sanctuary, "Corambé ceased to dwell in it. The dryads and the cherubim deserted
it," and it seemed unreal. The temple was destroyed with great care, and the
garlands and shells were buried under the tree.[22]
Louisa Alcott's romantic period opened at fifteen, when she began to write
poetry, keep a heart journal, and wander by moonlight, and wished to be the
Bettine of Emerson, in whose library she foraged; wrote him letters which were
never sent; sat in a tall tree at midnight; left wild flowers on the doorstep of her
master; sang Mignon's song under his window; and was refined by her choice of
an idol. Her diary was all about herself.
If she looked in the glass at her long hair and well-shaped head, she tried to keep
down her vanity; her quick tongue, moodiness, poverty, impossible longings,
made every day a battle until she hardly wished to live, only something must be
done, and waiting is so hard. She imagined her mind a room in confusion which
must be put in order; the useless thought swept out; foolish fancies dusted away;
newly furnished with good resolutions. But she was not a good housekeeper;
cobwebs got in, and it was hard to rule. She was smitten with a mania for the
stage, and spent most of her leisure in writing and acting plays of melodramatic
style ad high-strung sentiment, improbable incidents, with no touch of common
life or sense of humor, full of concealments and surprises, bright dialogues, and
lofty sentiments. She had much dramatic power and loved to transform herself
into Hamlet and declaim in mock heroic style. From sixteen to twenty-three was
her apprenticeship to life. She taught, wrote for the papers, did housework for
pay as a servant, and found sewing a pleasant resource because it was
tranquillizing, left her free, and set her thoughts going.