James Redpath, The Public Life of Captain John Brown

[67] world since the thunderbolt had fallen. Do not imagine that they asked, What is the world saying of us? Will justice be done to the memory of our martyrs? Will men build the tombs of the prophets? Will the great thinkers of the age affirm that our father “makes the gallows glorious, like the cross”? ¹ Not at all; they asked but one question after I had told them how little hope there was of acquittal or rescue. Does it seem as if freedom were to gain or lose by this? That was all. Their mother spoke the spirit of them all to me, next day, when she said, “I have had thirteen children, and only four are left; but if I am to see the ruin of my house, I cannot but hope that Providence may bring out of it some benefit to the poor slaves.”

No; this family work for a higher price than fame. You know it is said that in all Wellington's despatches you never meet with the word Glory; it is always duty. In Napoleon's you never meet with the word Duty; it is always Glory. The race of John Brown is of the Wellington type. Principle is the word I brought away with me as most familiar in their vocabulary. That is their standard of classification. A man may be brave, ardent, generous; no matter — if he is not all this from principle, it is nothing. The daughters, who knew all the Harper's Ferry men, had no confidence in Cook, because “ he was not a man of principle.” They would trust Stevens round the world, because “ he was a man of principle.” “ He tries the hardest to be good,” said Annie Brown, in her simple way, “ of any man I ever saw.”

It is pleasant to add that this same brave-hearted girl, who had known most of her father's associates, recognized them all but Cook as being men of principle. “People are surprised,” she said, “ at father's daring to invade Virginia with only twenty-three men; but I think if they knew what sort of men they were, there would be less surprise. I never saw such men.” ²

And it pleases me to remember that since this visit, on the day of execution, while our Worcester bells were tolling their melancholy refrain, I took from the post office a letter from this same young girl, expressing pity and sorrow for the recreant Cook, and uttering the hope that allowances might be made for his conduct, “ though she could not justify it.” And on the same day I read that infuriated letter of Mrs. Mahala Doyle--a letter which common charity bids us