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Enthusiasts have tried the experiment of turning husbandman; one of them writes of his experience in notable phrase. "Oh, labour is the curse of the world, and nobody can meddle with it without becoming proportionately brutified. Is it a praiseworthy matter that I have spent five golden months in providing food for cows and horses? It is not so." Thus Nathaniel Hawthorne, at Brook Farm.
When he had been taught reading, writing, arithmetic, and geography, he left school and assisted his father on the farm, working as a weaver during the winter months. At the age of twenty-six he married a farmer's daughter, who bore him a son, John, and a daughter, Rosina, both of whom later became with him members of the society.
Had it been daylight she would have noticed that the young man colored. He thought guiltily of certain haunting fears of his childhood, ghosts in the attic, a banshee of which he had once heard a fearsome story, a cow that had chased him on the farm. She unconsciously assisted him from this slough of shame by saying suddenly: "Oh, yes, I can. I remember now. I'm afraid of mad dogs."
Dick sank to rest that night with a long sigh of relief, after meeting the mother and daughter and enjoying such a supper as one only finds on a prosperous farm.
Though she was Lady Corless, she took her meals with her family in the servants' hall and made it her business to see that Sir Tony was thoroughly comfortable and well-fed. The old gentleman had never been so comfortable in his life, or better fed. He had never been so free from worry. Bridie took over the management of the garden and farm. She employed her own relatives.
Reading sonnets always gives me hiccups, too. I never expected to be an author! But I do think there are some amusing things about the story of Andrew and myself and how books broke up our placid life. Andrew and I were wonderfully happy on the farm until he became an author.
But, sure, sir, it's little my life would be worth if it were known outside these walls that I had been here. My name is Bridget Moore, sir, and I belong to County Galway. Well, your honor, there was a desperate villain, they call the Red Captain, there. He was hiding in the hills for some time near the little farm my husband holds.
"Ah! these are old tricks, and more shame to me I was not up to them; but now, for the sake of the poor fellows we have got here, we must push on as fast as we can get the drove over this mud and these mortally bad roads. There's a house called Winn's Farm about three miles off from here, where we shall be able to get good pasturage, and the men will be well looked after."
He took it from the trap and hid it away under the dead leaves beneath the hedge some yards from the gap, and then went to his work. During the day one of the farm hands went out to speak to him. He was a small, quiet old man, a discreet friend, and Caleb confided to him what he had done. "Leave it to me," said his old friend, and went back to the farm.
These certainly were exceptionally good, as we learnt by bitter experience. By night there was greater activity, and rifle bullets fell thickly round Cookers Farm and the surrounding country.
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