very good one. The bas-relief by Walton Ricketson, her dear sculptor friend, is most interesting and has many admirers. Ricketson has also made a bust of Mr. Alcott for the Concord Library, which is exceedingly good, much liked by the family, and so far as I know, by all who have seen it. Of the photographs of Miss Alcott only two or three are in the least satisfactory, notably the full length one made by Warren many years ago, and also one by Allen and Rowell. speaking of her pictures she once said: "When I don't look like the tragic muse, I look like a smoky relic of the Boston fire." Mr. Ricketson is now at work upon a bust of her, a photograph of which, from the clay, accompanies this article. In a letter to me in reply to one written after I had seen the bust in his studio at Concord, Mr. Ricketson writes:

In

"I feel deeply the important task I have to do in making this portrait, since it is to give form and expression to the broad love of humanity, the fixed purpose to fulfil her mission, the womanly dignity, physical beauty, and queenly presence which were so perfectly combined in our late friend, and all so dominated by a fine intellectuality. To do this and satisfy a public that has formed somewhat an idea of her personal appearance is indeed a task worthy of the best effort. I certainly have some advantages to start with. The medallion from life modelled at Nonquitt in 1886, and at that time considered the best likeness of her, is invaluable, as the measurements are all accurate. I also have access to all the photographs, etc., of the family, and the criticisms of her sister, nephews, and friends, and my long and intimate acquaintance. feel this to be the most important work I have as yet attempted. I intend to give unlimited time to it, and shall not consider it completed until the family and friends are fully satisfied. The success of the bust of the father leads me to hope for the same result in the one of his beloved daughter."

I

Miss Alcott always took a warm interest in Mr. Elwell, and assisted

him towards his education in art in early life.

Miss Alcott had a keen sense of humor, and her friends recall with delight her sallies of wit and caustic descriptions of the School of Philosophy, the "unfathomable wisdom," the "metaphysical pyrotechnics," the strange vagaries of some of the devotees. She would sometimes enclose such nonsense rhymes as these to her intimate friends:

"Philosophers sit in their sylvan hall
And talk of the duties of man,
Of Chaos and Cosmos, Hegel and Kant,
With the Oversoul well in the van;
All on their hobbies they amble away,
And a terrible dust they make;
Disciples devout both gaze and adore,

As daily they listen, and bake!

The "sylvan hall" was, as I know from bitter experience while attending the sessions of the School of Philosophy, the hottest place in historic old Concord.

Sometimes Miss Alcott would bring her nonsense rhymes or "jingles," as she called them, to the club, and read at our pleasant club-teas, amid shouts of merriment followed by heartiest applause, such clever bits as the following:

A WAIL UTTERED IN THE WOMAN'S CLUB.
God bless you, merry ladies,
May nothing you dismay,
As you sit here at ease and hark
Unto my dismal lay.

Get out your pocket-handkerchiefs,

Give o'er your jokes and songs, Forget awhile your Woman's Rights, And pity author's wrongs.

There is a town of high repute,

Where saints and sages dwell,
Who in these latter days are forced
To bid sweet peace farewell;

For all their men are demigods, —
So rumor doth declare, -
And all the women are De Staels,
And genius fills the air.

So eager pilgrims penetrate

To their most private nooks,

Storm their back doors in search of news
And interview their cooks,
Worship at every victim's shrine,

See haloes round their hats,
Embalm the chickweed from their yards
And photograph their cats.

There's Emerson, the poet wise,
That much-enduring man,
Sees Jenkinses from every clime,
But dodges when he can.
Chaos and Cosmos down below

Their waves of trouble roll,
While safely in his attic locked,
He woos the Oversoul.

And Hawthorne, shy as any maid,
From these invaders fled
Out of the window like a wraith,
Or to his tower sped-

Till vanishing from this rude world,
He left behind no clue,
Except along the hillside path
The violet's tender blue.

Channing scarce dares at eventide
To leave his lonely lair;
Reporters lurk on every side

And hunt him like a bear.

Quaint Thoreau sought the wilderness,
But callers by the score

Scared the poor hermit from his cell,
The woodchuck from his door.

There's Alcott, the philosopher,
Who labored long and well
Plato's Republic to restore,
Now keeps a free hotel;

Whole boarding-schools of gushing girls
That hapless mansion throng,
And Young Men's Christian U-ni-ons,
Full five-and-seventy strong.

Alas! what can the poor souls do?
Their homes are homes no more;
No washing-day is sacred now;
Spring cleaning's never o'er.
Their doorsteps are the stranger's camp,
Their trees bear many a name,
Artists their very nightcaps sketch;
And this and this, is fame!

Deluded world! your Mecca is
A sand-bank glorified;

The river that you seek and sing
Has "skeeters," but no tide.

The gods raise "garden-sarse" and milk,
And in these classic shades
Dwell nineteen chronic invalids
And forty-two old maids.

Some April shall the world behold
Embattled authors stand,
With steel-pens of the sharpest tip
In every inky hand.

Their bridge shall be a bridge of sighs,

Their motto, "Privacy";
Their bullets like that Luther flung
When bidding Satan flee.

Their monuments of ruined books,
Of precious wasted days,
Of tempers tried, distracted brains,
That might have won fresh bays.
And round this sad memorial,

Oh, chant for requiem:
Here lie our murdered geniuses;
Concord has conquered them.

From the time that the success of "Little Women" established her reputation as a writer, until the last day of her life, her absolute devotion to her family continued. Her mother's declining years were soothed with every care and comfort that filial love could bestow; she died in Louisa's arms, and for her she performed all the last offices of affection, - no stranger hands touched the beloved form. The most beautiful of her poems was written at this time, in memory of her mother, and was called "Transfiguration." A short time after her mother's death, her sister May, who had married Mr. Ernest Nieriker, a Swiss gentleman, living in Paris, died after the birth of her child. Of this Louisa wrote me in reply to a letter of sympathy:

"I mourn and mourn by day and night for May. Of all the griefs in my life, and I have had many, this is the bitterest. I try so hard to be brave, but the tears will come, and I go off and cry and cry; the dear little baby may comfort Ernest, but what can comfort us? May called her two years of marriage perfect happiness, and said: If I die when baby is born, don't mourn, for I have had in these two years more happiness than comes to many in a lifetime.' The baby is named for me, and is to be given to me as my very own. What a sad but precious legacy!

The little golden-haired Lulu was brought to her by its aunt, Miss Sophie Nieriker, and she was indeed a great comfort to Miss Alcott for the remainder of her life.

In 1885, Miss Alcott took a furnished house on Louisburg Square in Boston, and although her health was still very delicate she anticipated much quiet happiness in the family life. In the autumn and winter she suffered much from indigestion, sleeplessness, and general debility. Early in December she told me how very much she was suffering, and added: "I mean if possible to keep up

until after Christmas, and then I am sure I shall break down." When I went to carry her a Christmas gift, she showed me the Christmas tree, and seemed so bright and happy that I was not prepared to hear soon after that she had gone out to the restful, quiet of a home in Dunreath Place, at the Highlands, where she could be tenderly cared for under the direction of her friend, Dr. Rhoda Lawrence, to whom she dedicated one of her books. She was too weak to bear even the pleasurable excitement of her own home, and called Dr. Lawrence's house, "Saint's Rest." The following summer she went with Dr. Lawrence to Princeton, but on her return in the autumn her illness took an alarming character, and she was unable to see her friends, and only occasionally the members of her family. On her last birthday, November 29th, she received many gifts, and as I had remembered her, the following characteristic letter came to me, the last but one that she sent me :

"Thanks for the flowers and for the kind

thought that sent them to the poor old exile. I had seven boxes of flowers, two baskets, and three

plants, forty gifts in all, and at night I lay in a

room that looked like a small fair, with its five tables covered with pretty things, borders of posies, and your noble roses towering in state over all the rest. That red one was so delicious that I revelled in it like a big bee, and felt it might almost do for a body -- I am so thin now. Everybody was very kind, and my solitary day was made happy by so much love. Illness and exile have their bright side, I find, and I hope to come out in the spring a gay old butterfly. My rest-and-milk-cure is doing well, and I am an obedient oyster since I have learned that patience and time are my best helps."

In February, 1887. Mr. Alcott was taken with what proved to be his last illness. Louisa knew that the end was near, and as often as she was able came into town to see him. On Thursday morning, March 2d, I chanced to be at the house, where I had gone to inquire for Mr. Alcott and Louisa. While talking with Mrs. Pratt, her sister, the door opened, and Louisa, who had come in from the Highlands to see her father, entered. I had not seen her for months, and the sight of her thin, wan face and sad look shocked me, and I felt for the first time that she was hopelessly ill. After a few affectionate words of greeting