Mounting the central and highest portion of the farm I found it was beautifully situated in an amphitheatre surrounded by hills on all sides, and formed a charming picture. There was a young orchard of apple trees, and here and there stood a few shade trees by the walls and roadside. There were fields, or rather patches, where corn and vegetables were grown for family use. Some of them were exposed on the southern faces of the hills, and some were in the hollows. In front was the broad, meadow, like a pleasant sea of green, stretching far away.

From the first house, the old farmhouse called now "the Hive"--a pretty and well-chosen name--the driveway led to the other houses. It descended nearly to the level of the meadow, and did not rise again until it neared the "Pilgrim House," the most distant one. From that it turned on itself on the high ground toward the "Cottage" and "Eyry,"

the remaining houses.

The "Pilgrim House," an oblong double house, occupying a commanding position, was plain and white, without ornamentation, and squarely built like most of the New England country houses of its date. There were no trees around it, and it was the least attractive house on the place.

The "Cottage" had four gables, and was also plain and unpretending; it had only some half-a-dozen rooms and was painted a dark brown color. It was situated on a little knoll, with flower beds in the rear, and greensward all around it.

Beyond and nearer to the "Hive," in the centre of the domain, was the "Eyry" (this is the way Mr. Ripley spelled it; some spelled it "Eyrie"

and some "Aerie"). It had for its base a ledge of Roxbury conglomerate called "pudding-stone," and it was banked up with two greensward terraces. It had the highest and finest location, with a background of oak and maple woods, and looked out on the orchard, commanding a fine view. It was a square, smooth, wooden structure painted a light gray, sandstone color. It was made of smooth, matched boards, and had a large, flat cornice or f.l.a.n.g.e that surrounded it near the top, which saved it from extreme plainness. Yet it was pleasing to the eye, and it had low, French windows that open like doors out on to the upper terrace.

As I looked in it for the first time I saw that a few pictures adorned the walls: pressed fern leaves filled the mantel vases, and the bright remnants of last autumn's foliage were in some places fastened to the walls. There was also a piano, over which hung an oil painting, and in the opposite room was a large array of Mr. Ripley's books. It was "the library," and many of the works were in German. In particular, there was a set of fourteen volumes, "Specimens of Foreign Literature,"

edited by Mr. Ripley, that attracted my attention.

At the Cottage were the school-rooms princ.i.p.ally for the younger children; and the Pilgrim House was used mostly for family lodgings.

For a time my sleeping apartment was with others in the upper room of the rear wing of the farmhouse, dignified by the name "Attica." My companions were all single men; good, reliable fellows who were working for a principle and would ordinarily have declined such a lodging-place, but under the circ.u.mstances were not apt to grumble, but made the best of it. It was like camping out, and all its mischances were turned into fun. My roommates were called "the Admiral," "the Dutchman," "the General" and "the Parson,"--nicknames given each one of them for some personal peculiarity.

There were advantages as well as disadvantages in living in "Attica."

It was nearest the centre of the life and business of the place. In the winter mornings there was no long walk to meals, as those had who lived at the other houses. We were near the warm kitchen; and when the house was still and work suspended--all save the baking of bread, which often proceeded in the evening in the range ovens--a group would gather around the fire and talk and gossip--for we were not beyond the last; speculation, theory and argument went pleasantly on until bed-time.

No, Attica! I have not forgotten the days spent inside thy walls, thy strange inhabitants, or the mysteries that surrounded thee on my first entrance into thy domain! I have not forgotten the long, low roof and projecting beams, or the half dozen bedsteads that were standing around; the two large chimneys that arose in the centre and the number of stove-pipes that came from below and entered them; or the skylights that were thy only means of illumination save the window at "the Parson's" end, which looked out on the pleasant fields and the houses beyond; or the plain, uncarpeted floor, the washstands by the chimneys and the clothing hung up around.

Neither have I forgotten the nights when lying in bed I have heard the rain pouring and pattering above thee and me; or when I saw by the dim light of a single oil lamp, as I lifted myself on my elbow in bed, one of the occupants moving his cot bedstead from some gentle leak that was getting too familiar with his bedclothes; or when in the dreary winter the Storm King howled around and bore some fleecy flakes on his windy gusts through a stray hole in the roof, and morning showed us a miniature white mountain on the floor.

No, to this day a vision of the "Parson" (Capen) comes to me, reading by the light of an oil lamp placed on a shelf at the head of his bedstead, long after others were asleep; lying in bed at the furthermost portion of thy s.p.a.ce; now chuckling to himself, then drowsily reading on and on, with his spectacles dropped down on to the point of his long nose--as the pa.s.sage was either witty or dry; or visions of the early risers, waking betimes and disturbing the dreams of the later ones by the preparations of the toilet; or the sound of the morning horn as it rose from beneath us on the clear air!

I was seventeen years of age, and having pa.s.sed the time when I could have been by right a pupil in the day school, was a.s.signed to manual labor. You will see by the Const.i.tution that I was a "Probationer." It was fortunate that I loved the gra.s.s and trees, and the routine of farm life. My youth excused and deprived me of the council meetings and the right to vote, so that many hours spent by some, though but a little older than myself, in meetings, were absolutely mine to rove in, or to use as I liked. Though born to city life and work I dearly loved the country and a farm, but did not know its duties, nor had I the strength for heavy labor, so I a.s.sisted in work in and about the houses in the early hours of the day, and in some of the lighter farming, as planting, hoeing, weeding and driving the oxen, horses and cows; in fact, taking a lad's place in the farm and house employments.

Owing to the amount of labor and the disproportion of female help, some of the young men under age oftentimes a.s.sisted after meals in wiping dishes and supplying hot and cold water. It was a matter of rivalry between parties to see which could beat in a match, the washer or wipers. Two lads of near my own age supplied dishes and hot water as fast as it was needed, and one young lady washed the plates, saucers, mugs and the like, the same young men doing the wiping.

There was plenty of plain crockery piled up and it was rushed into a capacious receptacle and washed with great dexterity. Then wipe, young men, wipe! Will you allow a young lady to wash faster than two can wipe? _Never_, _boys_, never! and with incredible speed the surface of the plates and dishes was changed into mirrors. There was one young lady who was hard to beat; often when the parties thought they had nearly succeeded she would cry out for "hot water"! and one would have to supply her with it, and by that time his partner would be overwhelmed with a stock of unwiped crockery. Need I say that at times I was one of those boys?

There were none of the modern conveniences for water, and the pump had to do its share of work. The rooms were supplied daily by a water carrier who went from house to house filling the pails and pitchers in the rooms and halls.

I was willing and tractable. The fresh air, the simple diet and the free life began at once to tone up my organization. I soon found that the Eyry steps and the Eyry embankments were where the air was freshest of an evening, and the tones of the piano presided over by the "poet's sister," f.a.n.n.y Dwight, attracted me more and more. The pupils and those of their ages grouped naturally together. I did not care to go among the arguers and the disputants who talked anti-this and anti-that, the new sciences of medicine--the water cure and h.o.m.oeopathy; who disputed the doctrines of community of property, western lands, politics, approaching war with Mexico, etc., etc. Nor did I care to group with the few who played euchre and smoked "conchas," and the book of nature had very often more charms for me than any other.

Our family rooms were small, and as stated I was sandwiched in with others, in rather unpromising quarters. But I almost only slept there.

My interested parents often spent the evenings as well as the days in domestic duties, so I was much alone. I cared not. I could thoughtfully contemplate the climbing constellations, and sometimes one of the many who grew friendly to me would point out the planets and name the stars for me, and I would watch the moon rise slowly above the horizon. The beautiful meadow was below me, and above and around the whole eastern hemisphere of sky. Or I would wander around the houses to see what was going on, meeting groups of promenaders by the way. At the cottage the piano would be playing, and likely as not Lucas and Jose or Willard and Charles were waltzing with Anna and Abbie or Katie and Agnes to Louisa's playing. Or it was singing school, and all joined it; or Mrs.

Ripley was going to read "Margaret"; or the "Professor" (Dana) wanted me in his German cla.s.s; or it was full moon and we would walk a mile or two down the highway, or make a moonlight visit to the pines. Otherwise I was dreaming day-dreams to f.a.n.n.y's piano playing.

Ah! do you think I was indolent? Not so! In my meditations I was working out social problems and solving theories of life and religion.

I was nursing kindliness of heart, love to all men. I was awakening a crushed nature, and absorbing influences that made the mottoes of "Unity of man with man," "Unity of man with G.o.d," "Unity of man with the universe," seem like real, tangible things. But who can say how much was also due to the low, soothing harmonies that floated out of those graceful windows with parting sashes that opened like doors down to the windowsills?

In time I explored every cranny and hollow of ground. I wandered in the woods, found every wild flower, knew every tree; knew where the trailing evergreens grew; could go to the spot where I could find what I wanted for bouquets, and surprised the Community with their ample size and beauty. I came in with wreaths and garlands; gathered varieties of gra.s.ses untold; picked rhodoras in early spring, saracenas and orchids in summer, asters and gentians in the late fall, and innumerable flowers in various places of a neighborhood wonderfully rich in botanical specimens.

CHAPTER IV

THE INDUSTRIAL PERIOD.

When I arrived, Hawthorne, Bradford, Hosmer, Hecker, Burton, Leach and Allen had gone; as had also the Curtis brothers, George and Burrill, the Bancroft boys, sons of the historian, and Barlow (since General Barlow)--all pupils; as well as some of the ladies--Miss Dora Gannett, niece of Rev. Ezra S. Gannett, Miss Georgianna Bruce, (afterwards Mrs.

Kirby), Miss Allen, Miss Sarah Stearns; and the phase of the Brook Farm life jocosely or seriously alluded to by the after-comers as the "Transcendental Days" or "Community Times," gave place to the "a.s.sociative or Industrial Period."

In the place of the Transcendentalists came other men and women, new and untried, with not so much of Greek and Latin, not so much suavity of manners, not so much "cultivation," but warm of heart and brave of purpose. The magnificent idea was a revelation of truth to some but also a great temptation for many shivering poor and impatient outsiders. They could thrive on it. They felt it was their right, their destiny, having failed in the civilized fight for bread and b.u.t.ter and comfort, to have from some source food, shelter and protection; and it struck them that Brook Farm was just the place to go for it. So the a.s.sociation was inundated with applications of all kinds by person and by letter.

It is my fortune to possess the originals of a number of these interesting letters, specimens of which may be found in the appendix.

The replies by Mr. Ripley were drafts of the letters sent; they are all in his fine handwriting and _bona fide_ doc.u.ments which the writer personally secured at Brook Farm many years ago, after the organization had broken up.

The Directors used discretionary power, and if there was any probability that the applicant would be useful, his case was presented for action at a general meeting of the a.s.sociation.

I was not long on the farm before I became acquainted with many of the a.s.sociates besides those before mentioned--those who belonged entirely to the a.s.sociative period; and among the unique figures there was no one that struck my young fancy more than that of Peter, or, in familiar talk, "the General."

Peter M. Baldwin was about his work when I was introduced to him, and as he put forth his hand I saw that his arms extended no little way through the sleeves of a common green baize jacket; and that his large feet, which were encased in an old pair of slippers, had descended some six inches below a pair of blue overalls before they touched the ground. If he had been inclined to corpulency, his frame was ample to build upon for a man of Websterian proportions, but he was not so inclined; on the contrary, he simulated other great men in his personality--Jackson, or our modern Abraham Lincoln. He was spare, bony, nervous. His heavy eyebrows, his dark hair well sprinkled with gray, which arose straight upward from his high, indented forehead, and his large, half Roman nose, prominent cheek-bones and thin cheeks reminded one so forcibly of the pictures of General Jackson that he was by unanimous consent nicknamed "the General."

He shook me by the hand warmly and asked me a few questions, and it was not until after this first interview that I discovered he had an impediment in his speech. A rapid talker, he would rattle on in conversation and then stop as suddenly as though you had put your hand over his mouth. You would look up in astonishment, and then find by the contortions of his face that he was trying to speak some troublesome word but could not. The word once recovered, his speech flowed on as before and perhaps for a long while, until he stumbled upon another fence-like one; when he would dismount, take down the bars, or jump it, and proceed as before.

This impediment, strange to say, never troubled the General when he had prepared a piece for recitation, for he would then speak with dignity and precision, and made the very beau ideal of "the lean and hungry Ca.s.sius."

He was a universal favorite, on account of the kindness and benevolence of his disposition. This generosity was superabundant, for if any of the younger portion of the family wished for the sweets of the storeroom, over which he presided, they had only "to coax the General"

to succeed in obtaining their wishes.

"The General" was the baker and made the bread, cake and some of the pastry. He also a.s.sisted the "kitchen group" in domestic cookery.

Beyond this he was particularly fond of three things--disputation, the newspapers and a cigar. He was thoroughly devoted to the doctrines of "United industry" and to Brook Farm. He was among the first up in the morning and last at night, attending to his ovens and his bread.

Peter's room was at first in Attica with others, where I saw him often, and his favorite pastime was a game of euchre, which had not then worked itself into general favor. I did not care to play it then, or any cards; I was too much charmed with the life of the place, with the society of the young, with social games under the inspiration of the hostess, with love of dance and music and the ever-changing face of nature, to care for such dull solace as the pasteboard games.

But the General did; he conversed, he smoked, he read the newspapers, he argued, stuttered and talked the "water cure," and one day I was surprised on going into the room to find him fully embarked for the cure of a desperate headache. What had he done? Why, taken the wash-bowl and filled it with water, placed it on the floor, stretched himself out at full length on the floor also, and, with a pillow at his shoulders, laid the back of his head into the wash-bowl. But being of an active temperament he could not be quiet and idle long, so, calling for a newspaper and lighting a cigar, he gently puffed the weed and read the news, lying still in position while the "cure" was progressing. It was a funny sight!

My attention was soon drawn to a large, portly gentleman who carried his head erect and had an easy, familiar way about him; for he was acting as host, being charged with the reception of guests and strangers who came to visit or to look about the place. He walked with the grandeur of a Falstaff and the dignity of a sachem. His capacious gray coat and broad-brimmed hat might suggest to a stranger that he had been at some time a member of a Shaker community, but his closely cut gray hair and his heavy, o'erhanging eyebrows and brave visage gave the lie to any such suggestion. Aye, aye, every hair that stood bristling up on that front of his seemed to stand in rebellion against such a charge, seemed saying, and growing more bristly every moment, "I, a Shaker? Not I!" A large mouth was an appropriate companion to a ponderous throat and chin, which were daily shaven with scrupulous adherence to the first principles of warm water, soap and a sharp razor, and a practice of thirty years gave a polish to his face unknown to those less adept in the art.

On one occasion, some of the members fled from the tyranny of the brutal blade and let their beards grow in uncut stubble, not, however, without criticism from our host, who said in answer to their argument that it was natural for the beard to grow, "Art is the perfection of nature! Look at this garden!" It was after dinner, and some were taking a few moments' rest in front of the Hive, lounging on the fence and looking down the terrace into what was called "her majesty's garden"

and toward the bubbling brook. "What would it be without its walks, flower-beds and arrangement?" he continued. "And these fields--what would they be without the art of cultivation? You see it is art that perfects nature."

Then some wag suggested that he was trying to cultivate "the field of his face," but nothing could disturb the imperturbable gravity of his composition. Gravity, solid gravity, was one of the basic elements of his nature. When, however, he lighted his enthusiastic lamp, and his warm heart gushed forth in song or story--I think I hear him singing now, "A man's a man for a' that!"--he carried his audience with him.

The "Omniarch," as Mr. Ryckman was called, was a man of family, his short, sprightly, nervous little wife acting as hostess and attending to the lady visitors.

Many visitors asked the question of him, "Mr. Ryckman, do the Brook Farmers hold all their property in common?"

With a bland smile he would say to them: "Certainly not; the idea of a Community, as it is generally understood, is a society that owns or holds all the property or capital of its members as its own, in its own corporate right--that no one can remove, but everyone can use portions of at will, or in turn. If the ideas of the first projectors were not all definite on this point, we now stand boldly as champions of individual property. It is one of our watchwords. For what is property?

It is but the extension of the individual; wings to fly with; hands to work with; dried labor; labor's product laid away for future use, to bless oneself with. It is the bottom and foundation of material society, for none exists without it, and the greater the amount, distributed fairly and justly, the greater the power and strength of the society that holds it. We take human nature as it is--as G.o.d made it. We do not propose to remake it; that is the folly of reformers and theorists, and more especially moralists in and out of the church. The desire, the personal desire, to acquire property is a fundamental trait of character more or less strong in every individual. If a society cannot be adjusted to that trait it will fail. We think one can be. We think ours is so, as fairly as the nature of our transitory conditions will allow. We want capital here. That we can make it here in time, there is no doubt, but we must labor long to secure a plus of labor that we can dry and store for future use. Meanwhile we want to build a suitable unitary building, which is almost an absolute necessity; farming implements and various appliances are wanted to suit the new conditions under which we live, and many things for comfort, too numerous to mention."

The host was not sparing of his words, especially when stimulated by charming questioners, in ways like these: "Tell me more, Mr. Ryckman."

"What are you living here for?" "Can you expect anything from this life?"