UNTO THIS LAST
There were two funerals at Brook Farm, during my time, and I think
there were no more afterward. A young woman named Williams came there
with incipient tuberculosis and after being tenderly cared for and made
as comfortable as possible for several months, peacefully passed away.
That was the only death. The deceased was buried with simple but
impressive services in a quiet nook at the far end of the pine woods.
This was the retired spot where the members of the community expected
to be interred when their labors in this world came to an end. That
expectation was not fulfilled. The Brook Farmers have nearly all joined
the congregation of the beyond, but they are sepulchred in the four
quarters of the globe. Theodore Parker’s monument is visited by
tourists in Italy. Captain John Steel made his last voyage to the port
of Hong Kong. John S. Dwight lies in Mount Vernon; Dr. and Mrs. Ripley
in Greenwood. The young couple who went to California never came back
and never will. Robert Shaw fell at Fort Sumter and shares a place in
the trenches with his men; and the battlefields of the South hold all
that was mortal of three others. Not one found final shelter under the
sod of Brook Farm.
The Rev. John Allen on resigning his pastorate to become a member of
our community, was detained for a time by the illness of his wife. When
she died he brought her remains for burial in the little cemetery among
the pines. This was the second funeral I witnessed, and I think there
were no others during the existence of the community.
Some years since I visited the old place with Dr. Codman, and, among
the other well remembered localities we sought out the place where we
had attended two funerals in the long-ago of our boyhood, but the
mementos of these two occasions were not to be found. During the war of
the Rebellion Brook Farm had been used as a convalescent camp, and many
of the sick and wounded were mustered out there by the last general
orders which we must all obey. Among the numberless soldiers’ graves it
was impossible to identify the two mounds for which we were looking.
As noted, the Phalanx had several of its members in the lecture field
to aid in forwarding the socialist movement. The cost of this
propaganda and the publication of _the Harbinger_, the Socialistic
organ, must have been a tax on the slender resources of the community,
but to make sacrifices for the great cause was quite in accordance with
the spirit of Brook Farm, and, so far as I know the burden was
cheerfully borne. The Rev. John Allen was one of those engaged in this
educational work and much of his time was given to it. He was
affectionately devoted to his motherless child, a charming little girl
of perhaps four years, and when the conditions favored he took her with
him on his lecturing tours. One evening he came home unexpectedly,
bringing the child as she was not feeling well, and leaving her in Mrs.
Rykeman’s care. The baby and I were dear friends, and, the next day,
she being confined to Mrs. Rykeman’s rooms, I spent the afternoon
trying to entertain her. Toward night, as she was evidently very sick,
a doctor was called in from Brookline. The physician examined the
little one and pronounced the dreadful verdict that we had on our hands
a case of virulent smallpox.
That was the beginning of the end. As Mrs. Ryekman and I had been
exposed to contagion, we were quarantined in her rooms and every
precaution was taken to prevent the spread of the disease. Neither Mrs.
Rykeman nor I had a single symptom of the disorder, but presently,
other cases appeared, one after another, and during the next few
months, the scourge ran through the community.
Thanks, no doubt, to the sturdy good health of our people, the invasion
by this enemy of mankind—and a terrible enemy the smallpox then was—did
not prove directly calamitous. The baby was the only one seriously
sick, and she made a rapid recovery, as indeed did all the others who
were attacked. There were not more than a dozen cases from first to
last and not one suffered much more than inconvenience, and not one had
a pit or spot such as the smallpox leaves to mark its victims.
After the first shock of surprise and alarm, the affliction was endured
without a murmur. It was a hard trial and we all knew it, but it was
borne with courage and equanimity as all trials and hardships were
borne by this high-souled company, imbued with the true spirit of Brook
Farm.
There were seldom more than two or three on the sick list at a
time—these, by the way, usually taking care of themselves or of each
other—and the rest of us went about the daily affairs of life very much
as though all was well with us. There was no more seclusion, and work
and study were presently resumed in regular order.
We were, however, shut off from communication with the outer world.
Gerrish left the mail and other things at the bridge, but he took
nothing away, as we were not allowed to send anything off the place. No
one could cross the brook from our side, and no one came to us from the
other side. That was a grievous misfortune, but it was not the worst.
The smallpox killed the school.
Several of the elder pupils fled on the first alarm, before we were
shut in, and these did not return. No others came to take the vacant
places and, presently, the higher classes were suspended. At the end of
the term the Brook Farm School was permanently closed.
This was the second step toward the final dissolution of the community.
Like unto the first, the second step was forced upon us as one of the
results following the return home of Mr. Allen’s stricken daughter.
How was it that such an affliction could have come to this poor
innocent little victim? No one ever knew. She was her father’s darling
and he watched over her with the most faithful care. He was obliged to
leave her during lecture hours but always in charge of trustworthy
friends. At no time, so far as he could find, had she been in danger of
contagion. Of course that danger might possibly have been incurred
without his knowledge, but another possibility was that the scourge
might have been visited upon us through her infection by malignant
design.
We knew there was bitter feeling against us among the old Puritans of
Roxbury. They hated us and took occasion to annoy and injure us in many
mean ways. Very little heed was given to these neighborly attentions
and very likely the matter would not have been thought of in connection
with the smallpox had that been all we had to suffer, but it was not.
When three mysterious fires occurred, one after another, destroying the
three principal houses on the domain, Pilgrim Hall, the Eyrie and the
Phalanstery, it was impossible to account for the origin of any of
them. Then it was that memory inevitably recalled manifestations of
hostility that could be accounted for with absolute certainty.
Pilgrim Hall was the main dormitory for pupils, a plain but substantial
structure, the first one erected for school purposes. The Phalanstery
was intended to be the home of the Phalanx. It was a comparatively
large and costly wooden building, with public rooms on the first floor
and accommodation for about one hundred and fifty people on the second
and third floors. To put up the Phalanstery was the biggest job
undertaken by the community and it taxed all available resources to the
last dollar. When nearly finished it was set on fire and burned to
ashes. This last loss bankrupted Brook Farm. There was no money left to
go on with, and the socialistic organization at West Roxbury had to be
abandoned. The Fourierite experiment was a failure. The joyous life of
the happy companions, grown so dear to each other, was ended. The
congenial company, united by such intimate ties was broken up. The
loving brothers and sisters said farewell to their trusted friends and
to their sunny home, going their widely separated ways, few of them
ever to meet again.
The failure of Brook Farm was rightly attributed to a succession of
inexplicable disasters. That was true as to direct causes, but it seems
apparent to-day that the Socialistic movement could not possibly have
been carried to ultimate success. The world was not ready to accept
Fourier’s theories far enough to abandon civilization and live the
Simple Life. The era of the millennium had not arrived. That era has
not yet arrived, for that matter, and while there are enthusiasts who
assure us the dawn of the glorious morning is almost within sight, we
others are not quite able to see it. There are not many of the
Socialists of 1840 now living, but the few of us left to those later
days have not much interest in the Socialistic dogmas now current. None
the less, we who can look back to the Socialism of the early times,
still cherish memories of Brook Farm as among the dearest this earth
affords.