As society is constituted at present, the honest and industrious8 are always more or less at the mercy of the vicious and indolent, and the only protection against this lies in the right of individual ownership. In a general community of goods, there might be some means of preventing or punishing flagrant misdemeanors, but what protection could there be against indolence? Those who were ready and willing to work would have to bear all the burdens of society.
In order that an idea should take external or concrete form it has to be married, as it were, to some desire or tendency in the individual. Reverend George Ripley had become imbued9 with Fourierism through his studies of French philosophy, but he had also been brought up on a farm, and preferred the fresh air and vigorous exercise of that mode of life to city preaching. He was endowed with a strong constitution and possessed10 of an independent fortune, and his aristocratic wife, more devoted11 than women of that class are usually, sympathized with his plans, and was prepared to follow him to the ends of the earth. He not only felt great enthusiasm for the project but was capable of inspiring others with it. There were many socialistic experiments undertaken about that time, but George Ripley’s was the only one that has acquired a historical value. It is much to his credit that he gave the scheme a thorough trial, and by carrying it out to a logical conclusion proved its radical12 impracticability.
Such a failure is more valuable than the successes of a hundred men who merely make their own fortunes and leave no legacy13 of experience that can benefit the human race.
It must have been Elizabeth Peabody who persuaded Hawthorne to enlist14 in the Brook15 Farm enterprise. She wrote a paper for the Dial {Footnote: Dial, ii. 361.} on the subject, explaining the object of the West Roxbury community and holding forth16 the prospect17 of the “higher life” which could be enjoyed there. Hawthorne was in himself the very antipodes of socialism, and it was part of the irony18 of his life that he should have embarked19 in such an experiment; but he invested a thousand dollars in it, which he had saved from his Custom House salary, and was one of the first on the ground. What he really hoped for from it—as we learn by his letters to Miss Sophia Peabody—was a means of gaining his daily bread, with leisure to accomplish a fair amount of writing, and at the same time to enter into such society as might be congenial to his future consort20. It seemed reasonable to presume this, and yet the result did not correspond to it. He went to West Roxbury on April 12, 1841, and as it happened in a driving northeast snowstorm,—an unpropitious beginning, of which he has given a graphic21 account in “The Blithedale Romance.”
At first he liked his work at the Farm. The novelty of it proved attractive to him. On May 3 he wrote a letter to his sister Louisa, which reflects the practical nature of his new surroundings; and it must be confessed that this is a refreshing23 change from the sublunary considerations at his Boston boarding-house. He has already “learned to plant potatoes, to milk cows, and to cut straw and hay for the cattle, and does various other mighty24 works.” He has gained strength wonderfully, and can do a day’s work without the slightest inconvenience; wears a tremendous pair of cowhide boots. He goes to bed at nine, and gets up at half-past four to sound the rising-horn,—much too early for a socialistic paradise, where human nature is supposed to find a pleasant as well as a salutary existence. George Ripley would seem to be driving the wedge in by the larger end. Hawthorne is delighted with the topographical aspect, and writes:
“This is one of the most beautiful places I ever saw in my life, and as secluded25 as if it were a hundred miles from any city or village. There are woods, in which we can ramble26 all day without meeting anybody or scarcely seeing a house. Our house stands apart from the main road, so that we are not troubled even with passengers looking at us. Once in a while we have a transcendental visitor, such as Mr. Alcott; but generally we pass whole days without seeing a single face save those of the brethren. The whole fraternity eat together; and such a delectable27 way of life has never been seen on earth since the days of the early Christians28.” {Footnote: J. Hawthorne, i. 228.}
From Louisa Hawthorne’s reply, it may be surmised29 that his family did not altogether approve of the Brook Farm venture, perhaps because it withdrew him from his own home at a time when they had looked with fond expectation for his return; and here we have a glimpse into the beautiful soul of this younger sister, otherwise so little known to us. Elizabeth is skeptical30 of its ultimate success, but Louisa is fearful that he may work too hard and wants him to take good care of himself. She is delighted with the miniature of him, which they have lately received: “It has one advantage over the original,—I can make it go with me where I choose!”
Louisa wrote another warm and beautiful letter on June 11, recalling the days when they used to go fishing together on Lake Sebago, and adds:
“Elizabeth Cleveland says she saw Mr. George Bradford in Lowell last winter, and he told her he was going to be associated with you; but they say his mind misgave31 him terribly when the time came for him to go to Roxbury, and whether to make such a desperate step or not he could not tell.” {Footnote: J. Hawthorne, i. 232.}
George P. Bradford was the masculine complement32 to Elizabeth Peabody—flitting across the paths of Emerson and Hawthorne throughout their lives. His name appears continually in the biographies of that time, but future generations would never know the sort of man he was, but for Louisa’s amiable33 commentary. He appeared at Brook Farm a few days later, and became one of George Ripley’s strongest and most faithful adherents34. He is the historian of the West Roxbury community, and late in life the editor of the Century asked him to write a special account of it for that periodical. Bradford did so, and received one hundred dollars in return for his manuscript; but it never was published, presumably because it was too original for the editor’s purpose.
Is it possible that Hawthorne put on a good face for this letter to his sister, in order to keep up appearances; or was it like the common experience of music and drawing teachers that the first lessons are the best performed; or did he really have some disagreement with Ripley, like that which he represents in “The Blithedale Romance”? The last is the more probable, although we do not hear of it otherwise. Spring is the least agreeable season for farming, with its muddy soil, its dressing35 the ground, its weeds to be kept down and its insects to be kept off. After the first week of June, the work becomes much pleasanter; and the harvesting is delightful,—stacking the grain, picking the fruit,—with the cheery wood fires, so restful to mind and body. Yet we find on August 12 that Hawthorne had become thoroughly36 disenchanted with his Arcadian life, although he admits that the labors38 of the farm were not so pressing as they had been. Ten days later, he refers to having spent the better part of a night with one of his co-workers, “who was quite out of his wits” and left the community next day. He then continues in his diary: {Footnote: American Notebook, ii. 15.}
“It is extremely doubtful whether Mr. Ripley will succeed in locating his community on the farm. He can bring Mr. E—— to no terms, and the more they talk about the matter, the further they appear to be from a settlement. We must form other plans for ourselves; for I can see few or no signs that Providence39 purposes to give us a home here. I am weary, weary, thrice weary, of waiting so many ages. Whatever may be my gifts, I have not hitherto shown a single one that may avail to gather gold.”
Here are already three disaffected40 personages, desirous of escaping from an earthly paradise. Mr. Ripley has by no means an easy row to hoe. Yet he keeps on ploughing steadily41 through his difficulties, as he did through the soil of his meadows. In September we find Hawthorne at Salem, and on the third he writes: {Footnote: American Notebook, ii. 16.}
“But really I should judge it to be twenty years since I left Brook Farm; and I take this to be one proof that my life there was unnatural42 and unsuitable, and therefore an unreal one. It already looks like a dream behind me. The real Me was never an associate of the community: there has been a spectral43 appearance there, sounding the horn at daybreak, and milking the cows, and hoeing potatoes, and raking hay, toiling44 in the sun, and doing me the honor to assume my name. But this spectre was not myself.”
This idea of himself as a spectre seems to have accompanied him much in the way that the daemon did Socrates, and to have served in a similar manner as a warning to him. He left Brook Farm almost exactly as he describes himself doing, in “The Blithedale Romance,” and he returned again on the twenty-second, but the brilliant woodland carnival45 which he describes, both in his “Note-book” and in “The Blithedale Romance,” did not take place there until September 28. It was a masquerade in which Margaret Fuller and Emerson appeared as invited guests, and held a meeting of the Transcendental club “sub tegmine fagi.” As Hawthorne remarks, “Much conversation followed,”—in which he evidently found little to interest him. Margaret Fuller also made a present of a heifer to the live-stock of the Farm, of whose unruly gambols46 Hawthorne seems to have taken more particular notice. He would seem in fact to have attributed the same characteristics to the animal and its owner.
Having more time at his own disposal, he now attempted to write another volume of history for Peter Parley’s library, but, although this was rather a childish affair, he found himself unequal to it. “I have not,” he said, “the sense of perfect seclusion47 here, which has always been essential to my power of producing anything. It is true, nobody intrudes48 into my room; but still I cannot be quiet. Nothing here is settled; and my mind will not be abstracted.” During the whole of October he went on long woodland walks, sometimes alone and at others with a single companion. He tried, like Emerson, courting Nature in her solitudes49, and made the acquaintance of her denizens50 as if he were the original Adam taking an account of his animal kingdom. He picks up a terrapin51, the Emys picta, which attempts to hide itself from him in a stone wall, and carries it considerately to a pond of water; but there is not much to be found in the woods, and one can travel a whole day in the forest primeval without coming across anything better than a few squirrels and small birds. In fact, two young sportsmen once rode on horseback with their guns from the Missouri River to the Pacific Ocean without meeting any larger game than prairie-chickens.
It was all in vain. Hawthorne’s nature was not like Emerson’s, and what stimulated52 the latter mentally made comparatively little impression on the former. Hawthorne found, then as always, that in order to practice his art, he must devote himself to it, wholly and completely, leaving side issues to go astern. In order to create an ideal world of his own, he was obliged to separate himself from all existing conditions, as Beethoven did when composing his symphonies. Composition for Hawthorne meant a severe mental strain. Those sentences, pellucid53 as a mountain spring, were not clarified without an effort. The faculty54 on which Hawthorne depended for this, as every artist does, was his imagination, and imagination is as easily disturbed as the electric needle. There is no fine art without sensitiveness. We see it in the portrait of Leonardo da Vinci, a man who could bend horseshoes in his hands; and Bismarck, who was also an artist in his way, confessed to the same mental disturbance55 from noise and general conversation, which Hawthorne felt at Brook Farm. It was the mental sensitiveness of Carlyle and Bismarck which caused their insomnia56, and much other suffering besides.
George Ripley published an essay in the Dial, in which he heralded57 Fourier as the great man who was destined58 to regenerate59 society; but Fourier has passed away, and society continues in its old course. What he left out of his calculations, or perhaps did not understand, was the principle of population. If food and raiment were as common as air and water, mankind would double its numbers every twelve or fifteen years, and the tendency to do so produces a pressure on poor human nature, which is almost like the scourge60 of a whip, driving it into all kinds of ways and means in order to obtain sufficient sustenance61. Most notable among the methods thus employed is, and always has been, the division of labor37, and it will be readily seen that a community like Brook Farm, where skilled labor, properly speaking, was unknown, and all men were all things by turns, could never sustain so large a population relatively62 as a community where a strict division of industries existed. If a nation like France, for instance, where the population is nearly stationary63, were to adopt Fourier’s plan of social organization, it would prove a more severe restriction64 on human life than the wars of Napoleon. This is the reason why the attempt to plant a colony of Englishmen in Tennessee failed so badly. There was a kind of division of labor among them, but it was purely65 a local and a foreign division and not adapted to the region about them. Ripley’s method of allowing work to be counted by the hour instead of by the day or half-day, was of itself sufficient to prevent the enterprise from being a financial success. Farming everywhere except on the Western prairies requires the closest thrift66 and economy, and all hands have to work hard.
Neither could such an experiment prove a success from a moral point of view. Emerson said of it: “The women did not object so much to a common table as they did to a common nursery.” In truth one might expect that a common nursery would finally result in a free fight. The tendency of all such institutions would be to destroy the sanctity of family life; and it would also include a tendency to the deterioration67 of manliness68. One of the professed69 objects of the Brook Farm association was, to escape from the evils of the great world,—from the trickery of trade, the pedantry70 of colleges, the flunkyism of office, and the arrogant71 pretensions72 of wealth. Every honest man must feel a sympathy with this; there are times when we all feel that the struggle of life is an unequal conflict, from which it would be a permanent blessing73 to escape; yet he who turns his back upon it, is like a soldier who runs away from the battle-field. It is the conflict with evil in the great world, and in ourselves, that constitutes virtue74 and develops character. It is good to learn the trickery of knaves75 and to expose it, to contend against pedantry and set a better example, to administer offices with a modest impartiality76, and to treat the gilded77 fool with a dignified78 contempt. But if the wings of the archangel are torn and soiled in his conflict with sin, does it not add to the honor of the victory? The man who left his wife and children, because he found that he could not live with them without occasionally losing his temper, committed a grievous wrong; and it is equally true that hypocrisy79, the meanest of vices80, may sometimes become a virtue.
George P. Bradford, and a few others, enjoyed the life at Brook Farm, and would have liked to remain there longer. John S. Dwight, the translator of Goethe’s and Schiller’s ballads81, {Footnote: One of the most musical translations in any language.} said in his old age that if he were a young man, he would be only too glad to return there; and it is undeniable that such a place is suited to a certain class of persons, both men and women. It cannot be repeated too often, however, that the true object of life is not happiness, but development. It is our special business on this planet, to improve the human race as our progenitors82 improved it, and developed it out of we know not what. By doing this, we also improve ourselves and happiness comes to us incidentally; but if we pursue happiness directly, we soon become pleasure-seekers, and, like Faust, join company with Mephistopheles. Happiness comes to a philosopher, perhaps while he is picking berries; to a judge, watching the approach of a thunder-storm; to a merchant, teaching his boy to skate. It came to Napoleon listening to a prayer-bell, and to Hawthorne playing games with his children. {Footnote: Perhaps also in his kindliness83 to the terrapin.} Happiness flies when we seek it, and steals upon us unawares.
George P. Bradford’s account of Brook Farm in the “Memorial History of Boston” {Footnote: Vol. iv. 330.} is not so satisfactory as it might have been if he had given more specific details in regard to its management. The general supposition has been that there was an annual deficit84 in the accounts of the association, which could only be met by Mr. Ripley himself, who ultimately lost the larger portion of his investment. It is difficult to imagine how such an experiment could end otherwise, and the final conflagration85 of the principal building, or “The Hive,” as it was called, served as a fitting consummation of the whole enterprise,—a truly dramatic climax86. George Ripley went to New York to become literary editor of the Tribune, and was as distinguished87 there for the excellence88 of his reviews, and the elegance89 of his turnout in Central Park as he had been for the use of the spade and pitchfork at West Roxbury.
Mr. Bradford returned to the instruction of young ladies in French and Latin; and John S. Dwight became one of the civilizing90 forces of his time, by editing the Boston Journal of Music. None of them were the worse for their agrarian91 experiment.
Even if the West Roxbury commune had proved a success for two or three generations, it would not have sufficed for a test of Fourier’s theory for it would have been a republic within a republic, protected by the laws and government of the United States, without being subjected to the inconvenience of its own political machinery92. The only fair trial for such a system would be to introduce it in some tract22 of country especially set apart and made independent for the purpose; but the chances are ten to one that a community organized in this manner would soon be driven into the same process of formation that other colonies have passed through under similar conditions. The true socialism is the present organization of society, and although it might be improved in detail, to revolutionize it would be dangerous. Yet the interest that has been aroused at various times by discussions of the Brook Farm project, shows how strong the undercurrent is setting against the present order of things; and this is my chief excuse for making such a long digression on the subject.
During these last months of his bachelorhood, Hawthorne appears to us somewhat in the light of a hibernating93 bear; for we hear nothing of him at that season at all. Between the last of October, 1841, and July, 1842, there are a large number of odd fancies, themes for romances, and the like, published from his diary, but no entries of a personal character. We hear incidentally that he was at Brook Farm during a portion of the spring, which is not surprising in view of the fact that Doctor Nathaniel Peabody had removed from Salem to Boston in the mean time. One conclusion Hawthorne had evidently arrived at during the winter months, and it was that his engagement to Miss Sophia Peabody ought to be terminated in the way all such affairs should be; viz., by matrimony. Their prospects94 in life were not brilliant, but it was difficult to foresee any advantage in waiting longer, and there were decided95 disadvantages in doing so. It was accordingly agreed that they should be married at, or near, the summer solstice, the most suitable of all times for weddings—or engagements. On June 20, he wrote to his fiancée from Salem, reminding her that within ten days they were to become man and wife, and added this significant reflection: “Nothing can part us now; for God himself hath ordained96 that we shall be one. So nothing remains97 but to reconcile yourself to your destiny. Year by year we shall grow closer to each other; and a thousand years hence, we shall be only in the honeymoon98 of our marriage.”
Yet we find him writing again the tenderest and most graceful99 of love-letters on June 30. {Footnote: J. Hawthorne, i. 241.} The wedding has evidently been postponed100; but two days later he is in Boston, and finds a pleasant recreation watching the boys sail their toy boats on the Frog Pond. The ceremony finally was performed on July 9, and it was only the day previous that Hawthorne wrote the following letter, which is dated from 54 Pinckney Street:
“MY DEAR SIR:
“Though personally a stranger to you, I am about to request of you the greatest favor which I can receive from any man. I am to be married to Miss Sophia Peabody to-morrow, and it is our mutual101 desire that you should perform the ceremony. Unless it should be decidedly a rainy day, a carriage will call for you at half-past eleven o’clock in the forenoon.
“Very respectfully yours,
“NATH. HAWTHORNE.
“REV. JAMES F. CLARKE,
“Chestnut St.”
George S. Hillard lived on Pinckney Street, and Hawthorne may have been visiting him at the moment. The Peabodys attended service at Mr. Clarke’s church in Indiana Place, where Hawthorne may also have gone with them. He could not have made a more judicious102 choice; but, singularly enough, although Mr. Clarke became Elizabeth Peabody’s life-long friend, and even went to Concord103 to lecture, he and Hawthorne never met again after this occasion.
The ceremony was performed at the house of Sophia Peabody’s father, No. 13 West Street, a building of which not one stone now rests upon another. It was a quiet family wedding (such as oftenest leads to future happiness), and most deeply impressive to those concerned in it. What must it have been to Hawthorne, who had known so much loneliness, and had waited so long for the comfort and sympathy which only a devoted wife can give?
Time has drawn104 a veil over Hawthorne’s honeymoon, but exactly four weeks after the wedding, we find him and his wife installed in the house at Concord, owned by the descendants of Reverend Dr. Ripley. It will be remembered that Hawthorne had invested his only thousand dollars in the West Roxbury Utopia, whence it was no longer possible to recover it. He had, however, an unsubstantial Utopian sort of claim for it, against the Association, which he placed in the hands of George S. Hillard, and subsequent negotiation105 would seem to have resulted in giving Hawthorne a lease of the Ripley house, or “Old Manse,” in return for it. It was already classic ground, for Emerson had occupied the house for a time and had written his first book there; and thither106 Hawthorne went to locate himself, determined107 to try once more if he could earn his living by his pen.
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compute
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| v./n.计算，估计 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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orations
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mechanism
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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possessed
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devoted
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radical
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legacy
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enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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brook
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forth
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prospect
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irony
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embarked
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consort
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graphic
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tract
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refreshing
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mighty
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secluded
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ramble
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delectable
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Christians
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surmised
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skeptical
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misgave
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complement
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amiable
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adherents
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dressing
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thoroughly
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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labors
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providence
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disaffected
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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44
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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45
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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intrudes
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的第三人称单数 )；把…强加于 | |
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49
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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50
denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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51
terrapin
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| n.泥龟；鳖 | |
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52
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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53
pellucid
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| adj.透明的，简单的 | |
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54
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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57
heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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58
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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regenerate
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| vt.使恢复，使新生；vi.恢复，再生；adj.恢复的 | |
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60
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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61
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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restriction
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| n.限制，约束 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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deterioration
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| n.退化；恶化；变坏 | |
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manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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80
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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84
deficit
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| n.亏空，亏损；赤字，逆差 | |
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85
conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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86
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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civilizing
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| v.使文明，使开化( civilize的现在分词 ) | |
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agrarian
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| adj.土地的，农村的，农业的 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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93
hibernating
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| （某些动物）冬眠，蛰伏( hibernate的现在分词 ) | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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97
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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98
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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99
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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100
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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101
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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102
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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103
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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104
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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105
negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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106
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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107
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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