Brook Farm: Historic and Personal Memoirs

by John Thomas Codman

The Poet lingered near. In Boston he started the Journal 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—my doves, 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.