My Friends at Brook Farm | Page 4

editorial, the untoward
incident putting an end to the labor of a long and arduous journalistic
career.
Across the way from Mr. Weed's residence in the Old Colonie was the
Van Antwerp house, bearing the date 1640 in iron figures at the peak of
the gable which fronted the street. It was built of yellow brick--or at
least the gable front was so built--and the Van Antwerp legend was that
these bricks were imported from Antwerp, the native town of their
family. The last descendant was Juferouw Cornelia Van Antwerp who
kept a little school in the basement of her dwelling, the family fortune
having dwindled until this home was about the only property left to the
Juferouw. In this school my sister Althea and I were taught the three
R's and not much else. The ancient Dutch spinster was a lady, well-bred,
dignified and courteous, who held a high place in the elect circle or Old
Colonie society, and was not the less esteemed because of her
straitened circumstances. Her walk and conversation were no doubt
edifying, but the curriculum of her scholastic institute possibly left
something to be desired in the departments of higher education. She
had one available qualification for her position, however,--being an
expert in making and mending quill pens. She spent much of her time
during school hours in shaping these writing instruments, and I imagine
she eked out her slender income by supplying pens to the neighbors.
The public schools were, in those days, looked upon as public charities,
and these were not attended by children whose parents or guardians
could afford to pay for private instruction which, whether better or

worse, did not at all events, suggest poverty. So it came about, that
father, on returning from one of his journeys eastward, brought home
the idea of sending Althea and myself to school at Brook Farm.
CHAPTER II
FRIEND GREELEY
When Mr. Greeley first came to our house, I was not very favorably
impressed by his appearance. He was tall and strongly built with broad
shoulders somewhat bent forward, a smooth face, fair complexion and
very light hair worn rather long. He was near-sighted and, like other
near-sighted folk had a way of peering forward as he walked, and this
with his heavy lurching gait, gave him a very awkward, countrified
carriage. He remarked in my presence at a later time, "I learned to walk
in the furrows of a New Hampshire farm and the clogging clay has
stuck to my feet ever since."
His voice was thin and high-pitched, a small voice for such a big man,
as we thought, and he had an abrupt manner of withdrawing attention
that was to us rather disconcerting until we got used to it. His pockets
were bulging with newspapers and memoranda, scrawled in the
curiously obscure handwriting which I subsequently found much
difficulty in learning to read, though it was plain enough when the
meaning of the strange hieroglyphics intended for letters was once fully
understood. He was pressed with business during his brief visits but
found time to make friends with the juveniles of the family and we
learned to welcome him with real pleasure. My mother noted that we
made him smile, and that went far in establishing intimacy. Horace
Greeley's rare smile revealed beauty of character and that charity
commended by St. Paul as greater than faith or hope; a smile more
nearly angelic than we often see in this mundane environment.
His peculiarities of dress have been, I think, much exaggerated by
common gossip. He wanted his clothes made big and easy, and he wore
them a long time and somewhat negligently, but that was because he
had other things to mind and not in the least because he affected

singularity. I was with him a good deal as a boy and as a young man
and I am sure he spoke truly when in response to some friendly advice
concerning these matters, he said "I buy good cloth, go to a good tailor
and pay a good price, and that is all I can do about it."
The popular phrase about Greeley's old white coat had some foundation
in fact, but not much. He did wear a light drab overcoat when I first
saw him, with the full pockets spreading out on each side. As it suited
him he wore it many years afterward, and when it was quite worn out
he had another one made just like it which he wore many years more. I
doubt if he ever had more than two of these famous garments, but it is
true that these two, always supposed to be the same old white coat,
were known all over the Northern part of the country. As late as the
first Grant presidential