Brook Farm: Historic and Personal MemoirsCodman, John Thomas
History
Brook Farm: Historic and Personal Memoirs
Codman, John Thomas
Brook Farm Phalanx (West Roxbury, Boston, Mass.)
I pass over the later autumn--when the fields are cleared of all but
the remains of vegetation, and we hear no more the songs of the
crickets and the multitudinous insect life that fills the air of the
August and September nights, as the full moon looks down on the fields
and meadow rich in foliage--to the time when the thought of the farmer
is for wood for the winter, for the preservation of the farming
implements, for making all things "taut and trig" about the barn and
houses to secure their warmth for the coming cold weather and snow;
past the day of the New England Thanksgiving, along to Christmas time,
saying only in passing that the leaders were much engaged in lecturing,
as well as with other duties.
One evening in autumn a party from the farm, myself the youngest of
them, started for Boston to hear one of a course of lectures. Mr.
Ripley was the chairman, and the ever bounteous joyousness of his
nature sparkled out in wit and mirth. These meetings were free, and
discussion was invited, but there was present an excitable woman who
had a habit of rising at any moment, no matter who was speaking, to
make odd remarks and inquiries. She was considered a great nuisance,
especially at the meetings of the antislavery societies, where she was
often found, and I more than once saw her "suppressed" by police
officers. On this occasion, whilst Mr. Brisbane was speaking, she arose
to propound questions.
Immediate excitement was visible in the audience, and cries of "Put her
out," arose. Mr. Ripley was on his feet in an instant. He declared the
meeting to be a free one, and that it was ever the faith and duty of
those engaged in this liberal movement to give the largest liberty to
all inquirers; he appealed to all to be quiet and hear what the lady
had to say, for she would, as well as all others, give them credit for
having paid respectful attention to whoever wished to make inquiries,
and whenever Miss F. had spoken, she could not but acknowledge that
they had always and at all times listened to her with the utmost--and
he hesitated as if seeking carefully for the exact word, which he
uttered slowly and with the utmost gravity--_patience_. At this queer
termination the audience laughed loudly, and gave her a hearing, and
shortly, pleased at her conquest, she sat down, and disturbed no future
meeting of the Associationists.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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