Brook Farm: Historic and Personal Memoirs

by John Thomas Codman

Of the many dear ones I have known whose lives have added to my life faith and trust in the Divine Father and his plans for the good future of the human race; after years of thought and years of life, I give to Mr. Ripley—the leader, the daring man, the brave Christian heart, the torch bearer, himself the harbinger of the bright future of social justice—the first place, the highest seat, the noblest position among them all.

Mr. Ripley paid off the debts of the Community. I do not know all of them. There was an amount due to Hawthorne at one time, probably his original investment, which he growled about, and there was another due to one of the Brothers Morton, who built the Pilgrim House. I am indebted to his daughter, Miss Morton, for the statement that her father received from Mr. Ripley a check in payment of the Community debt to him. Calling her to his side and showing it to her, he said, "There, Hannah, there is an honest man!"

After the institution was incorporated the debts and responsibilities were shared by the incorporators and stock holders.

It has often been stated that it was the influence of Rev. William
Ellery Channing that started the West Roxbury Community. His nephew,
William Henry Channing, alluding to this in a letter to Rev. J. H..
Noyes, author of the "History of American Socialisms," contradicts the
statement as follows:—

"Of course my uncle deeply sympathized with his younger friend's heroic effort, and wished all success to the movement, but he did not encourage it, so far as I can understand, for in his judgment he distrusted the prudence of the enterprise," etc. "But it was George Ripley, aided by his noble wife Sophia—it was George Ripley, and Ripley alone, who truly originated Brook Farm; and his should be the honor through all time. And a very high honor it will be sooner or later."

The head farmer, with his wife and family, who were so early in the experiment, spent many years in the quiet town of Concord, Massachusetts. It was he who gave Mr. Ripley courage in his work. He was practical, honest, brave, and had enough of poetry in his composition to take the dry edge off of his daily routine of toil. When ploughing the fields it was with regret he turned under the lovely wild flowers and the wild-rose bushes, and it often struck his fancy to transplant them from the fields to the roadside where they blessed the eyes of the wayfarer. Finally the heavenly voice called him and he went thitherward, deeply loved, honored and respected by all. Minot Pratt's name was a synonym of all that was pure, good and lovely. His wife survived him many years, but in May, 1891, she passed away at an advanced age, the last of the signers to the original agreement.

The ambitious "Professor" lives. The trenchant blade of his intellect is still keen. Sometimes it seems that to overcome obstacles is all with him. His wife was one of the "dear girls" of the Association. Method in business and masterly activity have wrung from fate a fortune, and the editorial and governmental offices he has held have been more than ably filled. Blessed with a charming family, deeply immersed in political as well as other writing, it would almost seem as if the olden days were forgotten by him, were it not that now and then he writes as he did shortly after Mr. Ripley's decease, as follows:—

"It is not too much to say that every person who was at Brook Farm for any length of time has ever since looked back to it with a feeling of satisfaction. The healthy mixture of manual and intellectual labor, the kindly and unaffected social relations, the absence of everything like assumptions or servility, the amusements, the discussions, the friendships, the ideal and poetical atmosphere which gave a charm to life—all these continue to create a picture toward which the mind turns back with pleasure as to something distant and beautiful not elsewhere met with amid the routine of this world."

Whatever may be said of the tone of the articles that come from his pen, their ability is unquestioned, and it is not a secret that in Mr. Ripley's judgment Charles A. Dana, of the New York Sun, was the ablest editor in the world.

The "Poet," as we called him, as editor of Dwight's Journal of Music, and also as critic, was deserving of especial credit for his services in musical culture. Earnest, refined, always endeavoring to do right, but strict in his pleasant criticisms, he pointed upward to higher ideals. Living alone in his latter years like a bachelor, he sought solace in his refined tastes with cultivated people. Married to Mary Bullard, the sweet singer of my story, kindred sympathies united them more firmly than marriage vows, but her early death deprived the world of one of the noblest and choicest of womanhood, and his life of its sweetest charm. He went abroad for a short trip, leaving her in full health and beauty; he returned—she had passed from mortal sight.