“He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,
Nor called the gods with vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless right;
But bowed his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.”
What a transit was that of his horizontal body alone, but just cut down from
the gallows-tree! We read that at such a time it passed through Philadelphia,
and by Saturday night had reached New York. Thus like a meteor it shot
through the Union from the Southern regions toward the North! No such freight
had the cars borne since they carried him southward alive.
On the day of his translation, I heard, to be sure, that he was hung,
but I did not know what that meant; I felt no sorrow on that account; but
not for a day or two did I even hear that he was dead, and
not after any number of days shall I believe it. Of all the men who were said
to be my contemporaries, it seemed to me that John Brown was the only one who
had not died. I never hear of a man named Brown now, — and I
hear of them pretty often, — I never hear of any particularly brave and
earnest man, but my first thought is of John Brown, and what relation he may
be to him. I meet him at every turn. He is more alive than he ever was. He
has earned immortality. He is not confined to
North Elba
nor to Kansas. He is no longer working in secret. He works in public, and in
the clearest light that shines on this land.
