Part 4 (2/2)
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 s.h.i.+vering 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?”
<script>