothic of the
twelfth century, with the tomb of Berengaria, wife of Coeur de
Leon, stained glass of the richest kind, dim old chapels with
lamps burning, a gorgeous high altar all crimson and gold and
carmine, and several organs. Anything more lovely and divine I
never saw, for the arches, so light and graceful, seemed to soar
up one above the other like the natural curves of trees or the
spray of a great fountain. We spent a long time here and I sat
above in the quaint old chapel with my eyes and heart full, and
prayed a little prayer for my family. Old women and men knelt
about in corners telling their beads, and the priest was quietly
saying his prayers at the altar. Outside it was a pile of gray
stone, with towers and airy pinnacles full of carved saints and
busy rooks. I don't think we shall see anything finer anywhere.
It was very hot for there had been no rain for four months, so we
desired to start for town at 5 and get in about 8 as it is light
then.

We had a pleasant trip in the cool of the day, and found Tours a
great city, like Paris on a small scale. Our hotel is on the
boulevard, and the trees, fountains, and fine carriages make our
windows very tempting. We popped into bed early; and my bones are
so much better that I slept without any opium or anything,--a
feat I have not performed for some time.

This morning we had coffee and rolls in bed, then as it was a
fine cool day we dressed up clean and nice and went out for a
walk. At the post-office we found your letters of May 31, one
from Nan and Ma, and one from L. We were exalted, and went into
the garden and read them in bliss, with the grand cathedral right
before us. Cathedral St. Martin, twelfth century, with tomb of
Charles XIII.'s children, the armor of Saint Louis, fine pictures
of Saint Martin, his cloak, etc. May will tell you about it and I
shall put in a photograph, if I can find one. We are now--12
o'clock--in our pleasant room all round the table writing letters
and resting for another trip by and by.

The _Fête Dieu_ is on Monday,--very splendid,--and we shall then
see the cathedral in its glory. To-day a few hundred children
were having their first communion there, girls all in white, with
scarlet boys, crosses, candles, music, priests, etc. Get a
Murray, and on the map of France follow us to Geneva, _via_ St.
Malo, Le Mans, Tours, Amboise and Blois, Orleans, Nevers, Autun.
We may go to the Vosges instead of the Jura if Mrs. H. can go, as
A. wants to see her again. But we head for the Alps of some sort
and will report progress as we go.

My money holds out well so far, as we go second class.

_To her Father._

TOURS, June 20, 1870.

DEAR PAPA,--Before we go on to fresh "châteaux and churches new,"
I must tell you about the sights here in this pleasant, clean,
handsome old city. May has done the church for you, and I send a
photograph to give some idea of it. The inside is very beautiful;
and we go at sunset to see the red light make the gray walls
lovely outside and the shadows steal from chapel to chapel
inside, filling the great church with what is really "a dim
religious gloom." We wandered about it the other evening till
moonrise, and it was very interesting to see the people scattered
here and there at their prayers; some kneeling before Saint
Martin's shrine, some in a flowery little nook dedicated to the
infant Christ, and one, a dark corner with a single candle
lighting up a fine picture of the Mater Dolorosa, where a widow
all in her weeds sat alone, crying and praying. In another a sick
old man sat, while his old wife knelt by him praying with all her
might to Saint Gratien (the patron saint of the church) for her
dear old invalid. Nuns and priests glided about, and it was all
very poetical and fine, till I came to an imposing priest in a
first class chapel who was taking snuff and gaping, instead of
piously praying.

The _Fête Dieu_ was yesterday, and I went out to see the
procession. The streets were hung with old tapestry, and sheets
covered with flowers. Crosses, crowns, and bouquets were
suspended from house to house, and as the procession approached,
women ran out and scattered green boughs and rose-leaves before
the train. A fine band and a lot of red soldiers came first, then
the different saints on banners, carried by girls, and followed
by long trains of girls bearing the different emblems. Saint
Agnes and her lamb was followed by a flock of pretty young
children all in white, carrying tall white lilies that filled the
air with their fragrance.

"Mary our Mother" was followed by orphans with black ribbons
crossed on their breasts. Saint Martin led the charity boys in
their gray suits, etc. The Host under a golden canopy was borne
by priests in gorgeous rig, and every one knelt as it passed with
censors swinging, candles burning, boys chanting, and flowers
dropping from the windows. A pretty young lady ran out and set
her baby in a pile of green leaves in the middle of the street
before the Host, and it passed over the little thing who sat
placidly staring at the show and admiring its blue shoes. I
suppose it is a saved and sacred baby henceforth.

It was a fine pageant and quite touching, some of it; but as
usual, I saw something funny to spoil the solemnity. A very fat
and fine priest, who walked with his eyes upon his book and sung
like a pious bumblebee, suddenly destroyed the effect by rapping
a boy over the head with his gold prayer-book, as the black sheep
strayed a little from the flock. I thought the old saint swore
also.

The procession went from the cathedral to Charlemagne's Tower, an
old, old relic, all that is left of the famous church which once
covered a great square. We went to see it, and the stones looked
as if they were able to tell wonderful tales of the scenes they
had witnessed all these hundreds of years. I think the
"Reminiscences of a Rook" would be a good story, for these old
towers are full of them, and they are long-lived birds.

AMBOISE, THE GOLDEN LION,
Tuesday, June 21, 1870.