FRIEND GREELEY
When Mr. Greeley first came to our house, I was not very favorably
impressed by his appearance. He was tall and strongly built with broad
shoulders somewhat bent forward, a smooth face, fair complexion and
very light hair worn rather long. He was near-sighted and, like other
near-sighted folk had a way of peering forward as he walked, and this
with his heavy lurching gait, gave him a very awkward, countrified
carriage. He remarked in my presence at a later time, “I learned to
walk in the furrows of a New Hampshire farm and the clogging clay has
stuck to my feet ever since.”
His voice was thin and high-pitched, a small voice for such a big man,
as we thought, and he had an abrupt manner of withdrawing attention
that was to us rather disconcerting until we got used to it. His
pockets were bulging with newspapers and memoranda, scrawled in the
curiously obscure handwriting which I subsequently found much
difficulty in learning to read, though it was plain enough when the
meaning of the strange hieroglyphics intended for letters was once
fully understood. He was pressed with business during his brief visits
but found time to make friends with the juveniles of the family and we
learned to welcome him with real pleasure. My mother noted that we made
him smile, and that went far in establishing intimacy. Horace Greeley’s
rare smile revealed beauty of character and that charity commended by
St. Paul as greater than faith or hope; a smile more nearly angelic
than we often see in this mundane environment.
[Illustration: Horace Greeley]
His peculiarities of dress have been, I think, much exaggerated by
common gossip. He wanted his clothes made big and easy, and he wore
them a long time and somewhat negligently, but that was because he had
other things to mind and not in the least because he affected
singularity. I was with him a good deal as a boy and as a young man and
I am sure he spoke truly when in response to some friendly advice
concerning these matters, he said “I buy good cloth, go to a good
tailor and pay a good price, and that is all I can do about it.”
The popular phrase about Greeley’s old white coat had some foundation
in fact, but not much. He did wear a light drab overcoat when I first
saw him, with the full pockets spreading out on each side. As it suited
him he wore it many years afterward, and when it was quite worn out he
had another one made just like it which he wore many years more. I
doubt if he ever had more than two of these famous garments, but it is
true that these two, always supposed to be the same old white coat,
were known all over the Northern part of the country. As late as the
first Grant presidential campaign, Elder Evans, inviting him to make an
address before the Shaker community at Harvard, Mass., asked him to
please bring “the old white coat, that our folk may know it is you, for
sure.”
It is possible there may have been some little feeling of resentment
against this sort of patronage expressed in the dragging on of the old
white coat with the sleeves awry and the collar turned under, but I am
sure that as a rule Mr. Greeley gave very little thought as to
wherewithal he would be clothed.
Horace Greeley never had half a chance to develop the finer qualities
of his nature—and he knew it. He was a tremendous worker and as an
aggressive editor, an ambitious politician and an ardent reformer,
driven like a steam engine, he could give little heed to the slings and
arrows of outrageous fortune, but he was sensitive as a girl to rebuffs
bringing to mind what might have been. Among friends with whom he felt
at home and in really congenial company, he was a different being from
the hard hitting fighter and eccentric philosopher known to the public.
At our home he was with the children like a child, genial and
companionable as an elder brother. In the house of the Carey sisters,
where I saw him years later, he was happy and care-free. Phoebe and
Alice Carey, poets and essayists, had Sunday evening gatherings at
their home in New York, where the choice spirits of the literary world
held converse after the manner of their kind, as at the assemblies in
the Paris salons of the 18th century. In this company Mr. Greeley was
at his best, animated, witty and charmingly affable. He realized, only
too well, that his best was wasted in the strife which was his daily
portion and which ended in the disastrous defeat that cost him his
life. The flashes of aroused egotism that sometimes blazed out in
red-hot words, were only signs of impatience and regret that he had
been deprived of opportunity to cultivate the amenities and graces of
life and to gain control of the higher powers he consciously possessed.
Any one who will take the trouble to-day to read his later writings,
his tribute to old friends and his essays like that on “Growing Old
Gracefully,” will be led to know that Horace Greeley had the soul of a
poet.
Through acquaintance with Thurlow Weed my father came to know Mr.
Greeley and through Mr. Greeley he came to know Dr. George Ripley and
the circle of literary folk in Boston of which he was the center.
Boston was not at that time a literary city. If there was a seat of
literature in America, then, it was to be found in Philadelphia, there
being very little visible evidence of literary activity, in the
three-hilled town; no Old Corner Book Store, no publishing house like
Ticknor and Fields, no _Scarlet Letter_, no _Atlantic Monthly_ and no
_Evening Transcript_, subsequently one of the best newspapers from a
literary point of view this country ever had. There was, however, at
the period referred to, about 1840, a coterie of brilliant intellectual
people in Boston and Cambridge many of whom attained, later, some
degree of eminence in the literary world.
These were young men and women of fine culture, liberal in opinion and
animated by a new spirit of the times which was in this country first
manifested in their midst. At that period a wave of interest in what
was then known as social reform swept over France and Germany and
reached our shores in Massachusetts Bay, eventually extending all
through the north and northwest, conveying new social and political
ideas to thousands of intelligent Americans. These new ideas were
discussed at the meetings of the thinking young folk above referred to,
at which meetings they also held other high debates on matters
philosophic, poetic, educational, etc. They eventually established a
periodical as their organ called _The Dial_, a publication which
immediately attracted wide attention by the admirable literary style of
its articles as well as by their originality and commanding interest.
_The Dial_ had the effect of imparting greater cohesion to the company
of editors, contributors and others interested in its publication, and
these presently became known to the world as the Transcendentalists; a
word borrowed from Germany and rather too formidable for general use in
our busy country.
Whether they were overweighted by their ponderous title or whether they
created an artificial atmosphere too etherial for common mortals, the
first generation of Transcendentalists was also the last. They had no
successors and _The Dial_, as their organ, was short lived. It
undoubtedly exercised a considerable influence in its day; and
individual members of the long-named fraternity did much to mould the
thought of the American people in after years. Among these were Ralph
Waldo Emerson, Bronson Alcott, George William Curtis, Francis George
Shaw, translator of Eugene Sue and of George Sand, and father of
Colonel Robert Shaw, Margaret Fuller, Theodore Parker, Dr. Howe and his
fiancee Julia Ward, Charles A. Dana, John S. Dwight and perhaps a score
of other bright spirits. Occasional attendants at their gatherings and
contributors to _The Dial_ were Horace Greeley, William Page, afterward
President of The National Academy of Design, Thomas Wentworth Higginson
and my father, Charles Sears. Their acknowledged leader was the Rev.
George Ripley, the founder of Brook Farm.
I do not know anything more about this old time Transcendentalism than
I do about the Pragmatism of our day, and that is not much. I believe
the two schools of thought were alike in this, they both held that
modern civilization has gone sadly and badly astray in the pursuit of
wealth. Not money but the love of money is, now as ever, the root of
all evil. The first work of the makers of America was necessarily the
creation of property, the accumulation of the means of life, but we
have pushed this pursuit too far, have gone money mad not knowing when
we should stop trying to get rich and give our time and attention to
higher things.
There is another matter to be noted as of some significance namely that
leading Transcendentalists were, and leading Pragmatists now are,
scholars and university men. It is true America was not turning out
university men in the ’40’s and it might perhaps better be said that
the Transcendentalists were college men, but as several of them were
educated in Germany the connotation may be allowed to stand. It was
said of these learned students that at their meetings they read Dante
in the original Italian, Hegel in the original German, Swedenborg in
the original Latin, which language the Swedish seer always used,
Charles Fourier in the original French, and perhaps the hardest task of
all, Margaret Fuller in the original English. Margaret was an honored
member of the illustrious company and was held in high esteem; but her
writings are mighty hard reading. I can quite understand James Russell
Lowell’s judgment in his “Fable For Critics” where he condemns a
certain literary offender to severe punishment, sentencing him to 30
days at hard labor, reading the works of Margaret Fuller.
It was, as above said, after one of his visits to Boston that my father
came home with the suggestion of sending Althea and myself to school at
Brook Farm. The idea met with a good deal of opposition from the Dutch
side of the house, which was my side for all I was worth, but I suppose
father opined that it was time some of the provincialism of the Old
Colonie should be rubbed off. Through his acquaintance with Thurlow
Weed he came to know Mr. Greeley and through Mr. Greeley was introduced
to Dr. Ripley and the Transcendentalists, gaining, by the way, broader
views and a wider range of ideas than those which had prevailed in
Beaver Street for two hundred years. Such, I take it was the sequence
of events, not as noted by a little boy but as partly imagined and
partly reasoned out at a later time. Partly imagined, too, is the
presumption that my father was attracted by the philosophic ideals
presented by his Boston friends. A tired business man might well be
impressed by the Transcendental teaching that our civilization has gone
wrong in forcing all human energy into the one pursuit, that of getting
riches. They held that while hard work rarely harms any one, the
monotonous grind in the money making mills results in arrested
development. Work as hard as you please, spend all the energy, all the
talent, all the skill you have but not in seeking wealth. That is not
worth while, and it prevents the doing of what is worth while. Do your
best in the world; give all you can, but be sure to get a fair return,
not in money but in better things. Seek culture, seek knowledge, seek
character, seek friendship, good will, good health, good conscience,
and the peace that passeth understanding shall be added unto you. Be
content with a small measure of this world’s wealth and do not crave
costly luxuries to make a show withal. To this end, go out into the
country; raise what you need as far as possible with your own hands,
and enough more to exchange for such things as you cannot produce.
Abandon the world, the flesh and the Devil and go back to the soil and
find the Garden of Eden.
My father accepted these teachings in good faith and gave in his
testimony with those who in _The Dial_ and through other agencies were
propagating the new philosophy. His engagements with others were such
that he could not break away at the time to put these novel ideas to
the test of actual experiment but no doubt he thought it wise and well
to give his children an early initiation into the new life that was to
regenerate the world.
Dr. Ripley was, as said, the leader of the Transcendental coterie and
he had all the vitalizing enthusiasm that a leader must necessarily
possess. He was a solidly built man of medium height with brown hair
and beard and the kindest eyes in the world. He was a Unitarian
clergyman, a scholar learned in all the learning of the Egyptians and
all the other learned peoples of every age and clime, and a gentleman
of the most engagingly courteous address; his good manners rested on
bed rock foundations, too, and could not be corrupted by evil
communications. I saw him more than once in straits harsh enough to try
the patience of a saint, and noted with surprised admiration that his
perfect poise was not in the least disturbed.
It was Dr. Ripley who, having the courage of his convictions, bravely
suggested putting in practice the principles he and his Transcendental
friends advocated in theory. “We talk well,” he said, in effect, “why
not try to do the thing which we say?” And he did. With a few of these
friends, like-minded, he went out to West Roxbury; six miles from
Boston, and bought a farm of 200 acres. Being unusually bright folk,
remarkably intelligent, highly educated and, as may be said,
brilliantly enlightened, they succeeded, almost beyond belief, in
making a woefully bad bargain. I do not know how much they paid for the
land but whatever the price it was too high. The property was
picturesque to look at but its best herbage was sheep-sorrel. Next the
brook, which gave the name, Brook Farm, there was a fair bit of meadow,
with a rounded hill called the Knoll rising sharply on the north. The
land rolled unevenly on, one-eighth of a mile or so, to higher ground
and then fell off again to a level plateau covered with pine woods,
beyond which were two or three fields of plow-land. The soil was thin,
sandy where it was not rocky, and rocky where it was not sandy. It was
a poor place, indeed, and had been poorly farmed until it was as lean
as Pharaoh’s second herd of kine. It speaks well for these
unsophisticated philosophers that in four years they made this desert
to rejoice and blossom as the rose; cultivating the finest market
gardens and flower-gardens in Roxbury, planting orchards and vineyards,
and growing pasturage for a profitable dairy.
If the amateur farmers were dismayed on finding what a hard row they
had to hoe on this impoverished estate, they never complained, so far
as I have heard, but resolutely set about the work they had to do. They
came out to try a certain social experiment; an experiment in living a
higher kind of life than that of their day and generation, resting on
the faith that such a life can be lived here and now as well as
heretofore in the legendary “Golden Age” of the past, or as hereafter
in the “good time coming” of the future. The one purpose they
entertained was to dwell together in unity “near to the heart of
nature,” a phrase attributed to Margaret Fuller. All other
considerations, whether of hardship, or bad beginnings or
disappointments were but secondary if they could succeed in
demonstrating the practicability of their high ideals.
Perhaps it is not a matter of much interest to the present generation
but to us it has always seemed that these Brook Farmers deserve to be
favorably remembered. They were not martyrs, being, on the contrary, an
unusually joyous and happy company, but, all the same, they gave the
best of their lives to the service of humanity. They honestly and
earnestly believed they could demonstrate the practicability of their
theories, to the advantage of their fellow-beings, and they faithfully
tried to accomplish that purpose. If the Pilgrims of Plymouth deserve
honor for unselfish devotion to religious reform, why should not the
Brook Farm pioneers of social reform receive correspondingly suitable
recognition. It is true they did not immediately attain the ends they
sought but neither did the Pilgrims; and the end is not yet.
It should be said that not all the Transcendentalists joined Doctor
Ripley in his Utopian undertaking. Ralph Waldo Emerson for example was
not of our company. Indeed, he was not of any company. An inspiring
preacher he gained early fame as a pulpit orator in the First Unitarian
Church of Cambridge, Mass., but even the liberal communion of that free
congregation was too close for his independent spirit, and he abandoned
a career of brilliant promise in the ministry, as he said, “for his
soul’s peace.” _Sui generis_, to be himself he must stand alone, and
alone he stood during the remainder of his life.
A stanza of his poem, “The Problem” doubtless expresses something of
his sentiments with regard to religious affiliation:
“I like a church, I like a cowl,
I love a prophet of the soul,
And on my heart monastic aisles
Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles,
Yet not for all his faith can see
Would I that cowled churchman be.”
Of all the visitors coming to Brook Farm, I think Emerson was the most
welcome. He was beloved by everyone from Dr. Ripley, dear friend and
brother clergyman, to Abby Morton’s little ones. The messages of cheer
and the words of wisdom he brought were received and treasured with
intelligent appreciation. I have heard it said that Emerson was at his
best when talking in monologue of an evening at the Hive, or in more
formal discourse in the grove on Sunday. He was companionable and
entered into the life of the place with evident enjoyment—happy but not
jovial. He smiled readily and most charmingly, but never laughed. As a
young man his personality was most attractive, serene loving-kindness
illumining his comely countenance! My mother, also a serene spirit,
thought his face the most beautiful she ever saw; and she was sure that
laughter would be unseemly and disturbing.
[Illustration: Ralph Waldo Emerson]
Emerson liked to be with us at times, but never to be one of us. In the
beginning Dr. Ripley wrote him a cordial invitation to join the
association, the only invitation of the kind he ever gave, I believe.
The invitation was declined in a note quoted by Rev. O. B. Frothingham
in his admirable biography of Dr. Ripley, as follows:
“It is quite time that I made an answer to your proposition that I
should venture into your new community. The design appears to me noble
and generous, proceeding as I plainly see from nothing covert or
selfish or ambitious but from a manly heart and mind. So it makes all
men its friends and debtors. A matter to be entertained in a friendly
spirit and examined as to what it has for us.
“I have decided not to join it, yet very slowly and I may almost say,
with penitence. I am greatly relieved by learning that your coadjutors
are now so many that you will no longer attach that importance to the
defection of individuals which you hinted in your letter to me or
others might possess—I mean the painful power of defeating the plan.”