Octavius Brooks Frothingham

It is impossible to mention them all, and to single out a few from a multitude must not be done. I should like to commemorate those who came nearest to me by their earnest work and faithful allegiance, but these cannot be spoken of, and I prefer to enumerate some of those with whom I was less intimate.

Alice and Phoebe Cary came to New York in 1852, and were prominent when I was there; their famous Sunday evenings, which were frequented by the brightest minds and were sought by a large class of people, being then well established. These were altogether informal and gave but little satisfaction to the merely fashionable folks who now and then attended them. The sisters were in striking contrast. Phoebe, the younger, was a jocund, hearty, vivacious, witty, merry young woman, short and round; her older sister, Alice, was taller and more slender, with large, dark eyes; she was meditative, thoughtful, pensive, and rather grave in temperament; but the two were most heartily in sympathy in every opinion and in all their literary and social aims. Horace Greeley, one of their earliest and warmest friends, was a frequent visitor at their house. There I met Robert Dale Owen, Oliver Johnson, Dr. E. H. Chapin, Rev. Charles F. Deems, Justin McCarthy and his wife, Mrs. Mary E. Dodge, Madame Le Vert, and several others.

Among my friends was President Barnard, of Columbia College, the only man I ever knew whose long ear-trumpet was never an annoyance; Ogden N. Rood, the Professor of Physics at Columbia, a man of real genius, whose studies in light and color were a great assistance to artists, himself an artist of no mean order and an ardent student of photography; Charles Joy, Professor of Chemistry, a most active-minded man, who received honors at Goettingen and at Paris, and contributed largely to the scientific journals; a man greatly interested in the union of charitable societies in New York; Robert Carter, then a co-worker in the making of Appleton's Cyclopedia; Bayard Taylor, novelist, poet, translator of Goethe, traveller; Richard Grant White, the Shakesperian scholar; Charles L. Brace, the philanthropist; E. L. Youmans a man fairly tingling with ideas, and peculiarly gifted in making popular, as a lecturer, the most abstruse scientific discoveries. The breadth of my range of acquaintances is illustrated by such men as Roswell D. Hitchcock, of Union Seminary, the learned student, the impressive speaker; Isaac T. Hecker, the founder of the Congregation of the Paulists; Dr. Washburn, the model churchman of "Calvary"; Henry M. Field, editor of the Evangelist, a most warm-hearted man, so large in his sympathies that he could say to Robert G. Ingersoll, "I am glad that I know you, even though some of my brethren look upon you as a monster because of your unbelief," and welcomed as an example of "constructive thought," Dr. Charles A. Briggs' Inaugural Address as Professor of Biblical Theology at Union College; John G. Holland (Timothy Titcomb), a copious author. The Tribune company was most distinguished: There was, first of all, the founder, Horace Greeley, a unique personality, simple, unaffected, earnest, an immense believer in American institutions, a stanch friend of the working-man, and a brave lover of impartial justice; Whitelaw Reid, who was, according to George Ripley, the ablest newspaper manager he ever saw; and Mrs. Lucia Calhoun (afterward Mrs. Runkle), one of the most brilliant contributors to the Tribune. Of George Ripley I may speak more at length, as he was my parishioner and close friend. In my biography of him, written for the "American Men of Letters" series, I spoke of him as a "remarkable" man. One of my critics found fault with the appellation, and said it was not justified by anything in the book, as perhaps it was not, though intellectual vigor, range, and taste like his must be called "remarkable"; such industry is "remarkable"; no common man could have instituted "Brook Farm" and administered it for six or seven years; could have maintained its dignity through ridicule, misunderstanding, and fanaticism; could have cleared off its liabilities; could have turned his face away from it on its failure, with such patience, or in his later age, could have alluded to it so sweetly; no ordinary person could have adopted a new and despised career so bravely as he did. No journalist has raised literature to so high a distinction, or derived such large rewards for that mental labor. He deserves to be called "remarkable," who can do all this or but a part of it, and, all the time, preserve the sunny serenity of his disposition. If the biography failed to present these traits it was, indeed, unsuccessful. Yes, Mr. Ripley was an extraordinary man. It is seldom that one carries such qualities to such a degree of perfection, and it may be worth while to look more closely at his character.

George Ripley had a passion for literary excellence. From his boyhood he possessed a singularly bright intelligence, a clear appreciation of the rational aspect of questions. He was not an ardent, passionate, enthusiastic man, of warm convictions, vehement emotions, burning ideas. His feelings, though amiable and correct, were of an intellectual cast. They sprang from a naturally affectionate heart, rather than from a deeply stirred conscience, or an enchanted soul. If he had been less healthy, eupeptic, he would scarcely have been so gay; a vehement reformer he was not; a leader of men he could not be. He had not the stuff in him for either. The element of giving was not strong in him. He was not an originator in the sphere of thought; not a discoverer of theories or facts; not an innovator on established customs. But mentally he was so quick, eager, receptive, that he seemed a pioneer, an enthusiast, a saint; his quickness passing for insight, his eagerness for a passionate love of progress, his receptivity for charitableness. He appeared to be more of an image-breaker than he really was. In fact, the propensity to iconoclasm was not part of his constitution. But his mind was wonderfully alert. He had his antipathies, and they were strong ones, his likes and dislikes, his tastes and distastes, but these were instinctive rather than the expression of rational principle or a deliberate conclusion of his judgment. In one instance that I know of, he threw off a man with whom he had been associated for many years, and in connection with whom he labored daily for a time, a very accomplished and agreeable person to whom he was indebted for some services, because he thought that the individual in question had been unjust to some of his friends; but that this was not entirely a matter of conscience would seem to be indicated by the fact that he sent a message of affection to this man, as he neared the grave. In the main, so far as he was under control, intellectual considerations determined his course. He was prevailingly under the influence of mind; he acted in view, a large view, of all the circumstances; as one who takes in the whole situation, and has himself under command. This is not said in the least tone of disparagement, but entirely in his praise, for the supremacy of reason is more steady, even, reliable than the supremacy of feeling however exalted in its mood. He that is under the control of mind is at all times under control, which cannot be said of one who is borne along by the sway of even devout emotion. I have in memory cases where passion might have betrayed Mr. Ripley into conduct he would have regretted, had it not been for the restraining power of purely rational considerations. His early religious training may have produced some effect on his character, but this is more likely to have operated at first than at the later stages of his career. The love of old hymns, the habit of attending sacred services, the fondness for Watts' poems, a copy of whose holy songs always lay on his table, showed a lingering attachment to this kind of sentiment up to the end of his life; but it existed in an attenuated form, and at no period after his youth exerted much sway over him. His predominating bent was intellectual, and this caused a certain delicacy, fastidiousness, aloofness, which kept him in the atmosphere of love as well as of light.

From his youth this was his leading characteristic. As a boy he was ambitious of making a dictionary, a sign of his carefulness in the use of words, and an omen of the value he was to set on definitions and on exactness in the employment of language. At school he was an excellent scholar, at college he stood second, but was graduated first owing to the "suspension" of a brilliant classmate who might have excelled him but for the mishap of a college "riot" in which he took part. In the languages and in literature he was unusually proficient, while in mathematics,—that most abstract, severe, precise of pursuits,—his success was distinguished. In later-life his devotion to philosophy marked the man of speculative tastes. His early letters to his father, mother, sister, reveal a consciousness of his own peculiarities. Here are extracts:

The course of studies adopted here [Cambridge], in the opinion of competent judges, is singularly calculated to form scholars, and moreover, correct and accurate scholars; to inure the mind to profound thought and habits of investigation and reasoning.

The prospect of devoting my days to the acquisition and communication of knowledge is bright and cheering. This employment I would not exchange for the most elevated situation of wealth or power. One of the happiest steps, I think, that I have ever taken was the commencement of a course of study, and it is my wish and effort that my future progress may give substantial evidence of it.

I know that my peculiar habits of mind, imperfect as they are, strongly impel me to the path of active intellectual effort; and if I am to be at any time of any use to society, or a satisfaction to myself or my friends, it will be in the way of some retired literary situation, where a fondness for study and a knowledge of books will be more requisite than the busy, calculating mind of a man in the business part of the community. I do not mean by this that any profession is desired but the one to which I have been long looking. My wish is only to enter that profession with all the enlargement of mind and extent of information which the best institutions can afford.

These quotations are enough to show what was the prevailing impulse of the man. An intellectual nature like this, calm, studious, accomplished, eager, is subject to few surprises and experiences rarely, if ever, marked by crises, cataclysms, eruptions, in passing from one condition of thought to another at the opposite extreme of the spiritual universe. A process of growth, gradual, easy, motionless, takes the place of commotion and violent uproar such as passionate temperaments are exposed to. In 1821 he writes to his sister from Harvard College: "We are now studying Locke, an author who has done more to form the mind to habits of accurate reasoning and sound thought than almost any other." On the 19th of September, 1836, the first meeting of the Transcendental Club was held at his house in Boston. In 1838 he replied to Andrews Norton's criticism of Mr. Emerson's Address before the Alumni of the Cambridge Divinity School. In 1840 he said to his congregation in Purchase Street:

But this substitution of the intuitive for the sensational philosophy—a change which affected all the processes of his thought and actually caused a revolution in his mind—was made silently, quietly, without agitation, without triumph, in a sober, conservative manner, very different from that of his friend Theodore Parker, who carried the same doctrines a good deal further, and advocated them with more heat like the burly reformer he was.

In religion, Mr. Ripley's position was the same that it was in philosophy. In fact the intellectual side of religion interested him more than the spiritual or experimental side. It was mainly a speculative matter, where it was not speculative it was practical; in each event it concerned the head rather than the heart, as being an opinion rather than a feeling. He was instructed in the school of orthodoxy, and, as a youth, was strict in his allegiance to the old system of belief; but he became a disciple of Dr. Channing, and later a rationalist of the order of Theodore Parker, a friend of Emerson, an adherent of what was newest in theology. Yet, in this extreme departure from the views of his early years, he betrayed no sign of agitation, no trace of internal suffering. He wished to go to Yale instead of Harvard, because "the temptations incident to a college, we have reason to think, are less at Yale than at Cambridge." He preferred Andover to Cambridge, being "convinced that the opportunities for close investigation of the Scriptures are superior to those at Cambridge, and the spirit of the place, much relaxed from its former severe and gloomy bigotry is more favorable to a tone of decided piety." Still, he goes to Cambridge, is "much disappointed in what he had learned of the religious character of the school," and, on more intimate acquaintance is impressed by "the depth and purity of their religious feeling and the holy simplicity of their lives"; "enough to humble and shame those who had been long professors of Christianity, and had pretended to superior sanctity." In 1824 a bold article in the Christian Disciple, a Unitarian journal, the precursor of the Christian Examiner, excited a good deal of comment, not to say apprehension. He writes to his sister about it as follows:

The same year he writes to his mother:

In 1840 the ministry was abandoned forever, for more secular pursuits. After 1849 his activities were wholly literary; he had no connection with theology, and none who did not know his past suspected that he had once been a clergyman.

The same cast of thought, not "pale" in his case, suffused his action at Brook Farm and made a Utopia quiet, calm, dignified, pervaded by the radiance of mind, the gentle enthusiasm of the intellect. The heat came in the main from other sources. He was receptive rather than original, inflammable rather than fiery, brilliant rather than warm. The heat was supplied by those near him, by those he trusted, and by those he loved. Not that he was deficient in concern for society; far from it; but his interest was more philosophical than philanthropic. The subject of an association that should combine intellectual and mechanical labor and should diminish the distance between the tiller of the ground and the educator was agitated among the thinkers he was intimate with. Dr. Channing had such a project at heart. Mrs. Ripley burned with humane anticipations. Plans for social regeneration were in the air. It was impossible for one who lived in the midst of ardent spirits, or was sensitive to fine impressions, or was cultivated in an ideal wisdom that was not of this world, to escape the contagion of this kind of optimism; Emerson was saved by his belief in individual growth; Parker by his steady common-sense; others were protected by their conservatism of temperament or of association, by their want of courage, or their want of faith; but men and women of ideal propensities, like Nathaniel Hawthorne, W. H. Channing, J. S. Dwight, joined the community, which promised a new era for Humanity. Mr. Ripley would probably have left the ministry at any rate, for it had become distasteful to him, but it is not likely that he would have undertaken the management of Brook Farm unless he had been assured of its success; for he was a New England youth by birth and by disposition, prudent, careful, thrifty; his very enthusiasm was of the New England type, the product of theological ideas, a creation of the gospels, a desire to introduce the "Kingdom of Heaven," a continuance of the prophetic calling. New England is as noted for its fanaticism as it is for its theology. Its fanaticism is the offspring of its theology, and in proportion as its theology disappears its fanaticism decreases. In Mr. Ripley's case the theology had reached very near to its last attenuation and the fanaticism had tapered off into a gentle enthusiasm. He undertook to establish a kingdom of heaven on earth because he had given up the expectation of a kingdom of heaven in the skies; and he undertook to establish a kingdom of heaven on earth by rational, economic means, not by religious interventions. He was subject to that peculiar kind of excitement that comes to a few people in connection with the keen exercise of their intellectual powers, when they have laid hold of what seems to them a principle—an excitement that is easily mistaken for moral earnestness even by one who is under its influence, which, indeed, lies so close to moral earnestness as to feel quickly the effect of moral earnestness in others, notwithstanding the checks applied by practical wisdom. Mr. Ripley had struck on a theory of society, which at that time was passing from the phase of feeling into the phase of philosophy. The theory was in the air; the most susceptible spirits were full of it; all noble impulses were in its favor, it belonged to the order of thought he had attained; it was native to the aspirations that inflamed the men and women with whom he was most intimate; their feelings awoke his intellect, and he was carried away by a stream whereof he appeared to himself to be a tributary and whereof he appeared to others as the main current, on account of his impetuosity, and the vigor with which he proceeded to put the idea into practice. In his own mind he was realizing the dream of the New Testament, but, in fact, he was testing a principle of which the New Testament was quite unconscious, the modern principle of the equal destinies of all men. He had abandoned the New Testament ground of allegiance to Jehovah, and had adopted the human ground of fidelity to social law. He was still under the spell of religious emotions, but they had become merged in the abstractions of rationalism and merely lent an added glow to his ideas, so that he could readily imagine that he was actuated by spiritual convictions when, in fact, he was doing duty as a disciple of socialist philosophers. His own interest in Brook Farm was in the main speculative, though through his personal sympathies he was moved toward an enterprise that had moral ends in view.

Once embarked in it, he gave his whole mind to its accomplishment,—all his industry, all his organizing talent, all his high sense of duty. He worked day and night; he wrote letters; he answered inquiries; he mastered the science of agriculture; he did the labor of a practical farmer; he maintained the supervision of the strange family that gathered about him. Very remarkable was his success in keeping the intellectual side uppermost, in keeping clear of the temptations to give way to instinctive leanings. His associations were with books and study and bright people. He brought the most brilliant men and women of the day to the place. He awakened the interest of the general community. He diffused an atmosphere of cheerful hope around the experiment. It is easy to make sport of Brook Farm; to laugh at the odd folks who came there; to ridicule their motives and actions; to repeat stories of extravagant conduct; to tell of the eccentric behavior of men and maidens who were right-minded but impulsive; to follow spontaneousness to its results; to trace the course of unrestricted liberty. But it is not fair to remember these things as peculiarities of Brook Farm, as incidents of its conception, or as incidents that were agreeable to Mr. Ripley. He exerted the whole weight of his character against them. He watched and guarded. We do not hear of him in connection with the scandals, the laxities, or the frolics. His efforts were directed to the supremacy of ideas over instinct, the idea of a regenerated society, something very different from joyousness, or merriment, or the fun of having a good time. He, too, was gay; he felt the delight of freedom; but his gayety was born of happy confidence in the principle at stake, his delight was connected with the advent of a new method of intercourse among men. I remember hearing him once deliver a speech in Boston. In it he spoke of the "foolishness of preaching," and avowed his willingness to be a pioneer in the task of breaking out a new future for humanity, a ditcher and delver in the work of constructing the new building of God. He had the coming time continually in view. Others might enjoy themselves, others might grow tired of waiting, but he held smiling on his way, determined to carry out the idea to the end. There was something grand in the steady intellectual force with which he did his best to carry through a principle that commanded more and more the assent of his reason. When the demonstration of Charles Fourier was laid before him, no argument was required to persuade him to adopt it. He took it up with all his energy; his enthusiasm rose to a higher pitch than ever; the rationale of the movement was revealed to him, and apparently he saw for the first time the full significance of the scheme he had been conducting. The impelling power of an intellectual conviction was never more splendidly illustrated. Nobody discerned so clearly as he did the financial hopelessness of the experiment. Nobody felt the burden of responsibility as he felt it. Yet he did not flinch for a moment, and his patient assumption of the indebtedness at last had the stamp of real heroism upon it. His renewal of the most painful traditions of "Grub Street" until the liabilities of Brook Farm were cleared off is one of the noble histories, a history that cannot be told in detail because of the modesty which has left no record of toil undergone or duty done. The old simile of the sun struggling with clouds, and gradually clearing itself as the day wears on, best illustrates my view of this man's accomplishment. There were the clouds of orthodoxy which were burned away at Cambridge. Then came the clouds of Unitarian divinity, which were dispelled by the transcendental philosophy. These were succeeded by the dark vapors of the ministry, and these by the sentimental philanthropy of New England rationalism. At length his intellect broke through these obscurations and showed what it truly was.

On the failure of Brook Farm and the final dismissal of all plans for creating society anew, Mr. Ripley's faculties emerged in their full strength. The New England element was withdrawn. There was no longer thought for theology or reform, but solely for knowledge and literature. In Boston he had taken on himself every opprobrious epithet. In his final letter to his congregation he avows his interest in temperance, anti-slavery, peace, the projects for breaking down social distinctions; simply, it would seem, because his philosophy, falling in with popular sentiment, pointed that way; for he was never publicly identified with any of these causes, or ranked by reformers in the order of innovators. Indeed, one of the old Abolitionists told me that she had never associated him with the anti-slavery people, though her family went to his church. In New York there was no pretence of this kind. The devotion to literature absorbed his attention. His democratic concern for the workingmen continued, but in a theoretical manner, if we may judge from the fact that he took no part in domestic or foreign demonstrations, that he made no speech, attended no meeting, consorted with no social reformers, did not even keep up his intimacy with the original leaders of socialism in this country. When the sadness of his first wife's death was over, and the drudgery of toil was ended, he was happier than he had ever been. No time was wasted; no talent was misused. Mental labor was incessant, but in performing it there was pure delight. It is usual to think of his early life as his best, and there were some who regarded him as an extinct volcano; but I am of the opinion that his latter years were his most characteristic, and that he was most entirely himself when his intellectual nature came to its full play. In proportion as the "olden thoughts, the spirit's pall," fell off, he became peaceful and sweet; his view backward and forward became clear, his purpose steady, his will serene. The past was distasteful to him and he seldom alluded to it; but as one puts his childhood and his age together, a steady development is seen to run through both. His could not be a cloudless day, but he went on from glory to glory. His age more than justified the promise of his youth. In his latter years he befriended aspiring young men; he made literature a power in America; he threw a dignity around toil; he associated knowledge with happiness, and rendered light and love harmonious. His favorite author was Goethe, the apostle of culture. His familiarity with Sainte-Beuve, the master of literary criticism, was so great, that on occasion of that writer's decease, he sat down and wrote an account of him without recourse to books. Though without knowledge of art, destitute of taste for music, and deficient in Æsthetic appreciation, his sympathy was so large and true that these deficiencies were not felt. The intellectual sunshine was shed over the entire nature, and the book was so universal that it seemed to embrace everything.

This is the property of pure mind, rarely seen in such perfection of lucidity. Such a mind is at once conservative and radical; conservative as treasuring the past, radical as anticipating improvement in the future. There is nothing like fanaticism, but a bright look in every direction, a place for all sorts of accomplishments, hospitality to each new invention, a radiant acceptance of all temperaments. The mind cannot be superstitious, for it cannot believe that divine powers are identified with material objects or occasional accidents; it cannot be ever sanguine as those are who indulge in abstract visions of good, for it knows that progress is very slow and gradual, and that the welfare of mankind is advanced by the process of civilization, by cultivation, acquirement, refinement, the gains of wealth, elegance, and delicacy of taste. It judges by rational standards, not by sentimental feelings, accepting imperfection as the inevitable condition of human affairs and bounded characters. It is not exposed to the convulsions that accompany even the most exalted moods, but calmly labors and quietly hopes for the future.

I do not say that George Ripley was such a mind, merely that his tendency was in that direction. He was limited by traditions; he had too many prejudices. The axioms of the transcendental philosophy clung to him. The shreds of religion hung about him. He could not divest himself of the ancient clerical memories and ways, nor wholly throw off the mantle of personal sympathy he had so long worn. He was not completely secular.

That he was a perfect man is less evident still. His sunny quality was due in some degree to a happy temperament, and was subject to the eclipses that darken the blandest natures, and render sombre the most hilarious spirits. He lacked the steadfast courage of conviction, was somewhat over-prudent and timid, afraid of pain, of popular disapproval, of criticism and opposition. This may have been due in part to his frequent disappointments and the carefulness they forced upon him, to the distrust in his own judgment which he had occasion to learn, and the necessity of confining his action to the point immediately before him. But I am inclined to think that this apprehensiveness was constitutional. If it is suggested by way of objection that the bold experiment of Brook Farm, made in the face of obloquy and derision, indicated moral courage of a high stamp, I would remind the critic of the warm approbation of his friends, and the confident expectation of success on the part of those he was intimate with. His wife not merely gave him her countenance but stimulated his zeal, and surrounded him every day with an atmosphere of faith. He had the applause of Dr. Channing, and the support of his brilliant nephew. Men like Hawthorne, Ellis Gray Loring, George Stearns, not to mention others, urged him on. His own well-beloved sister was one of his ardent coadjutors. He had hopes of Emerson. In short, so far from being alone, he stood in an influential company, and instead of his being altogether unpopular was encompassed by the good-will of those he prized most. It would have required courage to resist such influences. Besides, he was inflated by a momentary enthusiasm which carried him along in spite of himself and would not allow his judgment to work. A sudden storm struck him, lifted unusual waves, caused unexampled spurts of foam, made the ordinarily quiet water boisterous and dangerous, and threw long lines of breakers on the coast, so that what was a still lake became of a sudden a tempestuous sea. One must not hastily imagine that the water had become an ocean, or that it was really an Atlantic formerly supposed to be a pool.

Then it must be said he loved money too well. This infirmity was not native to him, but must probably be imputed to early poverty, the necessity of working hard in order to pay debts not altogether of his own contracting, thus pledging the meagre income of the first sixty years of his life. His final income was large, but it was earned by incessant literary toil, which naturally rendered him avaricious of the rewards that might come to him. His generosity did not have a fair chance to show itself outside of his family. There it was lavish, but there it was too much mixed up with affection, duty, and pride to be credited to his manhood. He did not live long enough, either, to attain complete superiority over his accidents. He was already an old man before he had money for his wants. I remember meeting him on Broadway in 1861, the year of his wife's death, and he said: "My grief is embittered by the thought that she died just as I was getting able to obtain for her what she needed." He was then fifty-nine years of age. It cannot be expected that any impulse of generosity will overcome the habits of a life-time at so advanced a period as this. That they showed themselves at all is remarkable, and establishes as well their power as their existence.

In a word, this man was too heavily weighted by circumstances to do his genius full justice. He seemed to be two individuals, with little in common between them. As one looked at his past or at his present, his real character was differently judged. The most plausible account of him was that which supposed the experiences to be buried in a deep grave, which was seldom uncovered even by the man himself, who lived in the day before him, and rarely glanced back save to mourn over or to make sport of his former career. The only way of establishing a unity in his history is to concede the supremacy of the intellectual quality over the moral in his first endeavors. The prejudice in favor of the moral was and is so strong that to maintain this supremacy will seem like a condemnation of him, though meant in his praise. He probably would so have considered it, especially when carried away by the flood of memories. It was easy for him to be mistaken. His merit consists in the energy of the reason which made headway against a host of disadvantages and achieved something resembling a victory in the end. Some time hence, when the homage paid to sentiment shall have yielded to the worship of knowledge, George Ripley will be regarded as one of the earliest apostles of the light.

All these greatly enriched my life in New York, opened new spheres of activity, and enlarged my whole horizon, both intellectually and socially. Their variety, elasticity, and vigor in many fields of intellectual force added much to the extension of my view, and acted, not merely as a refreshment, but also as a stimulus.