I had now lived more than two years at the farm. I, the pale city lad, had grown brown under the sun's warm kisses. I fancy I was not rosy, but the bright eyes and the clear complexion, free from speck or blemish, gave the certain indications of health. I had tasted of the actual farm work. I had planted beans, potatoes and melons. I had hoed corn, and on my knees weeded, in the broiling sun, the young onions. I had driven horse to plough, and side by side with others, trying to hoe my row with them, disputed, discussed social questions and ideas, and chaffed one another on our personal gifts and peculiarities while working together in the different groups. I had not hewed wood, but I had chopped brush. I had yoked and driven the oxen, and the first time had a difficulty with them because I tried to yoke the off ox on the nigh side; and when I graduated into the greenhouse group I learned all the mysteries of the care of plants, potting, transplanting, making leaf-mould and doing spade and rake work to perfection; and in the laying out of beds and walks did a full share of shovel-work on the sandy and gravelly soil, and drove the dump-cart.
Oh, the independence of it! To be able to do everything, and with love of it, knowing no high or low of work—all of it honor, and no shame in any of it! It is the surroundings that develop the manhood. Was I working for myself? Was I working for any other man or person? No, it was for all of us that I did it. Did I and we not have the example of great minds and greater hearts? We did. One day whilst the shop was erecting, our mason, who was on the roof building the chimney, was waiting for his helper, who had not returned from his dinner or had been called away; and as he wanted bricks very much, I carried some hodsful up the ladder to him in the genuine Emeraldic fashion.
(Arise not from shades profound, to frown on me, Abraham, thou honest "Rail Splitter!" Arise not, warlike, Ulysses, thou "Tanner." Hide thyself away! Shake not thy cottony locks at me, thou pale-faced "Bobbin Boy!" Be not too jealous of your unique titles. I shall never aspire to so glorious a one as "Hod Carrier." I have not earned it. I did it but once, and shall never do it again! Rest easy!)
And now, at eventide, whilst the Solons of the little commonwealth were making laws, solving problems and building defences against the common enemy—the wolf of penury and hunger—I was sitting on the steps or on the low window-sills at the Eyry, meditating and thinking ever of the beautiful things with which I was surrounded; thinking of the glowworms I found in the path to Cow Island, their wonderful beauty, and how like illuminated pearls were their tiny lamps, and when I touched them how they rolled themselves into a coil that resembled the pin of pearls my mother wore on her bosom, only they were more beautiful; thinking that their lights translated into words were even more beautiful than their phosphorescent hues, for they said, "Come to me, my love!"
I was thinking of the bobolinks that twittered and sung, and seemed to tumble upward as well as downward in the air over the waving grass on the meadow; or I heard behind in the dim oak woods the whip-lash sound of the notes of the whippoorwill, repeated a hundred times on the air, while the round face of the moon looked down and made the shadows of the trees and the forest grow deeper and darker. Now and then I heard, when all was still, from his nesting-place, the brave yet delicate notes of the song sparrow, singing in his dreams from out a happy, overflowing heart. Dear little fluff of feathers!
I was thinking of the brood of young partridges I scared in the woods, and how like a flash, mysteriously and totally, they disappeared in the underbrush. I was thinking of the tiny newts and wonderful creatures I found in the shallow water in the meadow ditch. I was thinking that if the saracenas were in bloom I would go to find some of them on the morrow; or if the brilliant cardinals were, I would hunt for them at the brookside; or if there were any yellow violets to be had I wanted to find them, as I had found many varieties.
Then I turned my head and listened more earnestly to the music or to the conversation in the parlor, of inspired men and women, talking in low, conversational tones, with now and then a spice of wit, on art, religion, science or the lives of great painters, musicians, artists and reformers. Or I was looking to see if the "Northern Cross" had appeared among the constellations above the horizon. Or maybe I heard George W. Curtis, who had come to visit his old teachers, singing the "Erl King" or "Good-night to Julia" or plaintive "Kathleen Mavourneen" in his inimitable way. Perhaps I was deep in social science or restudyiug some of Fourier's pleasant fancies, such as the rivalries of groups of nice children with his little hordes of brats and "rushers"—to use a modern word—and how in nature's scheme their different talents so balanced one another as to make complete harmony.
I was thinking of the big boulders that join and make a hole we called "the cave," over which Hawthorne's fancy made the apostle Eliot preach to the Indians, giving it the name of "Eliot's Pulpit," and describing it afterward so prettily in his "Blithedale Romance"; a book of which Emerson speaks, and truly, as "that disagreeable story," and of some of the sketches in it as "quite unworthy of his genius." And I was thinking of the retired little dell in the far "Wisconsin Lot," where doubtless he and others have taken their volumes and note-books, writing and reading to the music of the hum of the bees, the sighing pines and the redbreasts.
I was thinking of the unfortunate humanity who lived outside of our charmed circle, and how little they knew of the magnificent future the infinite Father has prepared for them and their descendants, and how from the beginning the plan has been coördinate with man's help to his brother man and his sister woman; and my whole soul was penetrated, even as it is now, with pity for the blindness, mental and physical, that cannot see how to use the gifts the Infinite holds out, patiently waiting for us to take from his indulgent hands. I was thinking how much, how very much, of all our suffering comes from human ignorance only.
I heard all the songs of nature beside the birds. In the spring I heard the toads and frogs and turtles making merriment in their little sitting-rooms in the pools of water in low places. In the summer I heard the locusts sing and the lazy croak of bullfrog, bearing the relation of trombone in the orchestra of nature to the other musicians, whilst the fireflies were dancing in mid-air all around him—he winking at them with those wondrous projecting eyes. In the autumn the cricket was my favorite, and he was kind enough at times to come into our musical parlor to rival Mary and Jennie and Helen. But in the winter it was only the kindly birds that came to us—sweet chickadee and the talkative crows. None of us injured the birds. I do not remember ever seeing a gun on the place. Thus went the seasons—spring, summer, autumn, winter.
I loved the daily round of life. All were kind to me. I was well mentally and physically. I was in the bud of youth. I was like the pink rhodoras in spring, callow of leaf or fruit but brightly covered with promising blossoms. There remained one thing for me—to know I was happy. Did I know it? Yes, I did. I realized it then as now. I was not a victim of unconscious joy, to awaken to it at some future period. It was not to me a dream. The cup was full! I was truly happy!
I do not know when or where it was first announced, but the announcement came like a clap of thunder from a clear sky. Some one was going to leave us! Who? Was it the "Archon" or the "Professor"? Certainly this was not expected; but would it be strange if some of the leaders, feeling too much the pressure and the burden of the financial and executive business of the society, should grow weary, depart, and leave their places unfilled forever? Was it any one of the grumblers or the known discontented or disconcerted ones? No, it was no less than Peter, the "General"! Why, if the elm tree in the yard of the Hive had walked off in the night it would not have caused more talk or greater consternation. Could it be possible?
From that day to this I have wondered how that man could have had such a hold on our hearts. There was not a handsome feature in him. He had a large but uneven forehead. His eyes were small, grayish-blue and deepset. His nose was homely, his teeth were discolored, and he was ungainly and awkward. His best feature was his height, but he stooped in his shoulders, and his dress when about his work was of the plainest description. His baize jacket and slipshod shoes did not become him.
Ever since then I have believed in the effect of virtue and kindness. He was a living sermon—nay, a hundred sermons to me. He was "patient, long-suffering and kind."
A spontaneous regret came from all. Some of the women, who certainly could not be accused of any amatory love for him, shed tears to think that he should go, for he was full of kindness to them. Constantly in contact with their department, he was as gentle as a child, never complaining and yet full of work. Industrious as the day was long, he seemed so like a portion of the very atmosphere of the house, and of the life, that it did not seem that he could be away and the Association be as it was.
Themoraleto the fact of the General's departure also disturbed our people. He was discouraged at the attempt at realization of the new order at Brook Farm. As long as all clung together there seemed to be hope; but the first break was dangerous to our well-being, dangerous to our existence.
Mr. Dwight had gone to New York to deliver lectures on music. When he went away all was enthusiasm, all was harmony. The great loss by fire had shaken no one's faith in the principles or the organization, and as yet the balance of probabilities had not been made or adjusted in men's minds. The word was then to go on at all cost. When he returned he found discussion of means, doubts and fears, uppermost everywhere. As a truth the Association had not prospered financially. Beginning with no real capital, and mortgaged to the debts of the former "Community," it had come to a point where without more means or more money in ready cash it was very difficult to see how it could go on.
The change of social atmosphere in so short a time grated on the sensitive soul of the man of music, and it was my fortune to be present at a general meeting of all the Association where I heard his remarks. He began by stating, as I have done, that when he went away all was harmony and peace. All seemed united by bonds deep and strong; by a common purpose and for a common end. We were all striving for a worthy object, a higher, nobler life than that which surrounded us.
He had been away from this quiet, cheerful, peaceful and just life, among the noise, dust and discord of a great, unwieldy city, and when there he had looked forward to his coming home to this devoted little band with the greatest possible pleasure. He had expected to find them as harmonious and as united as when he left. He trod the precious soil and found all external things glowing in beauty. He mounted the hill, and there came two beautiful white doves flying close to him as he walked on, circling around and around his head and seeming to rejoice in his coming. He regarded it as a symbol of the unity and peace that were with us, as well as a token of welcome.
But when he came to talk with the members, all was doubt, all was distrust. What could it mean? It filled his heart with sad forebodings! Why could we not be as before? Why doubt? why distrust? why not push on? Certainly there would be a way opened for us! It could not be that the years of devotion to one another and to this just cause and just life could end thus! And in pleading tones born out of the depths of his heart, and living sentences to which I can do no manner of justice, he waxed eloquent, and all could not but be touched and moved with his words.
How beautiful it is in looking back to this time, when coming events were casting their sad shadows before them, to think that no one took the opposite side, and that none among all the number argued before us that we had met with a miserable failure; that no one was ready with a rude word to break the bonds of friendship and to use his eloquence to destroy our habit of life, our trust in one another, our faith in God and the eternal justice of His providence, or to hasten in any way the disruption of the institution; and that in those trying hours the strong ties of friendship, love and daily communion were uppermost. All felt that we wished to keep on with our labor, and that Mr. Dwight only spoke the wishes of all hearts. But the inevitable mathematics of finance were against us.
The "Poet," as the young folks called Mr. Dwight, wished that we could manage it somehow, in some manner. He himself would go away. He would go where his services could command higher fees. He would give them to the Association for the privilege only of being sometimes on the domain, and finding there others whom he loved, working still for their sublime purposes.
These well-expressed desires, though availing nothing in the way of adding money to the treasury, stimulated the hearts anew to good fellowship, and helped to keep up the activity of the place to the last. It seems a wonder to me that, in spite of all the changes that took place after this time, as one and another departed, the industry of the place was still kept in decent working order.
It was on the third of March that the fire took place, and the spring and summer were fast passing away; the beautiful summer—beautiful ever with its fields of waving grass and its wild flowers, its sunlight and moonlight glow, its varied charms of growth and verdure; especially beautiful to us, the young, who watched one another's countenances glowing with health, innocence and pleasure; who clasped hands together and danced with nimble feet; and saw the lithe young forms grow fairer and more womanly and more manly. With the frank outpourings of friendship and confidence; with the lavishness of mutual praise in youth, we enjoyed and joined in merry badinage, in miffs and flattery. The starry nights echoed our young voices singing in the clear air. There was a burden of care taken from us, for was not the Association our god-father? Had it not also taken from our parents the dread anxieties that fall to most of common lot? And while we were there we would be happy, and when the Association broke up, if it ever did, would we not unite somewhere again?
Certainly I never heard any one of us doubt, whether young or old, gray of beard or smooth of face, that associated life and doctrines would succeed: of this I am sure. We reasoned that if Brook Farm Association failed, some other would not. Some new ones would be formed. The partings were all temporary; and when we parted, it was with cheerful hearts. It was like the going forth of a family in the morning to meet again in the evening; no sad farewells, no heart-breakings.
In a few years all of those engaged in this most interesting experiment will be gathered to their fathers. No one may ever write as consecutive a story of the farm life as I have done; and, with the much that is superficial in my narrative, let me add my convictions of the leading men and women in this movement. They were, in the highest sense, Christians—not technically bound to creeds, but their hearts and intellects were filled to overflowing with the good precepts that are proclaimed as the foundation, aside from technical beliefs, of the Christian doctrine; to love their neighbors as themselves; to do good to all; to seek first righteousness in life; to uphold honesty and honest dealing inallearthly relations; to do unto others as we would they should do unto us; to teach honor to parents; to make all men love one another; to inspire a trust in God as a provident Father who stands ready to reconcile all conflicts, with the way open and plain for us, thus doing away with infidelity, unbelief, narrowness of mind and spirit.
The doctrine they taught above all others was thesolidarity of the race. This was ever repeated. It was their religion that the human race was one creation, bound together by indissoluble ties, links stronger than iron and unbreakable. It was one body. It should be of one heart, one brain, one purpose. Whenever one of its members suffered all suffered. When there was a criminal all had part in his crime; when there was a debauchee, all partook in his debasement; when there was one diseased all were affected by it; when one was poor, all bore some of the sting of his poverty. If any one took shelter behind his possessions, wretchedness, poverty and disease found him out.
Ever is Lazarus at the king's gate haunting him, and he cannot avoid it. At his banquets the ghosts of the wronged appear to him. Hollow-eyed women and children point the finger of scorn at him, and phantoms in his dreams shriek out at him, "Where is thy brother?" And he has no excuse but the cowardly question, "Am I my brother's keeper?" His children inherit the emanations from his cowardly soul and will not rise up to call him blessed. His mind is not at ease, because the atmosphere of envy is all around him; he knowsheis the cause of evil thoughts, and that he holds his position by keeping comfort away from many around him, and his fine surroundings become to him as tinsel and dross. Dyspepsia,ennuiand weariness of spirit claim him. He is a poverty-haunted coward, ashamed that he is so; and, saddest of all, he is not a Christian. He does not believe that if he seeks the kingdom of God, which means only to do aright, all things of material beauty will be added to him, purifying, comforting, sustaining him, strengthening him, glorifying him beyond his present power to dream of.
But the Brook Farmers did. They believed that the Infinite Power ordained social laws so universal and equitable that the fulfilment of them would make all unqualifiedly happy, and that it is the mission of this race of beings to be attached to this earth, to this universe, until their happy human destiny is accomplished, which destiny must be forall, otherwise the Infinite would be partially and not wholly good and just.
I do not say that all men are conscious of this as I have pictured it; but the burdens are lying heavily on their souls and bodies, and they can be truly happy only when they are taken off from them. Human nature is too buoyant, too elastic, to be conscious of their pressure all of the time; but often, in every soul, is the keen perception that there must be an accounting somewhere, sometime, for all the injustice and wrong done to any one and to every one, and it brings the "dread hereafter" uncomfortably close to their daily lives.
It is too early yet to judge of the result of the work of the Brook Farm socialists. They were progressively ahead of their race. They lived before their time. They existed in the future as well as in the present and the future will be their judge; but these are my conclusions justified by actual contact, seeing these men and women under every variety of circumstances of daily life, for the full two and a half years of my actual sojourn at the Farm. The high ideal they carried as their standard lifted them over many of the littlenesses and annoyances of daily life without a disturbing thought.
I find in theHarbingerof December 20, 1845, one of the very few special allusions to Brook Farm life, and it is so much to the point that I copy it entire:—
"We speak no less for the whole associative movement in this country than for ourselves when we beseech our friends who are looking upon our operations not to judge of our principles or our purposes by any immediate results which they may have witnessed. The question is often asked of us whether our present mode of life answers our expectations—whether Association is found to be valuable in practice as it seems to be correct in theory, and the like. But all such inquiries betray an ignorance of the actual condition of the enterprise. They suppose the organizations which have gone into effect in different parts of the country are true specimens of the plans of Association. This is far from being the case. We do not profess to be able to present a true picture of associative life. We cannot give the remotest idea of the advantages which the combined order possesses over the ordinary arrangements of society.
"The benefits we now actually enjoy are of another character. The life we now lead, though, to a hasty and superficial observer surrounded with so great imperfections and embarrassments, is far superior to what we have been able to attain under the most favorable circumstances in civilization. There is a freedom from the frivolities of fashion, from arbitrary restrictions, and from the frenzy of competition: we meet our fellow-men in more hearty, sincere and genial relations; kindred spirits are not separated by artificial conventional barriers; there is more personal independence and a wider sphere for its exercise; the soul is warmed in the sunshine of a true social equality; we are not brought into the rough and disgusting contact with uncongenial persons which is such a genuine source of misery in the common intercourse of society; there is a greater variety, of employment, a more constant demand for the exertion of all the faculties, and a more exquisite pleasure in effort, from the consciousness that we are not working for personal ends, but for a holy principle.
"And even the external sacrifices, which the pioneers in every enterprise are obliged to make, are not without a sort of romantic charm, which effectually prevents us from enjoying the luxuries of Egypt, though we should be blessed with neither the manna nor the quails which once cheered a table in the desert So that for ourselves we have reason to be content. We are conscious of a happiness we never knew until we embarked in this career. A new strength is given to our arms, a new fire enkindles our souls.
"But great as may be our satisfactions of this nature, they do not proceed from the actual application of associative principles to outward arrangements. The time has not yet come for that. The means have not been brought together to attempt the realization of the associative theory, even on the humblest scale. At present, then, we are only preparing the way for a better order; we are gathering materials that we hope one day we may use with effect; if otherwise, they will not be lost; they will help those who come after us, and accomplish what they were intended for in the designs of Providence. No association as yet has the number of persons, or the amount of capital, to make a fair experiment of the principles of attractive industry. They are all deficient in material resources, in edifices, in machinery, and, above all, in floating capital; and although in their present state they may prove a blessing to the individuals concerned in them, such as the whole earth has not to give, they are not prepared to exhibit that demonstration of the superior benefits of associative life which will at once introduce a new era and install humanity in the position for which it was created.
"But, brothers, patience and hope! We know what we are working for, we know that the truth of God is on our side, that he has no attributes that can favor the existing order of fraud, oppression, carnage and consequent wretchedness. We may be sure of the triumph of our cause. The grass may grow over our graves before it will be accomplished; but as certain as God reigns, will the dominion of justice and truth be established in the order of society. Every plant which the Heavenly Father has not planted will be plucked up, and the earth will yet rejoice in the greenness and beauty of the garden of God."
These are George Ripley's words. Could any one add a word to improve these splendid paragraphs!
I am now to chronicle the last scene in our history, and I know not how to do it, for of all the events of the life it is to me the most dreamy and unreal. The figures of our drama flit before me like shadows. It was like a knotted skein slowly unravelling. It was as the ice becomes water, and runs silently away. It was as the gorgeous, roseate cloud lifts itself up, and then changes in color and hides beyond the horizon. It was as a carriage and traveller fade from sight on the distant road. It was like the coming of sundown and twilight in a clear day. It was like the apple blossoms dropping from the trees. It was as the herds wind out to pasture. It was like a thousand and one changing and fading things in nature.
"It was not discord, it was music stopped."
Who was next to break away from the charm of the life I know not; but when the autumnal season came I was summoned to a family council and advised that I should begin a new occupation where I could at least earn my subsistence. As in duty bound, I acquiesced, and in a few days bade farewell to the Brook Farm life.
I saw no tears shed when I left, but I was sorry to leave my blue tunic behind, it was so comfortable. I left, but it was only my outward self that was gone, not my sympathies or hopes. Behind were family and devoted friends. It was still my home to return to, as it would be for an indefinite period.
For two years and a half I had worn the tunic of the community, and the "swallow tail" and "civilized rig" I put on for my departure transposed my appearance so much that some of the society did not at first know me. With my parents' blessing, I entered on the rudiments of the professional life I have ever since followed, and took the West Roxbury omnibus for Boston, the same I had taken two years and a half before to go to the farm.
The succeeding Saturday night found me at home again. How pleasant the greeting from Willard, Katie and Louise; from Charlie, Abby and Edgar; from Anna and Dolly—from all, old and young! The "Archon" almost screamed when he saw me, I was so "stunning" in his eyes, and poked some of his fun at me. No marked change had taken place. TheHarbingerwas printed as usual, and only one or two persons had gone.
Every Saturday night I returned to the "Phalanx," but soon the shoemakers found occupation elsewhere and their seats were empty. Then the printers went, as theHarbingerwas transferred to New York. At last the shop was closed, the cattle were sold, and all the industry ceased. I came and went but did not see the actors go, and am glad I did not see the "Archon"'. take his leave, or the many bright faces I had loved so well.
The Poet lingered near. In Boston he started theJournal of Music, and at the Eyry lingered for a while a sweet enchantress, and the spirits of song and music held their revels there. So, also, lingered at "the Hive" some sweet faces and loving hearts besides those of my kin. The greenhouse, where I had spent so much of my time, was closed—the plants all gone. Up the rafters ran the vines I helped to plant, but when the winter came, drear and cold, only a few persons remained on the domain. The dining hall echoed to my voice in its emptiness, and the little reading room at the Hive was where we now assembled at meals.
I wandered around and looked into the empty rooms. I cannot say I felt as sad as I would to-day. Every spot was connected with some little event, but the events were usually of such a cheerful and pleasant nature that I could not be depressed, and a large portion of my intimates were still near me in the city or neighborhood. We could muster a goodly number at call and we tried to keep alive the good work for the "cause" with meetings, social and theoretical. But no longer the stage brought its loads of visitors to the Hive door. Over the hills and the meadows no more resounded the morning horn echoing far and far away, or Miss Ripley's high voice calling "Alfred! Alfred!" who acted as major-domo in the absent General's place.
No more came down from the distant houses school lads and lasses, and the long, tridaily procession of young and old had ceased forever. The din of the kitchen was stopped, and the merry brogue of Irish John was silenced. No more rushed the blue tunics for the mail when the coach came in—alas, it came no more! The fields remained as when last cropped, and if we went to the Cottage no merry sound of music came from the school room. We mounted the stairs without meeting the classic face or the elastic step and figure of the Professor or his fair sister, and in vain did we look for the concourse of books where once he wielded his modest pen and translated his German "lieder"
No more mounted in air the beautiful doves that circled and tumbled in their flight—mydoves, that would come at my call and alight on my hands, head and shoulders, and scramble for the corn I held out to them in my palms. Sunday after Sunday, week after week, I spent in the Hive. I looked out of the window but ventured not to go to the Eyry, for there the music had finally ceased; or if the spirits sang their dirges in those classic walls, my dim ears did not hear them.
Mr. Ripley's books had gone to swell Rev. Theodore Parker's library. Were they surrendered without a pang? I will tell you. "Fanny," said Mr. Ripley, seeing his valued books departing, "I can now understand how a man would feel if he could attend his own funeral." They have been placed in the Boston City Library by the death and last testament of the later proprietor. The flowers I had watered and tended passed into the hands and greenhouse of the translator of "Consuelo." Those who owned any private effects or furniture took them away.
The Pilgrim House, never beautiful, and barren in its immediate surroundings, was entirely deserted. The Hive was my home; and when the warm sun, looking through the barren grape vine into the dining room window, melted the light snow of early spring, and awoke the tender grass into new growth and verdancy, and the remaining poultry warmed themselves by its rays, nestling together by the doorways, as the melting snow dripped drop by drop from the house top—the farm looked beautiful still.
In some of our young hearts, with the coming of early summer, awoke a yearning for one more meeting at the old place; and so we gathered the young people from far and near for one more good time, for one more communion. With what pleasure I recall those few hours. How happy we were! How social and loving and dear we were to one another! In the many years passed since then, there is no red-letter day like that one. We were about twenty in number. There were fourteen of us between the ages of fifteen and twenty-one years. The remainder were older. We filled a table in the reading room. Little we cared if we sat crowded close together, for we chose our mates. Some were pupils of the school, the rest were youths of the Association.
In the afternoon we wandered once more in the beautiful pine woods. We sang once more the "Silver Moon" together as we roved about, or sat on the big boulder on the knoll at the foot of the lightning-struck tree. We recounted old times and seasons; we cracked our merry jokes and ate our simple treat, and then parted. In a few days the wide world was between us, and forever. Some went East, and some West, one to Port-au-Prince, and others to different villages and towns in New England. Of the number, four remained in Boston; I was one of them.
Reader, my reminiscences are told, but not all told! They are like the sultan's story that was to last a thousand years. To all but the one interested there was an unending sameness in it, but to that one, it was his life.
It is natural to wish to know of the writer what became of the persons who formed this little band of devotees. I can but give a meagre sketch in reply, for want of room.
When Mr. Ripley left Brook Farm he was poor. The experiment had cost him money, years of toil and made debts for which he felt responsible. He determined to pay them. As yet the way was not open. TheHarbingerwas changed in form and lived less than two years in its new location, and during a temporary illness of the editor its publication was suspended. Mr. Ripley and wife taught school at Flatbush, L.I.
At the termination of theHarbingerhe immediately commenced writing for the New YorkTribune. Its pay roll indicates what he received May 5, 1849; it was $5 for the previous week's work. In July, same year, he was paid $10 per week; April 6, 1850, $15; Sept. 21, 1851, $25 per week. He wrote articles on all the living topics of the day, from the arrival of the last new singer to the death of the last criminal. Things trivial and non-important, grave and gay, of lasting import and the most ephemeral, all came under his pen.
He also wrote, either occasionally or regularly, for a dozen other periodicals. He was an early contributor toPutnam'sand from its commencement wrote forHarper's New Monthly. As editor associated with Mr. C.A. Dana he gave his time and best thought to the New American Cyclopedia, and the first two or three volumes of the series were edited solely by them. In 1871 his salary was raised to $75 per week. When the Cyclopedia was revised he was paid $250 per month for extra work on it. More than a million four hundred and sixty thousand volumes of the two editions have been sold, and a small royalty secured to the editors on each volume.
With prosperity Mr. Ripley never forgot his obligations. The old score of debt was wiped out and paid. He was free, and as a man of letters revelled in that which had been his youthful ideal.
When a student at Harvard College he wrote to his father, "I know that my peculiar habits of mind, imperfect as they are, strongly impel me to the path of intellectual effort; and if I am to be at any time of use to society or a satisfaction to myself or my friends, it will be in the way of some retired literary situation where a fondness for books will be more requisite than the busy, calculating mind of a man in the business part of the community." Thus was one of his youthful dreams fulfilled. His capacity for work seemed unbounded. "He gave all his time and all his energy to literary criticism, and spending on it, too, the full resources of a richly furnished mind and infusing into it the spirit of a broad and noble training."
He passed away July 4, 1880. A great concourse of people attended the obsequies. Distinguished men, divines, critics, scholars, editors, architects, scientists, journalists, publicists, artists and men of affairs were in the assembly. The pall-bearers were the president of Columbia College, the editor ofHarper's Weekly, an Italian professor, the editor of thePopular Science Monthly, the editor of the New YorkObserver, an eminent German lawyer, a distinguished college professor, a popular poet and the editor of theTribune.
His wife Sophia passed from this life nineteen years before him. The story of his romantic after marriage, and many details of his career from birth to death, will be found in Mr. O. B. Frothingham's "Life of George Ripley," told by his kindly biographer.
Deeply interested in his daily toil, thoroughly immersed in it body and brain, yet cheerfully responding to all calls on his unbounded stock of information and good nature, no one knows how often his mind wandered over the intervening distance and saw the old farm with its mingled incidents of pathos, philosophy and heroism, or what regrets were covered up; but the joking allusions he sometimes made to it when speaking of it to those who came to quiz him, were more than repaid to his few intimate friends when he opened his heart to them, and the earnestness of his spirit and the solemnity of his faith in the brotherhood of humanity shone forth. He unveiled to them that he did with undying faith still see in its ideas the elements of the true and heavenly society; that he carried deep down in his bosom intense love for those who were associated with him, and that if it had been founded at this later period, so much has the interest in, social problems increased, all the financial support needed would have been freely given.
His friend William Henry Channing urged him to write the story of BrookFarm, saying, "Whenwillyou tell it?"
His joking reply was, "When I reach my years of indiscretion!" He knew that the life wrote its own story.
Of the many dear ones I have known whose lives have added to my life faith and trust in the Divine Father and his plans for the good future of the human race; after years of thought and years of life, I give to Mr. Ripley—the leader, the daring man, the brave Christian heart, the torch bearer, himself the harbinger of the bright future of social justice—the first place, the highest seat, the noblest position among them all.
Mr. Ripley paid off the debts of the Community. I do not know all of them. There was an amount due to Hawthorne at one time, probably his original investment, which he growled about, and there was another due to one of the Brothers Morton, who built the Pilgrim House. I am indebted to his daughter, Miss Morton, for the statement that her father received from Mr. Ripley a check in payment of the Community debt to him. Calling her to his side and showing it to her, he said, "There, Hannah, there is an honest man!"
After the institution was incorporated the debts and responsibilities were shared by the incorporators and stock holders.
It has often been stated that it was the influence of Rev. WilliamEllery Channing that started the West Roxbury Community. His nephew,William Henry Channing, alluding to this in a letter to Rev. J. H..Noyes, author of the "History of American Socialisms," contradicts thestatement as follows:—
"Of course my uncle deeply sympathized with his younger friend's heroic effort, and wished all success to the movement, but he did not encourage it, so far as I can understand, for in his judgment he distrusted the prudence of the enterprise," etc. "But it was George Ripley, aided by his noble wife Sophia—it was George Ripley, and Ripley alone, who truly originated Brook Farm; and his should be the honor through all time. And a very high honor it will be sooner or later."
The head farmer, with his wife and family, who were so early in the experiment, spent many years in the quiet town of Concord, Massachusetts. It was he who gave Mr. Ripley courage in his work. He was practical, honest, brave, and had enough of poetry in his composition to take the dry edge off of his daily routine of toil. When ploughing the fields it was with regret he turned under the lovely wild flowers and the wild-rose bushes, and it often struck his fancy to transplant them from the fields to the roadside where they blessed the eyes of the wayfarer. Finally the heavenly voice called him and he went thitherward, deeply loved, honored and respected by all. Minot Pratt's name was a synonym of all that was pure, good and lovely. His wife survived him many years, but in May, 1891, she passed away at an advanced age, the last of the signers to the original agreement.
The ambitious "Professor" lives. The trenchant blade of his intellect is still keen. Sometimes it seems that to overcome obstacles is all with him. His wife was one of the "dear girls" of the Association. Method in business and masterly activity have wrung from fate a fortune, and the editorial and governmental offices he has held have been more than ably filled. Blessed with a charming family, deeply immersed in political as well as other writing, it would almost seem as if the olden days were forgotten by him, were it not that now and then he writes as he did shortly after Mr. Ripley's decease, as follows:—
"It is not too much to say that every person who was at Brook Farm for any length of time has ever since looked back to it with a feeling of satisfaction. The healthy mixture of manual and intellectual labor, the kindly and unaffected social relations, the absence of everything like assumptions or servility, the amusements, the discussions, the friendships, the ideal and poetical atmosphere which gave a charm to life—all these continue to create a picture toward which the mind turns back with pleasure as to something distant and beautiful not elsewhere met with amid the routine of this world."
Whatever may be said of the tone of the articles that come from his pen, their ability is unquestioned, and it is not a secret that in Mr. Ripley's judgment Charles A. Dana, of the New YorkSun, was the ablest editor in the world.
The "Poet," as we called him, as editor of Dwight'sJournal of Music, and also as critic, was deserving of especial credit for his services in musical culture. Earnest, refined, always endeavoring to do right, but strict in his pleasant criticisms, he pointed upward to higher ideals. Living alone in his latter years like a bachelor, he sought solace in his refined tastes with cultivated people. Married to Mary Bullard, the sweet singer of my story, kindred sympathies united them more firmly than marriage vows, but her early death deprived the world of one of the noblest and choicest of womanhood, and his life of its sweetest charm. He went abroad for a short trip, leaving her in full health and beauty; he returned—she had passed from mortal sight.
A number of the members, male and female, joined the Association in New Jersey near Red Bank—the North American Phalanx. There they renewed the social life and experiment, with such result as some other pen can tell.
It was about the time of the closing of the Brook Farm experiment that the "California fever" broke out, or the rush for the gold mines. Some of our theorists argued that the country was too poor for the establishment of the social organizations proposed, and that more wealth was needed. A number of the Brook Farmers went to the new country for gold. The gardener, Peter Klienstrup, was one. I am sorry to say that disappointment awaited him. A foreigner, and sensitive, partly deaf and past middle life, he was not the man for the country or the life. He died there poor. His charming, tuneful daughter, with the beautiful complexion and lovely rounded shoulders, did not long survive him. His wife survived, but one day I stood with only a few who knew her, at the door of an open tomb, and a strange thrill passed over me when one by my side said, as her body was placed within, "This is the last of her race—the family is extinct!"
The good, kind-hearted "General" sleeps within sound of the Pacific waves, for he, too, was one of the early Californians. And the Admiral, the pure-hearted, high-minded and keen-eyed Admiral, has long since laid down his burdens and his aspirations. And so also with many, too many for me here to recount. The two sisters that I have described with flowing hair, grew in loveliness to full womanly beauty and then passed to the angelic world.
Mr. Ryckman, surnamed the "Omniarch," reigns no more in this sphere.Peace to his memory.
The downfall of the Association was the wrecking of Irish John. He seemed homeless and aimless. The constant smiles on that remarkable face gave way to soberness profound. Old habits crept back upon him. He had a friend, one of our number, who took a kindly interest in him, but could not follow all his waywardness. He departed for New York, ostensibly for business. Not long after this his friend received a note from there in John's handwriting, saying that if he would send to a certain number and street he would find something for him. It was a trunk, and appeared to contain all of John's effects except the suit of clothes he had on. What end he made no one knows.
How grand it would be if the social fabric could keep and guard all its weak ones, surround them by influences that could prevent them from falling into evil ways, and bear them up until the end comes peacefully and naturally!
Marianne Ripley, Mr. Ripley's sister, the devoted soul who reigned over the Kitchen Group and cultivated the flowers on the terraces, spent her later hours in the West, and passed away at Madison, Wisconsin. John Allen, the firm preacher, has gone also. His little boy, who conveyed the small-pox to the farm, grew to manhood, and at an early age fought with Grant at Vicksburg, where he received the wound that caused his death.
The dear girl with the loud laugh is still here, but tears and sorrow have been in her cup. Her kind husband, one of our number, and some children are with the shadows; and the dimpled face of the black-haired girl with the Irish name, whose beauty took my young fancy, long ago joined the larger realm of beauty.
The house dog, Carlo, whom everybody knew, grew rapidly old when the Association broke up. I never saw such a change. It seemed as though regretful remembrances of former times clung to him. There was no more themusicof "the sounding horn" to awaken him from his drowse, and he passed much of his time under the woodshed. But he was not the sleek and canny dog of yore. He grew thin and weak. Long locks of indifferent colored brown hair grew out of his sides, and hung loosely down. His gait was slow and feeble, and it was not pleasant to look at him. Finally, one cold day, at least a year after the general departure, he was missing, and I could find nothing of him. Inquiries were in vain. It was in the following spring that his bones were found where either he himself had dug a burrow, or the hand of charity had laid him. Good Carlo!
Some very happy marriages sprang from the acquaintance at Brook Farm. There, in a few weeks or months, a better knowledge could be formed, a truer and more absolute and certain estimate of character, than by years of fashionable flirtation. And here let me add, that the women were always well dressed: there were no party dresses, all shine, lace and glitter, and household wrappers all slouched, torn and drabbled. The situation of woman was such as to stimulate her ever to neatness in personal appearance, even if the material was but a "ninepenny" calico; and the same may be said to a marked extent of the men.
And many others who stood shoulder to shoulder in the ranks have shared the common lot. Scattered through the country, in city, town and hamlet, those who survive are doing their humble duties, and filling their stations honorably. There are those among them who have gained wealth, and none whom I know that are in poverty. In the circles they occupy, their influence has been felt towards a liberal judgment in all matters pertaining to government, religion and society.
Our friend Rev. William Henry Channing spent the major portion of his after life abroad. The war brought him back to America. He was at one time chaplain of the House of Representatives of the United States, and served the country at the front; but he returned to Liverpool, England, where he preached and educated his family, passing away beloved by members of all the prominent churches both conservative and radical.
There were some four and possibly more, who joined the Catholic Church. This created at the time many remarks, but it is only an episode for a class of minds to find themselves at the other end, at the opposite side, at the bottom instead of the top when they have swung themselves, pendulum-like, far away from ordinary moorings. The "Community" people were at the extreme of society, unorganized, without creeds, without science, and only morality and faith to guide them, and having given the lie to ordinary social forms; having lost their faith and trust in society as it was, is it strange that some should swing to the extreme of conservatism, that they should try a new departure when met by seeming failure in their radical moves?
But why continue the list? The very boys have become gray-haired men, but proud to say, each one of them, "I was one of the Brook Farmers."
In closing this picturesque drama, it would not be strange if someone should ask if this is all that is left of the life. Has it been only a failure and a dream that I have chronicled, or has it resulted in something worthy of the aspiration that preceded it? Has it added strength to the lives of individuals, and has it done something for society? As chronicler, I stand in the shade and let my readers judge; but the few words of comment that follow, from well-known individuals, bear strong testimony to an effect that must have been duplicated in a great many other instances: and, indeed, if its influence had gone no farther than to a few persons, that alone would justify the laudable attempt of this "venture in philanthropy." My conviction is that it reached farther than to single individuals, and that it still reaches into and influences more or less all the deep undercurrents of society.
I am confirmed in this opinion by the following statement made by Mr.George P. Bradford in theCentury Magazinefor May, 1892:—
"I cannot but think that the brief and imperfect experiment, with the theory and discussion that grew out of it, had no small influence in teaching more impressively the relation of universal brotherhood and the ties that bind us to all; a deeper feeling of the rights and claims of others, and so in diffusing, enlarging, deepening and giving emphasis to the growing spirit of true democracy."
But if I were to leave my position as narrator, and speak from my individual standpoint, I would say Brook Farm and what it stood for was to world-benighted travellers, seeking for sustenance, like a city set on a hill. It was a small, glimmering light of social truth, shining amid universal darkness. It was a dim foregleam of the great sun of social life and science, that will yet rise and shine gloriously on our earth. It was a spark of that divine justice that, like electricity, has been stored for humanity from the beginning of things—abundant in quantity and power to bless all men—stowed away by the hand of God for us, awaiting only our awakening from the sleep of ignorance and childishness, to use and cherish it. It was an example of trust, a tribute to faith. It was a realization of poetry. It was in touch with the wishes, hopes and prayers of millions of humanity; of untold numbers of saints and martyrs of all nations and climes, and its mission was the highest on earth—universal justice to all mankind.
Albert Brisbane, thedoctrinaire, has departed also. Although allusion has been made to him in the former pages of this book somewhat in contrast with Mr. Ripley's spiritual gifts, let no person think that I underestimate the mission he undertook or the work he accomplished in his devotion to the master, Fourier. Certainly he deserves very great credit, and there are those who, deep in their hearts, cherish most profound gratitude to him and his memory.
Whatever any one may believe of the feasibility of the carrying out of Fourier's doctrines of united industry or the practicality of any of his theories, they must stand amazed at the bold and often extremely beautiful conceptions of his brain; such as the actual forecasting of the development theory before Darwin, Spencer and Huxley were born—though not exactly in detail with them; his bolder conception still of the destiny of man, and his Cosmogony; of the progress of present civilization towards an oligarchy of capital, foretold so exactly,—as is now seen by thinking minds, three quarters of a century ago; his profound analysis of the human springs of action; his discovery of the divine laws applicable to the future as well as to the present wants of the human race. For the presentation of all this to the American people; for all these things and more, we are first indebted to Albert Brisbane, and it is a great debt which the future will certainly appreciate and pay.
My work would not be finished without alluding more fully to the wonderful genius whose works and life made such an impression on the Brook Farmers as to induce them to brave all the misconception, sarcasm and obloquy that they must have felt would be heaped on them when they concluded to follow his formulas, and bowed their intellects to him in acknowledgment of his leadership in the field of social science.
The reader will decide, if I have portrayed truly the men and the principles actuating them, that whoever they thus acknowledged as worthy of that sublime place must have been endowed with intellectual, moral and spiritual capacities, and intuitions of the highest order. Should it have been the fortune of any one to come across an occasional allusion to Fourier, it will be apt to be of such a forbidding nature that there will be no strong temptation to follow the subject further; and all through the literature of our country, in the writings of men whose reading, if not their knowledge, should have taught them better, will be found intimations that "Fourierism" was a system of life based on a plane hardly worthy of being rated higher than mere sensualism.
Against this accusation I place the record of the man whom especially spiritual minded and liberally educated men like George Ripley, John S. Dwight, William Henry Channing and many others delighted to know and to honor.
Charles Fourier was born at Bezancon, France, April 7, 1772. The son of a merchant, he had a collegiate education, and took prizes for French and Latin themes and verses. He was found of geography but more fond of cultivating flowers, and of music. At eighteen years he entered into commercial pursuits. By the siege of Lyons he lost the fortune his father left him, and was forced into the army, where he served two years. This portion of his life was involved in the romance of war and revolution, during which he was doomed to death, but made a fortunate escape from it.
He was always noted for the avidity with which he sought knowledge, and his honesty was outraged at an early age, being punished by his father for telling the truth of goods on sale, thereby losing a purchaser. Again his soul revolted when at Marseilles in 1799, where he was employed, for he was selected to superintend a body of men who secretly cast an immense quantity of rice into the sea, which monopolists had allowed to spoil in a time of famine rather than to sell at a reasonable profit. This last action was to him a crime of so deep a nature that he entered with more enthusiasm on his studies for preventing the like.
In capacity of agent he travelled in France, Belgium, Germany, Holland and Switzerland. He had a prodigious memory, and in his journeys when a building struck his attention, he took the measurement of it with his walking stick, which was notched off in feet and inches; and, one of his biographers says:—
"He was profoundly acquainted with every branch of science, particularly the exact sciences. For forty years he labored with patience and perseverance at the Herculean task of discovering and developing the theory and practical details of the system which he has given to the world."
Says a writer in the LondonPhalanx:—
"The principal features of Fourier's private character were morality and the love of truth. He had a character both grave and dignified, religious and poetic, friendly and polite, indulgent and sincere, which never allowed truth to be profaned by libertine frivolity, nor faith to be confounded with austere duplicity. He was a man of dignified simplicity, a child of Heaven, loving God with all his heart, all his soul, and all his mind, also loving as himself his neighbor—the whole human family."
Fourier's own words translated read:—
"God sees in the human race only one family, all the members of which have a right to his favors. He designs that they shall all be happy together, or else no one people shall enjoy happiness. . . . The love of God will become in this new order the most ardent love among men."
The closing words of an exhaustive review of Fourier's writings, by Mr. John S. Dwight, in theHarbinger, are these:—"There is a Titanic strength in all the workings of that wonderful intellect. He walks as one who knows his ground. His step is firm, his eye is clear and unflinching, and he is acknowledged where he passes, for there is no littleness or weakness, no halting or duplicity, in his movement. He is in earnest; he has taken up his cross to fulfil a mighty mission. He doubts not, desponds not; he speaks always with certainty, and though he suffers from impatience of postponement, yet he ceases not to insist upon the truth. He expostulates, perhaps, with deceived and degraded humanity in too much bitterness of sarcasm; but how profound his reverence for Christ and for humanity, how pure his love for man, and how sublime his contemplation of the destiny of man in the scale of higher and higher beings up to God!"
Fourier passed from earth in 1837. His body was buried at Pere laChaise Cemetery, Paris, France.
The idea of living in combined families is no new thing. From the earliest times to the present, it has cropped out under various circumstances and with various changes. Ever with dawning of new light and the increase of universal education comes the desire—sometimes in great waves—for more united interests, and a truer, more Christian brotherhood; for closer unity in life and for the enlargement of home with all the joy, comfort and peace that word contains.
In this country various outgrowths from the social body have taken positions on this plane. The masses of our people are not now in sympathy with them. They believe that these little social homes or "communities" are dull and monotonous, and are bound so tightly by creeds as to be obnoxious to freedom of life and ideas. My belief is that the creeds adopted and thrown around them, though often adding to their financial protection, and possibly often being their only safeguards from fraud and knavery, have covered from the public the great dignity, worthiness and beauty of this mode of life; when, therefore, Mr. Ripley formed his society free from any pledges or creeds, it touched a deeper bottom in men's hearts than any like organization had ever sounded.
Whatever of failure there was in their actualization, Brook Farm ideas remain. They charm philosophers, poets and statesmen. They work quietly, leavening the social mass. One must be in sympathy with them to know how potent is their action and how with a touch of the old enthusiasm they will be found breaking out again in larger and larger circles of humanity, for in view of the progress of mechanism, science and art in the last fifty years, to form the phalanstery in its material shape would be an easy task.
Rev. William Henry Channing expressed himself in this wise to his mother, years after the breaking up of the Association:—
"My dearest mother, I assure you that did I see my way clear to an honorable independence for my family, so as to be just, while kind to them, I should joyfully die in attesting my fixed faith in Association, and I predict that when, years hence, we meet in the spiritual world, you will smilingly bless me and say, 'My son, your personal limitations excepted, you were right.' You will feel proud of my seeming earthly failures then; at least I humbly hope so. If this is all romance it is of that earnest, living strain which I trust ever more and more to be quickened by."
At a final visit to Brook Farm he said: "Most beautiful was that last day and all its memories; and never did I feel so calmly, humbly, devoutly thankful that it had been my privilege to fail in this grandest, sublimest, surest of all human movements. Were Thermopylae and Bunker Hill considered successes in their day and generation?"
Lying before me is a letter not intended for publication, showing how one member of the Association affectionately regarded his old home. It is as follows:—
"My Dear Friend:—I herewith return the letters you so kindly sent me. I have derived much pleasure in their perusal, and have looked on them with affectionate regard as a mode of greeting from old friends from whom I have been separated for more than a quarter of a century. I do not think any one who was at Brook Farm has that deep and sincere affection for it and its memory that I have. It was my mother by adoption, and what little I have of education, refinement, or culture and taste for matters above things material, I owe to her and the heroic and self-sacrificing men and women who composed its body, social and scholastic. I was but a cipher there, among them by accident, and I was much the gainer even if they were not the losers. What I saw there, and what I learned there, have been of great value to me, and if I have made any progress in material matters or have attained any social position, I am frank enough to confess that I owe it all to dear old Brook Farm. God bless its memory. What I have, and what I am, is the outgrowth of a two years' life at my first real home. . . .
"When I commenced this I intended to write but a half dozen lines, simply making my acknowledgment of your kindness, but my purpose soon changed, and I now find that I have not enough room on this sheet to say one tithe of what comes rushing in my mind 'as a river' about Brook Farm, and I can now only say that I wish you to convey my kindest regards to all of our dear old acquaintances whenever you see them or write to them. All Brook Farmers are to me as brothers and sisters, and I so esteem them.
I am tempted also to add the following extract from a letter written years ago by a friend of the movement in his eightieth year to his son:—
"To many, Brook Farm may have been a dream that ended with the scattering of that little band of workers. That special form of the dream vanished, but the seed was planted, and my confidence in the dream is vivid still. In the past these ideas have been the crude visions of the few, but now they are the absorbing subjects of speculation of the many, and all our best literature is full of them. The highest problems of man and society are the common subjects of discussion. So will it continue to be, by the tiller of the soil, the workman at the bench, as well as the poet and philosopher, until order and harmony are evolved out of this chaos. The good time is surely coming. 'The world,' as Whittier wrote, 'is gray with its dawning light.'
"Deerfield, Mass."
Well, the Brook Farm experiment died! There can be only one reason why its friends should rejoice, and it is the same that touched the great mind of Saint Paul, nearly two thousand years ago, when he said, "Thou fool! that which thou sowest is notquickenedexcept itdie!"
I. Students' and Inquirers' LettersII. Applicants' Letters and Mr. Ripley's RepliesIII. An Outside View of Brook Farm Associative Articles
Student Life.
BROOK FARM, MASS., Oct. 27, 1842.
My Dear Friend:—Pardon my delay in writing you in reply to yours of the 15th ult., but there have been matters of interest that have occupied my leisure, and so much so that only now do I find myself free to exchange good wishes with you and to answer the important questions you put to me as to what I think of, and how I like, the Brook Farm life.
To reply to these questions I might write a long dissertation explaining what I like and what I do not like, or I could answer them by a few brief words; but my inclination is to do neither, and to give you in place of both a little sketch of the proceedings here and make you the judge of what my feelings would be likely to be under the circumstances that I shall narrate.
I am still a student, and most of my time has been spent in studies of various sorts; the languages—ancient and modern—attracting me a great deal, but the German and the French the most. I do not "burn the midnight oil," and yet I think I am progressing well. Our teachers are all very approachable men and really seem in dead earnest. You might suppose from rumors that reach you that they would be very notional people, but they are not so, or, to say the least, if they are they keep their notions to themselves. Mr. Dana, Mr. Bradford and Mr. Dwight are particularly kind to me, and all the teachers go out of the way to explain points that come up in the lessons.
After hours, we have had many interesting conversations, class readings, dramatic readings, etc., and visitors come who entertain us in various ways. Miss Frances Ostenelli, for one, who has a wonderful soprano voice, and Miss S. Margaret Fuller from Concord—there is no end to her talk—and also Mr. Emerson from Concord, to whom a good many pay deference.
Whilst he was here there was a masquerading wood party. It was quite a bright idea. Miss Amelia Russell was one of the persons who planned it. Her father has been minister to Sweden and was one of the commissioners who signed the Treaty of Ghent. It was an open-air masquerade in the pine woods, and the affair was worked up splendidly. Masquerades have been, in New England, of a private nature and held indoors. To hold one out "in the garish light of day" was a new sensation, and attracted some of the friends of the Community. The day was lovely and in the woods the privacy was complete. Barring one or two friendly neighbors of farmer stock who looked on, it was truly a select party. One of the ladies personated Diana, and any one entering her wooded precincts was liable to be shot with one of her arrows. Further in the woods a gipsy, personated by Miss 'Ora Gannett, niece to Rev. Ezra Gannett, was ready to tell your fortune. Miss "Georgie" Bruce was an Indian squaw, and "George William" Curtis, a young man, carried off the palm as "Fanny Elssler" the dancer. There was a mixed variety of characters that made up thetout ensemble—a Tyrolean songster, sailors, Africans, lackeys, backwoodsmen and the like. The children enjoyed the day much. A large portion of the dresses were home-made. Dances and conversation by the elders filled the day and evening.
Sometimes we have the serious business. Some of the singular persons here affect vagaries and discuss pruderies or church matters, ethics and the like. Or we have some of the Concord people who give us parlor talks. Once in a while they arouse the gifted brothers, and then we have a genuine treat; Mr. Dwight and Mr. Bradford, Mr. Ripley, Mr. Capen, Burton and all hands get dragged in, and in the earnest discussion that follows one cannot but be edified and often very much instructed. Subjects relating to a more rational life and education for the poor and unlearned interest me and arouse my enthusiasm. There are some fine lady as well as gentlemen readers, who show their ability in poetry and prose, and, for the amusement of the young people, some devote their talents on occasions to tableaux, which are delightful and display fine historic scenes and characters.
I rise in the morning at six to half-past; breakfast at seven; chat with the people; get to my studies at eight; work an hour in the garden; recite; dine at noon; take an hour in the afternoon on the farm; drive team; cut hay in the barn; study or recite; walk; dress up for tea at six. In long days the sunsets and twilights are delightful and pass pleasantly with a set of us who chum together. I am so near Boston that I go to concerts and lectures with others, or to the theatres, or to the conventions, the antislavery ones being most exciting. In summer I join the hay-makers. In winter we coast, boys and girls, down the steep though not high hills, in the afternoons, or by moonlight, or by the light of the clear sky and the bright stars; or we drive one of the horses for a ride, or we skate on the frozen meadow or brook to the Charles River where its broad surface gives plenty of room.
One thing I like here—everything but in my lessons I have perfect freedom to come or go and to join in and be one with the good people or not. I am not hampered. I go to church or not, as I desire, and I can do anything that does not violate the rules of good breeding; but I am expected to be in my room at a seasonable hour at night—ten o'clock, sure.
Thus have I given you my programme. Can you think I would do better elsewhere? I might have more style, a better table, and more room to see my friends in, though the parlors here are good enough, but where could I have more genuine comfort? I expect to go home by New Year's, returning, if I can, by March, and am so in love with the life I may try to attach myself to it permanently. In the meantime I will see you, and hope to enjoy with you many hours of conversation after the oldtime way at our house. As ever,
Your student brother,
Explanations and Answers to Objections.
BROOK FARM, MASS., Dec. 11, 1845.
FRIEND HARRIS:—As you are a stranger to the associative ideas, and have but little knowledge of our life here, no doubt many questions arise in your mind that you wish answered, and might be answered by me if I knew what they were; but knowing what questions usually appear most prominent to the average mind, I will try my hand at a few of them as they present themselves to me. Number one is, What were my first impressions of the idea of associative life; that is, did the idea strike me pleasantly or not? I frankly reply to this that the idea was decidedly unpleasant. It so connected itself in my mind with some sort of an "institution," as a great hospital or infirmary or "Dotheboys" school, where Smikes or incipient Smikes went daily to a restricted routine, and thrice daily, with the rest of imprisoned souls, to the special amount of grub and rations provided by some personal or impersonal Squeers, that I could not but at once reply to the person speaking of it that I should not like any such institution.
The next question is, How did my mind change on this subject? I answer, by reflection and continued conversation with those who were intimate with the ideas. Mark this:There is nothing so absurd as the first presentation of great facts to the mind;the greater the fact, the greater its apparent absurdity, and the greater will be our hate or want of welcome to it if it runs contrary to our preconceived ideas.
Every visible thing is presented to the retina of the eye, the looking-glass of the brain, upside down, and it is by study that begins at birth, and is finished ere remembrance commences, that the child of God and man is able to detect the true relation of material things to himself. We have not yet learned the importance or significance of this arrangement, but why may not we find in future investigations that the mental vision is governed by the same law, and that thoughts strike the brain or mental sensorium in the same inverted way? So universally do law and life differ from their semblances, that it appears to me to be one of oursupreme dutiesto learn toreverse primitive ideas.
A question also comes to you in this wise: How could one make up his mind to associate with all sorts of people that they might meet in one of these "Communities"? A man in the ordinary chances of life has to meet all sorts of persons, does he not? Ignorant dependents are in your house, sleeping under your roof. Your tradesmen may be rude, unkind and unlettered. Passing from your door you jostle, it may be, the murderer and highwayman on the street; you enter a car, and the driver's breath is perhaps reeking from his last night's debauch; you sit, possibly, between the pickpocket on one side and the patient yet uncured from some epidemic on the other. You pass to your business through a street full of roughs, and in your own store are men wishing you to die that they may take your place, seeking every opportunity to overreach you; and then wonder if I smile when you ask me howIcould "mix up."
In reply to me, you may say that the relation is different; that you do not take these persons to your table and associate with them as one is obliged to in one of your "Associations." It is true that you may not sit at meat with these especial persons; but how many live at hotels where the next neighbor at table, to whom, if you are a gentleman, you show politeness, is entirely unknown to you, and may be a swindler, cheat or knave. But you associate with him only as much as it isnecessaryfor you to do; and that is just as much as you are obliged to do in an Association, and no more. It does not follow because I sit at meat here at Brook Farm with a hundred, I have intimate social relations with all of them. On the contrary, there are those to whom I seldom speak unless to give them a passing salutation, and some who are civilly disposed, who do no more, or as much, to me.