Services for John Brown at Concord, Massachusetts, December 2, 1859

The martyrdom of John Brown was most worthily celebrated at Concord, Massachusetts. The town which inaugurated the first American "Insurrection" was faithful to its traditions in doing honor to the first martyr of the second and the grander Revolution; and, unlike other towns, equally zealous for justice, and equally desirous of doing honor to the merits and memory of John Brown, it possessed more men by nature fit for the occasion, than any other community of the same population in the Union.

The meeting at Concord assembled in the Town Hall at two o'clock in the afternoon, Dec. 2d, and was called to order by the Hon. Simon Brown, who said that on this day Virginia had inflicted on herself a worse blow than all her enemies had ever done or could do; she had, under the forms of law, murdered her truest friend.

Rev. E. H. Sears, of Wayland, offered up the following

PRAYER.

Our Father who art in heaven, we desire at this hour to gather ourselves closer within thine omnipotence and mercy; for when a sense of this world's oppressions and wrongs hangs heavily upon us, to whom shall we go but unto thee? Thou dost unite us to thyself by ties of filial love, and to our fellow-men by the ties of a common brotherhood, for thou hast given us all one human heart. Look down at this hour from thy holy heavens, and extend thy protecting providence another by the hand of Away from the dismal around one who is passing from this world to violence, and from the midst of cruel men. surroundings, away from the scaffold, away from the scoffings and the strife of tongues, open, we beseech thee, a clear pathway to that world where there is no hatred and wrong; where the wicked cease from troubling, and the slave is free from his master. And remember, we pray thee, those whose hearts are now made to break and to bleed those who at this hour are called to widowhood and orphanage; fold them tenderly in the arms of thy providence, and lead them and preserve them. And remember the race who have been trodden down for ages under the heel of oppression and wrong, and let their redemption come. Let those who have passed on through fire and blood, plead for them with thee. Let the blood of all thy martyrs for liberty, from ancient times down to this hour, cry to thee from the ground till the slave rises from his thraldom into the full glory of manhood. And when that day shall come, let it not be through the chaos of revolutions, not by staining this fair earth with the blood of brothers, but let thy spirit descend in its gentleness, and change the heart of the master, and melt off the fetters of the slave. And O, at this dark hour, give us a new consecration of ourselves to the cause of humanity By Him who came from heaven and clothed himself in our nature, the nature of the humblest man that lives, that he might raise it up and glorify it; by him who took up into his experience all the wants and woes of our common humanity; by him who speaks from all thy lowly ones, "Inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these, ye did it unto me," — by all these motives may we take with fresh zeal the vow of self-devotion to the cause of God and man. And to thee, in Jesus Christ, be all the glory forever. Amen.

This hymn was then sung by a choir, accompanied by the music of an organ, which had been placed in the Hall for this occasion:

HYMN.

 

Go to the grave in all thy glorious prime,

    In full activity of zeal and power;

A Christian cannot die before his time;

    The Lord's appointment is his servant's hour.

 

Go to the grave; at noon from labor cease;

    Best on thy sheaves; the harvest task is done;

Come from the heat of battle, and in peace,

    Soldier, go home; with thee the fight is won.

 

Go to the grave; for there thy Saviour lay

    In death's embrace, ere he arose on high;

And all the ransomed, by that narrow way

    Pass to eternal life beyond the sky.

 

Go to the grave; no, take thy seat above;

    Be thy pure spirit present with the Lord;

Where thou for faith and hope hast perfect love,

    And open vision for the written word.

 

MR. THOREAU'S REMARKS.

Henry D. Thoreau then rose and said: So universal and widely related is any transcendent moral greatness, and so nearly identical with greatness every where and in every age,—as a pyramid contracts the nearer you approach its apex,— that, when I now look over my commonplace book of poetry, I find that the best of it is oftenest applicable, in part or wholly, to the case of Captain Brown. Only what is true, and strong, and solemnly earnest, will recommend itself to our mood at this time. Almost any noble verse may be read, either as his elegy or eulogy, or be made the text of an oration on him. Indeed, such are now discovered to be the parts of a universal liturgy, applicable to those rare cases of heroes and martyrs for which the ritual of no church has provided. This is the formula established on high—their burial service to which every great genius has contributed its stanza or line. As Marvell wrote:

When the sword glitters o'er the judge's head,

And fear has coward churchmen silenced,

Then is the poet's time; 'tis then he draws,

And single fights forsaken virtue's cause;

He, when the wheel of empire whirleth back,

And though the world's disjointed axle crack,

Sings still of ancient rights and better times,

Seeks suffering good, arraigns successful crimes.

 

The sense of grand poetry, read by the light of this event, is brought out distinctly like an invisible writing held to the fire:

 

All heads must come

To the cold tomb, —

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

 

We have heard that the Boston lady¹ who recently visited our hero in prison, found him wearing still the clothes, all cut and torn by sabres and by bayonet thrusts, in which he had been taken prisoner; and thus he had gone to his trial; and without a hat. She spent her time in prison mending those clothes, and, for a memento, brought home a pin covered with blood.

What are the clothes that endure?

The garments lasting evermore

Are works of mercy to the poor;

And neither tetter, time, nor moth

Shall fray that silk or fret this cloth.

 

The well-known verses called "The Soul's Errand," supposed, by some, to have been written by Sir Walter Raleigh, when he was expecting to be executed the following day, are at least worthy of such an origin, and are equally applicable to the present case. Hear them: 

THE SOUL'S ERRAND.

 

Go, soul, the body's guest,

    Upon a thankless arrant;

Fear not to touch the best;

    The truth shall be thy warrant:

        Go, since I needs must die,

        And give the world the lie.

 

Go, tell the Court it glows

    And shines like rotten wood;

Go, tell the Church it shows

    What's good, and doth no good;

        If church and court reply,

        Give church and court the lie.

 

Tell potentates they live

    Acting by other's actions;

Not loved unless they give,

    Not strong but by their factions:

        If potentates reply,

        Give potentates the lie.

 

Tell men of high condition,

    That rule affairs of state,

Their purpose is ambition,

    Their practice only hate;

        And if they once reply,

        Spare not to give the lie.

 

Tell Zeal it lacks devotion;

    Tell Love it is but lust;

Tell Time it is but motion;

    Tell Flesh it is but dust;

        And wish them not reply,

        For thou must give the lie.

 

Tell Age it daily wasteth;

    Tell Honor how it alters;

Tell Beauty how she blasteth;

    Tell Favor how she falters;

        And, as they shall reply,

        Give each of them the lie.

 

Tell Fortune of her blindness;

    Tell Nature of decay;

Tell Friendship of unkindness;

    Tell Justice of delay;

        And if they dare reply,

        Then give them all the lie.

 

And when thou hast, as I

    Commanded thee, done blabbing,

Although to give the lie

    Deserves no less than stabbing,

        Yet, stab at thee who will,

        No stab the soul can kill.

 

"When I am dead,

    Let not the day be writ,"

Nor bell be tolled;²

    "Love will remember it"

When hate is cold.

 

Mr. Thoreau also read these passages, selected for the occasion by another citizen of Concord:

 

COLLINS.

 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,

By all their country's wishes blest!

When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,

Returns to deck their hallowed mould,

She there shall dress a sweeter sod

Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

 

By Fairy hands their knell is rung,

By forms unseen their dirge is sung;

There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,

To bless the turf that wraps their clay,

And Freedom shall awhile repair,

To dwell a weeping hermit there.

 

SCHILLER.

 

He is gone, he is dust;

He the more fortunate; yea, he hath finished;

To him there is no longer any future;

His life is bright — bright without spot it was,

And cannot cease to be. No ominous hour

Knocks at his door with tidings of mishap.

Far off is he, above desire and fear;

No more submitted to the change and chance

Of the unsteady planets. O, 'tis well

With him; but who knows what the coming hour,

Veiled in thick darkness, brings for us?

 

WORDSWORTH.

May we not with sorrow say,

A few strong instincts, and a few plain rules,

Among the serdsmen of the hills, have wrought

More for mankind at this unhappy day,

Than all the pride of intellect and thought?

 

TENNYSON.

 

Ah, God! for a man with heart, head, hand,

Like some of the simple great ones gone

        Forever and ever by;

One still strong man in a blatant land,

Whatever they call him what care I,—

Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat,—one

Who can rule, and dare not lie.

 

GEORGE CHAPMAN.

 

There is no danger to a man who knows

Where life and death is; there's not any law

Exceeds his knowledge, neither is it needful

That he should stoop to any other law;

He goes before them, and commands them all.

That to himself is a law rational.

 

SHILLER.

 

                                      At the approach

Of Extreme peril, when a hollow image

Is found a hollow image, and no more,

Then falls the power into the mighty hands

Of nature, of the spirit giant-born

Who listens only to himself, knows nothing

Of stipulations, duties, reverences,

And, like the emancipated force of fire

Unmastered, scorches, ere it reaches them,

Their fine-spun webs.

 

WOTTON.

 

How happy is he born and taught

    Who serveth not another’s will,

Whose armor is his honest thought,

    And simple truth his utmost skill—!

Whose passions not his masters are,

    Whose soul is still prepared for death,

Not tied unto the world with care

    Of princes’ ear  or vulgar breath;—

Who hath his life from rumors freed,

    Whose conscience is his strong retreat,

Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

    Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who envies none whom chance doth raise,

    Or vice; who never understood

How deepest wounds are given with praise;

    Nor rules of state, but rules of good; —

This man is freed from servile bands

    Of hope to rise or fear to fall;

Lord of himself, though not of lands,

    And having nothing, yet hath all.

TACITUS.³

You, Agricola, are fortunate, not only because your life was glorious, but because your death was timely. As they tell us who heard your last words, unchanged and willing you accepted your fate; as if, as far as in your power, you would make the emperor appear innocent. But, besides the bitterness of having lost a parent, it adds to our grief, that it was not permitted us to minister to your health, . . . to gaze on your countenance, and receive your last embrace; surely, we might have caught some words and commands which we could have treasured in the inmost part of our souls. This is our pain, this our wound. . . . You were buried with the fewer tears, and in your last earthly light, your eyes looked around for something which they did not see.

If there is any abode for the spirits of the pious; if, as wise men suppose, great souls are not extinguished with the body, may you rest placidly, and call your family from weak regrets, and womanly laments, to the contemplation of your virtues, which must not be lamented, either silently or aloud. Let us honor you by our admiration, rather than by short-lived praises, and, if nature aid us, by our emulation of you. That is true honor, that the piety of whoever is most akin to you. This also I would teach your family, so to venerate your memory, as to call to mind all your actions and words, and embrace your character and the form of your soul, rather than of your body; not because I think that statues which are made of marble or brass are to be condemned, but as the features of men, so images of the features, are frail and perishable. The form of the soul is eternal; and this we can retain and express, not by a foreign material and art, but by our own lives. Whatever of Agricola we have loved, whatever we have admired, remains, and will remain, in the minds of men, and the records of history, through the eternity of ages. For oblivion will overtake many of the ancients, as if they were inglorious and ignoble : Agricola, described and transmitted to posterity, will survive.

MR. CHARLES BOWERS followed Mr. Thoreau, and read the celebrated protest of Thomas Jefferson, author of the Declaration of Independence, third President of the United States, a Virginian, a historian of Virginia, and the predecessor of Governor Wise in the gubernatorial chair of that State; in which, it will be seen, he seems to have anticipated something like what has lately occurred:

PROTEST OF JEFFERSON.

The whole commerce between master and slave is a perpetual exercise of the most boisterous passions, the most unremitting despotism on the one part, and degrading submission on the other. . . . The man must be a prodigy who can retain his manners and morals undepraved by such circumstances. And with what execration should the statesman be loaded, who, permitting one half the citizens thus to trample on the rights of the other, transforms those into despots and these into enemies—destroys the morals of the one part, and the amor patriæ of the other! And can the liberties of a nation be deemed secure, when we have removed their only firm basis—a conviction in the minds of the people that these liberties are the gift of God? that they are not to be violated but with his wrath? Indeed, I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just that his justice cannot sleep forever; that, considering numbers, nature and natural means only, a revolution of the wheel of fortune, an exchange of situation, is among possible events; that it may become probable by supernatural interference! The Almighty has no attribute that can take side with us in such a contest.

HON. John S. Keyes said: In order to give this assembly a picture of the event now taking place in Virginia, I propose to read to you an account of a scene in some respects similar, which occurred in Edinburgh some two hundred years ago:

 

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE.⁴

 

They brought him to the Watergate,

    Hard bound with hempen span,

As though they held a lion there,

    And not a venceless man.

They set him high upon a cart—

    The hangman rode below—

They drew his hands behind his back,

    And bared his noble brow.

Then as a hound is slipped from leash,

    They cheered the common throng,

And blew the note with yell and shout,

    And bade him pass along.

 

It would have made a brave man's heart

    Grow sad and sick, that day,

To watch the keen, malignant eyes

    Bent down on that array.

Then stood the Whig south country lords

    In balcony and bow;

There sat their gaunt and withered domes,

    And their daughters all a-row;

And every open window

    Was full as full might be

With black-robed Covenanting carles,

    That goodly sport to see!

 

But when he came, though pale and wan.

    He looked so great and high,

So noble was his manly front,

    So calm his steadfast eye,

The rabble rout forbore to shout,

    And each man held his breath,

For well they knew the hero's soul

    Was face to face with death.

And then a mournful shudder

    Through all the people crept,

And some that came to scoff at him

    Now turned aside and wept.

 

But onward — always onward

    In silence and in gloom,

The dreary pageant labored,

    Till it reached the place of doom.

 And then uprose the great Montrose

    In the middle of the room-

"I have not sought in battle-field

    A wreath of such renown,

Nor dared I hope, on my dying day,

    To win the martyr's crown.

 

"There is a chamber far away

    Where sleep the good and brave,

But a better place ye have named for me

    Than by my father's grave.

For truth and right, 'gainst tyrants' might

    This hand hath always striven,

And ye raise it up for a witness still

    In the eye of earth and heaven.

Then nail my head on yonder tower

    Give every town a limb-

And God, who made, shall gather them;

    I go from you to Him!"

 

The morning dawned full darkly,

    The rain came flashing down,

And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt

    Lit up the gloomy town:

The thunder crashed across the heaven,

    The fatal hour was come;

Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat.

    The 'larum of the drum.

There was madness on the earth below,

    And anger in the sky;

And young and old, and rich and poor,

    Came forth to see him die.

 

Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet!

    How dismal 'tis to see

The great, tall, spectral skeleton,

    The ladder and the tree!

Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms

    The bells begin to toll — 

"He is coming! He is coming!"

    "God's mercy on his soul!"

One last, long peal of thunder —

    The clouds are cleared away,

And the glorious sun once more looks down

    Amidst the dazzling day.

"He is coming! he is coming!"

    Like a bridegroom from his room,

Came the hero from his prison

    To the scaffold and the doom.

There was glory on his forehead,

    There was lustre in his eye,

And he never walked to battle

    More proudly than to die;

There was color in his visage,

    Though the checks of all were wan,

And they marvelled as they saw him pass,

    That great and goodly man!

 

He mounted up the scaffold,

    And he turned him to the crowd;

But they dared not trust the people,

    So he might not speak aloud.

But he looked upon the heavens,

    And they were clear and blue,

And in the liquid ether

    The eye of God shone through;

Yet a black and murky battlement

    Lay resting on the hill,

As though the thunder slept within

    All else was calm and still.

The grim Geneva ministers

     With anxious scowl drew near,

As you have seen the ravens flock

    Around the dying deer.

He would not deign them word nor sign,

    But alone he bent his knee,

And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace,

    Beneath the gallows tree.

Then radiant and serene he rose,

    And cast his cloak away;

For he had ta'en his latest look

    Of earth, and sun, and day.

 

A beam of light fell o'er him

    Like a glory round the shriven,

And he climbed the lofty ladder

    As it were the path to heaven.

Then came a flash from out the cloud,

    And a stunning thunder-roll;

And no man dared to look aloft;

    Fear was on every soul.

There was another heavy sound,

    A hush, and then a groan;

And darkness swept across the sky —

    The work of death was done!

A. Bronson Alcott then offered these sentences from

PLATO.

An upright man is a perpetual magistrate.

Jupiter, fearing for our race, lest it should entirely perish, by reason of injuring one another from not possessing the political art, but only the military, sent Hermes to carry Shame and Justice to men, that they might be ornaments of cities and bonds to cement friend,hip. Hermes, therefore, asked Jupiter in what manner he was to give Shame and Justice to men. "Whether, as the arts have been distributed, so shall I distribute these, also? For they have been distributed thus: one man who possesses the medicinal art is sufficient for many not skilled in it. And so with other craftsmen. Shall I thus dispense Shame and Justice among men, or distribute them to all?" "To all," said Jupiter, "and let all partake of them; for there would be no cities if a few only were to partake of them, as of other arts. Moreover, enact a law in my name, that whoever is unable to partake of Shame and Justice, shall be put to death as a pest of a city."

The next exercise was the recital of the following original

ODE.

 

O Brother, brave, and just, and wise!

    Whose death unjust we mourn to-day,

Thy name shall live till Freedom dies;

    No tyrant can thy spirit slay!

 

The Hero's page, the Martyr's scroll,

    Since men for truth and virtue bled,

Bears record of no manlier soul

    Than thine that even now has fled.

 

Unworthy land that knew thee not!

    That bade her best and bravest die!

Be hers the shame thy glorious lot

    Admits thy soul to God's free sky.

 

His constant voice inspired thy deed.

    His clear command thy heart obeyed,

His hand shall give thy deathless meed

    When thou and we in dust are laid.

 

The prattling child shall lisp thy praise,

    The aged sire thy cause approve;

Forbidden to prolong thy days,

    Our love shall yet thy shame remove.

 

Ralph Waldo Emerson said that the part assigned to him in the services of the day, was to read portions of the conversations, speeches, and letters of John Brown—an obscure Connecticut farmer, who, taking the Gospel in earnest, and devoting himself to the uplifting of a despised race, had suddenly become the most prominent person in the country. He then read extracts from the conversation between Senator Mason and John Brown, and from Captain Cook's Confession; the last speech of John Brown in Court; his letter to Rev. Mr. Vaill, of Litchfield, Connecticut; his "letter to a Christian Conservative," and a passage from his reply to Mrs. Child.⁵

Mr. Alcott then read the

SERVICE FOR THE DEATH OF A MARTYR.

In introducing this new and worthy liturgy, he said that on occasions like the present, when the heart and the conscience are so deeply moved, silence seems better than speech. Yet some voice must be found for the sentiment so universal today; and accordingly I now read to you these leaves of wisdom from

 

JESUS CHRIST.

 

    Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them: for this is the law and the prophets.

    Whether it is lawful to obey God or man, judge ye.

SOLOMON.⁶

The ungodly said, reasoning with themselves, but not aright, Our life is short and tedious, and in the death of a man there is no remedy; neither was there any man known to have returned from the grave.

Let us oppress the poor righteous man; let us not spare the widow, nor reverence the ancient gray hairs of the aged.

Let our strength be the law; for that which is feeble is found to be nothing worth.

Therefore let us lie in wait for the righteous; because he is not for our turn, and he is clean contrary to our doings: he upbraideth us with our offending the law.

He professeth to have the knowledge of God; and he calleth himself the child of the Lord. He was made to reprove our thoughts.

He is grievous unto us even to behold: for his life is not like other men's, his ways are of another fashion.

We are esteemed of him as counterfeits; he abstaineth from our ways as from filthiness; he pronounceth the end of the just to be blessed, and maketh his boast that God is his father.

Let us see if his words be true, and let us prove what shall happen in the end of him.

For, if the just man be the Son of God, He will help him, and deliver him from the hand of his enemies.

Let us examine him with despitefulness and torture, that we may know his meekness and prove his patience.

Let us condemn him with a shameful death; for by his own saying he shall be respected.

Such things they did imagine and were deceived; for their own wickedness had blinded them.

They, the people, stood up, and the rulers took counsel together against the Lord and against his Anointed.

They cast their heads together with one consent, and were confederate against him.

He heard the blasphemy of the multitude, and fear was on every side, while they conspired together against him to take away his life.

They spake against him with false tongues, and compassed him about with words of hatred.

They rewarded him evil for good.

They took their counsel together, saying, God hath forsaken him: persecute him and take him, for there is none to deliver.

Let the sentence of guiltiness proceed against him, and now that he lieth, let him rise up no more.

False witnesses, also, did rise up against him; they laid to his charge things that he knew not.⁷

Then shall the righteous man stand in great boldness before the face of such as have afflicted him and made no account of his labors.

"For the sins of the people and the iniquities of the rulers they shed the blood of the just. In their anger they slew a man; the man whom Thou hadst made so strongly for Thine Own Self." — Lamentations.

He, being made perfect, in a short time fulfilled a long time.

For his soul pleased the Lord; therefore, hasted He to take him away from among the Wicked.

This the People saw and understood it not, neither laid they up this in their minds that His grace and mercy is with His saints, and that He hath respect unto His Chosen.

When they see it they shall be troubled with terrible fear, and shall be amazed at the strangeness of his salvation, so far beyond all that they looked for.

And they, repenting and groaning for anguish of spirit, shall say within themselves, This was he whom we had sometime in derision and a proverb of reproach.

We, fools, accounted his life madness and his end to be without honor. How is he numbered among the children of God, and his lot is among the saints!

What hath pride profited us? or what good hath riches with our vaunting brought us?

All those things are passed away like a shadow, and as a post that hasteth by ;

And as a ship that passeth over the waves of the water;

Or as when a bird hath flown through the air;

Or, like as when an arrow is shot at a mark, it parteth the air, which immediately cometh together again, so that a man cannot know where it went through;

Even so we, in like manner, as soon as we were born, began to draw to our end, and had no sign of virtue to show; but were consumed in our own wickedness.

But the righteous live forevermore; their reward, also, is with the Lord; and the care of them is with the Most High.

Therefore shall they receive a glorious kingdom and a beautiful crown from the Lord's hand; for with his right hand shall he cover them, and with his arm shall he protect them.

Great are Thy Judgments, and cannot be expressed; therefore unnurtured souls have erred.

For, when unrighteous men thought to oppress the righteous one, they, being shut up in their houses, the prisoners of darkness, and fettered with the bonds of a long night, lay there exiled from the Eternal Providence.

For while they supposed to lie hid in their secret sins, they were scattered under a dark veil of forgetfulness, being horribly astonished and troubled with strange apparitions.

For neither might the corner that held them keep them from fear; but noises, as of waters falling down, sounded about them; and sad visions appeared unto them with heavy countenances.

No power of the fire might give them light; neither could the bright flames of the stars endure to lighten that horrible night.

Only there appeared unto them a fire kindled of itself, very dreadful; for, being much terrified, they thought the things which they saw to be worse than the sight they saw not.

Yea, the tasting of death touched the righteous also.

For then the blameless man made haste, and stood forth to defend them, and bringing the shield of his proper ministry, even prayer and the propitiation of incense, set himself against the wrath, and so brought the calamity to an end, declaring that he was Thy Servant.

So he overcame the destroyer, not with the strength of body or force of arms, but with a word subdued he him that punished, alleging the oaths and covenants made with the Fathers.

For, in all things, O Lord, Thou didst magnify Thy Servant and glorify him; neither didst Thou lightly regard him, but didst assist him in every time and place.

The souls of the righteous are in the hands of God, and there shall no torment touch them.

In the sight of the unwise he seemed to die: and his departure is taken for misery, and his going from us to be utter destruction; but he is in peace.

For though he be punished in the sight of men, yet is his hope full of Immortality.

And, having been a little chastised, he shall be greatly rewarded; for God proved him and found him worthy for himself.

He shall judge the nations and have dominion over the people, and his Lord shall reign forever.

The following original verses, by a gentleman of Concord, were then read by Mr. Brown, and sung by the congregation standing:

DIRGE.

To-day beside Potomac's wave,

    Beneath Virginia's sky,
They slay the man who loved the slave,
    And dared for him to die.

The Pilgrim Fathers' earnest creed,
    Virginia's ancient faith,
Inspired this hero's noblest deed,
    And his reward is — Death!

Great Washington's indignant shade
    Forever urged him on —
He heard from Monticello's glade
    The voice of Jefferson.

But chiefly on the Hebrew page
    He read Jehovah's law,
And this, from youth to hoary age,
    Obeyed with love and awe.

No selfish purpose armed his hand,
    No passion aimed his blow;
How loyally he loved his land
    Impartial Time shall show.

But now the faithful martyr dies;
    His brave heart beats no more;
His soul ascends the equal skies;
    His earthly course is o'er.

For this we mourn, but not for him:
    Like him, in God we trust;
And though our eyes with tears are dim,
    We know that God is just.

_______________

¹ The wife of Judge Russell.

² The selectmen of the town, not knowing but they had authority, refused to allow the bell to be tolled on this occasion.

³ Translated by Mr. Thoreau.

⁴ From Aytoun's "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers."

⁵ I do not wish to repeat the same quotations in any of my books; and, as all the passages read by Mr. Emerson appear in my Life of John Brown, in the chapters entitled "The Political Inquisitors," "Condemned to die," "Lying in Wait," and "The Conquering Pen," I omit them here.

⁶ Chiefly from the "Wisdom of Solomon."

⁷ The last eight verses are from the Psalter.

SOURCE: James Redpath, Editor, Echoes of Harper’s Ferry, p. 437-54

M. E. S.* to John Brown, November 29, 1859

MASSACHUSETTS, November 29.

Dear Friend: I have written to you once before, but fear it has never reached you; and now I try again, trusting in the generosity of Capt. Avis. Be of good cheer, dear, brave old friend; your dear ones will be generously and lovingly cared for all the rest of their days! Last evening there was a crowded and enthusiastic meeting at the Tremont Temple, Boston, the proceeds of which were to go to your stricken family. Every where, from all parts of the country, money is pouring in, in large sums and small, for the cause your self-devotion has made sacred to all Christian hearts. I would gladly relinquish ten years of my mortal life, if thereby you could hear even the echo of the noble things that were said by the noblest men in our land last night, I longed for wings to fly to you and tell the words of life, beauty, and eternal truth uttered so eloquently by that poet and philosopher, Mr. Emerson, in behalf of you and your cause. Not many eyes were dry; and every body that had a heart throbbed in unison with your own. God is very good, my friend. He never forgets us; and, in our darkest hour, he sends us the light and strength we need. Thousands of true men and women will never tire of trying to fill the void your death will make to the afflicted family at North Elba. Trust me when I say we will never forget them. . . . Dear, brave old friend, I honor, love, and bless you for the immortal testimony you have given to truth and right. I consecrate myself anew to the cause of the oppressed. Go bravely to your death! God and His holy angels stand ready to receive you, and generations yet unborn will cherish with love the remembrance of John Brown at Harper's Ferry. Farewell!

Yours in love and blessing forever,

M. E. S.

Please give poor Stevens my heartfelt sympathy and admiration for his fortitude and patience. God bless you both!

_______________

* A Massachusetts matron. Redpath indicates that she is the author of the first letter in this chapter.

SOURCE: James Redpath, Editor, Echoes of Harper’s Ferry, p. 425-6

Charles Sumner to George Sumner, February 18, 1850

You will read the proceedings at Washington. The bluster of the South is, I think, subsiding, though as usual the North is frightened, and promises to give way. I hope to God they will stand firm. There is a small body at Washington who will not yield, the Free Soilers. Hale sustains hinself with great address and ability, but Chase is a person of a higher order of capacity. As to Webster, Emerson calls him a dead elephant !

SOURCE: Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner, Vol. 3, p. 212

Boston Hymn

By Ralph Waldo Emerson

Read In Music Hall, January 1, 1863

The word of the Lord by night
To the watching Pilgrims came,
As they sat by the seaside,
And filled their hearts with flame.

God said, I am tired of kings,
I suffer them no more;
Up to my ear the morning brings
The outrage of the poor.

Think ye I made this ball
A field of havoc and war,
Where tyrants great and tyrants small
Might harry the weak and poor?

My angel, — his name is Freedom,
Choose him to be your king;
He shall cut pathways east and west
And fend you with his wing.

Lo! I uncover the land
Which I hid of old time in the West,
As the sculptor uncovers the statue
When he has wrought his best;

I show Columbia, of the rocks
Which dip their foot in the seas
And soar to the air-borne flocks
Of clouds and the boreal fleece.

I will divide my goods;
Call in the wretch and slave:
None shall rule but the humble,
And none but Toil shall have.

I will have never a noble,
No lineage counted great;
Fishers and choppers and ploughmen
Shall constitute a state.

Go, cut down trees in the forest
And trim the straightest boughs;
Cut down trees in the forest
And build me a wooden house

Call the people together,
The young men and the sires,
The digger in the harvest-field,
Hireling and him that hires;

And here in a pine state-house
They shall choose men to rule
In every needful faculty,
In church and state and school.

Lo, now! if these poor men
Can govern the land and sea
And make just laws below the sun,
As planets faithful be.

And ye shall succor men;
’T is nobleness to serve;
Help them who cannot help again:
Beware from right to swerve.

I break your bonds and masterships,
And I unchain the slave:
Free be his heart and hand henceforth
As wind and wandering wave.

I cause from every creature
His proper good to flow:
As much as he is and doeth,
So much he shall bestow.

But, laying hands on another
To coin his labor and sweat,
He goes in pawn to his victim
For eternal years in debt.

To-day unbind the captive,
So only are ye unbound;
Lift up a people from the dust,
Trump of their rescue, sound!

Pay ransom to the owner
And fill the bag to the brim.
Who is the owner? The slave is owner,
And ever was. Pay him.

O North! give him beauty for rags,
And honor, O South! for his shame;
Nevada! coin thy golden crags
With Freedom's image and name.

Up! and the dusky race
That sat in darkness long, —
Be swift their feet as antelopes,
And as behemoth strong.

Come, East and West and North,
By races, as snow-flakes,
And carry my purpose forth,
Which neither halts nor shakes.

My will fulfilled shall be,
For, in daylight or in dark,
My thunderbolt has eyes to see
His way home to the mark.

 
SOURCE: Edward W. Emerson, Editor, The Complete Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson: Volume IX, Poems, p. 201-4

Dr. Seth Rogers to his daughter Dolly, February 7, 1863

February 7, 1863.

Emerson and Thoreau are oftener in my mind, in connection with this camp life and these people, than any other writers I know. While I am constantly studying how to keep these men well, or to alleviate their sufferings, they as constantly fill me with something higher than a feeling of philanthropy, a sort of oriental sympathy, outreaching the wants of the body. Gen. Saxton has said that these people are "intensely human," and I will add that I find them intensely divine. It is, however, more difficult to call out the divine than the human. The blessings resulting from freedom will wash away the accursed stains of slavery and all the world will see that these are also children of God. They have a boundless conception of the divine spirit and an intense trust in the fatherhood of God. . . . It is true, they will commit almost as many sins as their white neighbors, but I am speaking now of the religious element and leaving the moral to be controlled by culture. . .

Keeping our men below so long on the John Adams destroyed more lives than the rifle shots would have done. It seemed a choice of evils and the least apparent was chosen. But the return of sunshine will help restore the sick.

SOURCE: Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society, Volume 43, October, 1909—June, 1910: February 1910. p. 358

Dr. Seth Rogers to his daughter Dolly, February 9, 1863

ST. HELENA ISLAND, February 9, 1863.

Yesterday afternoon I put my new saddle and bridle on the long-legged horse, claimed by the Colonel and Adjutant, and came over here to spend the night at the house of the Hunn's and Miss Forten. This is the first night I have slept in a house since the 18th day of December. It seems strange to find myself in the midst of civilization and buckwheat cakes. Just before leaving camp, I read Mr. Emerson's "Boston Hymn," to our regiment, while assembled for divine worship. I prefaced it with the remark that many white folks could not understand the poems of Mr. Emerson, but I had no apprehensions of that kind from those before me. It was enough that Robert Sutton's eyes were glistening before me as I read. I was standing on the veranda of the plantation house and the men were under a beautiful magnolia tree toward the river. Mr. Emerson would have trembled with joy to see how much these dark colored men drank in the religion of his poem. The chaplain was filled with emotion by it and straightway took the poem for his text and when I left, was enthusiastically speaking from it.

SOURCE: Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society, Volume 43, October, 1909—June, 1910: February 1910. p. 358-9

Dr. Seth Rogers to his daughter Dolly, February 7, 1863

February 7, 1863.

. . . Emerson and Thoreau are oftener in my mind, in connection with this camp life and these people, than any other writers I know. While I am constantly studying how to keep these men well, or to alleviate their sufferings, they as constantly fill me with something higher than a feeling of philanthropy, a sort of oriental sympathy, outreaching the wants of the body. Gen. Saxton has said that these people are “intensely human,” and I will add that I find them intensely divine. It is, however, more difficult to call out the divine than the human. The blessings resulting from freedom will wash away the accursed stains of slavery and all the world will see that these are also children of God. They have a boundless conception of the divine spirit and an intense trust in the fatherhood of God. . . . It is true, they will commit almost as many sins as their white neighbors, but I am speaking now of the religious element and leaving the moral to be controlled by culture. . . .

Keeping our men below so long on the John Adams destroyed more lives than the rifle shots would have done. It seemed a choice of evils and the least apparent was chosen. But the return of sunshine will help restore the sick.

SOURCE: Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society, Volume 43, October, 1909—June, 1910: February 1910. p. 358

Dr. Seth Rogers to his daughter Dolly, February 9, 1863

 ST. HELENA ISLAND, February 9, 1863.

Yesterday afternoon I put my new saddle and bridle on the long-legged horse, claimed by the Colonel and Adjutant, and came over here to spend the night at the house of the Hunn's and Miss Forten. This is the first night I have slept in a house since the 18th day of December. It seems strange to find myself in the midst of civilization and buckwheat cakes. Just before leaving camp, I read Mr. Emerson's “Boston Hymn,” to our regiment, while assembled for divine worship. I prefaced it with the remark that many white folks could not understand the poems of Mr. Emerson, but I had no apprehensions of that kind from those before me. It was enough that Robert Sutton's eyes were glistening before me as I read. I was standing on the veranda of the plantation house and the men were under a beautiful magnolia tree toward the river. Mr. Emerson would have trembled with joy to see how much these dark colored men drank in the religion of his poem. The chaplain was filled with emotion by it and straightway took the poem for his text and when I left, was enthusiastically speaking from it.

SOURCE: Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society, Volume 43, October, 1909—June, 1910: February 1910. p. 359

Diary of Amos Bronson Alcott: December 2, 1859

Ellen Emerson sends me her fair copy of the Martyr Service. At 2 P. M. we meet at the Town Hall, our own townspeople present mostly, and many from the adjoining towns. Simon Brown is chairman; the readings are by Thoreau, Emerson, C. Bowers, and Alcott; and Sanborn's “Dirge” is sung by the company standing. The bells are not rung. I think not more than one or two of Brown's friends wished them to be; I did not. It was more fitting to signify our sorrow in the subdued way, and silently, than by any clamor of steeples or the awakening of angry feelings or any conflict, as needless as unamiable, between neighbors. The services are affecting and impressive, distinguished by modesty, simplicity, and earnestness, — worthy alike of the occasion and of the man.

SOURCE: Franklin B. Sanborn, The Life and Letters of John Brown, p. 629-30

Thomas Wentworth Higginson to Louisa Storrow Higginson, July 10, 1859

July 10, 1859

Dearest Mother:

Emerson says, “To-day is a king in disguise”; and it is sometimes odd to think that these men and women of the "Atlantic Monthly," mere mortals to me, will one day be regarded as demi-gods, perhaps, and that it would seem as strange to another generation for me to have sat at the same table with Longfellow or Emerson, as it now seems that men should have sat at table with Wordsworth or with Milton. So I may as well tell you all about my inducting little Harriet Prescott into that high company.

She met me at twelve in Boston at Ticknor's and we spent a few hours seeing pictures and the aquarial gardens; the most prominent of the pictures being a sort of luncheon before our dinner; viz., Holmes and Longfellow in half length and very admirable, by Buchanan Read (I don't think any previous king in disguise ever had his portrait so well painted as this one, at any rate); also, by the same, a delicious painting of three Longfellow children — girls with their mother's eyes and Mary Greenleaf's coloring, at least three different modifications of it. . . .

In the course of these divertisements we stopped at Phillips's and Sampson's, where we encountered dear, dark, slender, simple, sensitive Whittier, trying to decide whether to "drink delight of battle with his peers" at the dinner-table, or slide shyly back to Amesbury in the next train. To introduce him to Harriet was like bringing a girl and a gazelle acquainted; each visibly wished to run away from the other; to Whittier a woman is a woman, and he was as bashful before the small authoress as if she were the greatest. Cheery John Wyman was persuading him to stay to dinner, and on my introducing him to my companion turned the battery of his good-nature upon her, pronouncing her story the most popular which had appeared in the magazine — “Oh, sir,” she whispered to me afterwards, “he spoke to me about my story — do you suppose anybody else will? I hope not.”

Duly at three we appeared at the Revere House. You are to understand that this was a special festival — prior to Mrs. Stowe's trip to Europe — and the admission of ladies was a new thing. Harriet was whirled away into some unknown dressing-room, and I found in another parlor Holmes, Lowell, Longfellow, Whipple, Edmund Quincy, Professor Stowe, Stillman the artist, Whittier (after all), Woodman, John Wyman, and Underwood. When dinner was confidentially announced, I saw a desire among the founders of the feast to do the thing handsomely toward the fair guests, and found, to my great amusement, that Mrs. Stowe and Harriet Prescott were the only ones! Nothing would have tempted my little damsel into such a position, I knew; but now she was in for it; to be handed in to dinner by the Autocrat himself, while Lowell took Mrs. Stowe I Miss Terry was at Saratoga and Mrs. Julia Howe suddenly detained; so these were alone. But how to get them downstairs — send up a servant or go ourselves? — that is, were they in a bedroom or a parlor; an obsequious attendant suddenly suggested the latter, so Lowell and I went up. In a small but superb room the authoress of “Uncle Tom” stood smoothing her ample plumage, while the junior lady hovered timidly behind. . . . Mrs. Stowe was quietly dressed in a Quakerish silk, but with a peculiar sort of artificial grape-leaf garland round her head which I could not examine more minutely; she looked very well, but I thought Harriet looked better; she had smoothed down her brown .curls, the only pretty thing about her, except a ladylike little figure, robed in the plainest imaginable black silk. . . .

Down we went: Dr. Holmes met us in the entry; each bowed lower than the other, and we all marched in together. Underwood had wished to place Edmund Quincy by Harriet, at his request, she being on Dr. Holmes's right — the Autocrat's right, think of the ordeal for a humble maiden at her first dinner party! but I told him the only chance for her to breathe was to place me there, which he did. On Dr. Holmes's left was Whittier, next, Professor Stowe, opposite me, while Mrs. S. was on Lowell's right at the other end.

By this lady's special stipulation the dinner was teetotal, which compulsory virtue caused some wry faces among the gentlemen, not used to such abstinence at “Atlantic” dinners; it was amusing to see how they nipped at the water and among the ban mots privately circulated thereupon, the best was Longfellow's proposition that Miss Prescott should send down into her Cellar for some wine, since Mrs. Stowe would not allow any abovestairs! This joke was broached early and carefully prevented from reaching the ears of either of its subjects, but I thought it capital, for you remember her racy description of wine, of which she knows about as much as she does of French novels, which I find most people suppose her to have lived upon — she having once perused “Consuelo”!

Little Dr. Holmes came down upon her instantly with her laurels. “I suppose you meet your story wherever you go,” said he, “like Madam d'Arblay" (and indeed the whole thing reminded me of her first introductions into literary society). . . . I seized the first opportunity to ask whether she and Mrs. Stowe had any conversation upstairs. “Yes,” said she meekly; “Mrs. Stowe asked me what time it was and I told her I didn't know.” There's intellectual intercourse for a young beginner! . . .

When the wife of Andrew Jackson Davis, the seer, was once asked if her husband, who was then staying at Fitzhenry Homer's, was not embarrassed by being in society superior to that in which he was trained, she replied indignantly that her husband, who was constantly in the society of the highest angels, was not likely to be overcome by Mrs. Fitzhenry Homer. And when I reflected on the entertainments which were described in “In a Cellar,” I felt no fear of Harriet's committing any solecism in manners at an “Atlantic” dinner, which she certainly did not, though a little frightened, occasionally, I could see, at the obsequiousness of the waiters and the absurd multiplicity of courses. . . .

I don't care so very much for " Atlantic " dinners — Professor Felton says they are more brilliant than London ones, but I think that Mary and I get up quite as good ones in Worcester — but Dr. Holmes is always effervescent and funny, and John Wyman is the best story-teller the world ever saw, and indeed everybody contributed something. The best thing Holmes said was in discoursing on his favorite theory of races and families. “Some families,” he said, “are constitutionally incapable of doing anything wrong; they try it as boys, but they relapse into virtue; as individuals, they attempt to do wrong, but the race is too strong for them and they end in pulpits. Look at the Wares, for instance; I don't believe that the Wares fell in Adam!”

SOURCE: Mary Potter Thacher Higginson, Editor, Letters and Journals of Thomas Wentworth Higginson, 1846-1906, p. 106-10

Thomas Wentworth Higginson, about 1858

Mr. Emerson is bounteous and gracious, but thin, dry, angular, in intercourse as in person. Garrison is the only solid moral reality I have ever seen incarnate, the only man who would do to tie to, as they say out West; and he is fresher and firmer every day, but wanting in intellectual culture and variety. Wendell Phillips is always graceful and gay, but inwardly sad, under that bright surface. Whittier is the simplest and truest of men, beautiful at home, but without fluency of expression, and with rather an excess of restraint. Thoreau is pure and wonderfully learned in nature's things and deeply wise, and yet tedious in his monologues and cross-questionings. Theodore Parker is as wonderfully learned in books, and as much given to monologue, though very agreeable and various it is, still egotistical, dogmatic, bitter often, and showing marked intellectual limitations. Mr. Alcott is an innocent charlatan, full of inspired absurdities and deep strokes, maunders about nature, and when outdoors has neither eyes, ears, nor limbs. Lowell is infinitely entertaining, but childishly egotistical and monopolizing.

SOURCE: Mary Potter Thacher Higginson, Editor, Letters and Journals of Thomas Wentworth Higginson, 1846-1906, p. 93-4

Thomas Wentworth Higginson to Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1855

I am authorized by the Committee of the AntiSlavery Society, to ask you to name some time for the actual delivery of your address. . . .

I believe that our Treasurer had no opportunity of paying you the twenty dollars proposed. In view of the circumstances (as we rely greatly on the sale of single tickets, in our course), the Committee seem to think themselves authorized in offering you the full price for your first lecture (or attempt at it) and ten dollars more should you come again, — making thirty dollars in all.

SOURCE: Mary Potter Thacher Higginson, Editor, Letters and Journals of Thomas Wentworth Higginson, 1846-1906, p. 59

Julia Ward Howe to Ann Ward Mailliard, Sunday, November 6, 1859

Sunday, November 6, 1859.

The potatoes arrived long since and were most jolly, as indeed they continue to be. Did n't acknowledge them 'cause knew other people did, and thought it best to be unlike the common herd. Have just been to church and heard Clarke preach about John Brown, whom God bless, and will bless! I am much too dull to write anything good about him, but shall say something at the end of my book on Cuba, whereof I am at present correcting the proof-sheets. I went to see his poor wife, who passed through here some days since. We shed tears together and embraced at parting, poor soul! Folks say that the last number of my Cuba is the best thing I ever did, in prose or verse. Even Emerson wrote me about it from Concord. I tell you this in case you should not find out of your own accord that it is good. I have had rather an unsettled autumn — have been very infirm and inactive, but have kept up as well as possible — going to church, also to Opera, also to hear dear Edwin Booth, who is playing better than ever. My children are all well and delightful. . . .

I have finished Tacitus' history, also his Germans. . . . Chev is not at all annoyed by the newspapers, but has been greatly overdone by anxiety and labor for Brown. Much has come upon his shoulders, getting money, paying counsel, and so on. Of course all the stories about the Northern Abolitionists are the merest stuff. No one knew of Brown's intentions but Brown himself and his handful of men. The attempt I must judge insane but the spirit heroic. I should be glad to be as sure of heaven as that old man may be, following right in the spirit and footsteps of the old martyrs, girding on his sword for the weak and oppressed. His death will be holy and glorious — the gallows cannot dishonor him — he will hallow it. . . .

SOURCE: Laura E. Richards & Maud Howe Elliott, Julia Ward Howe, 1819-1910, Large-Paper Edition, Volume 1, p. 176-7