ne of us
could exactly approve an act so revolutionary in its character, yet the
great-hearted attempt enlisted our sympathies very strongly. The weeks
of John Brown's imprisonment were very sad ones, and the day of his
death was one of general mourning in New England. Even there, however,
people were not all of the same mind. I heard a friend say that John
Brown was a pig-headed old fool. In the Church of the Disciples, on the
other hand, a special service was held on the day of the execution, and
the pastor took for his text the saying of Christ, "It is enough for the
disciple that he be as his master." Victor Hugo had already said that
the death of John Brown would thenceforth hallow the scaffold, even as
the death of Christ had hallowed the cross.

The record of John Brown's life has been fully written, and by a
friendly hand. I will only mention here that he had much to do with the
successful contest which kept slavery out of the territory of Kansas. He
was a leading chief in the border warfare which swept back the
pro-slavery immigration attempted by some of the wild spirits of
Missouri. In this struggle, he one day saw two of his own sons shot by
the Border Ruffians (as the Missourians of the border were then called),
without trial or mercy. Some people thought that this dreadful sight had
maddened his brain, as well it might.

I recall one humorous anecdote about him, related to me by my husband.
On one occasion, during the border war, he had taken several prisoners,
and among them a certain judge. Brown was always a man of prayer. On
this occasion, feeling quite uncertain as to whether he ought to spare
the lives of the prisoners, he retired into a thicket near at hand, and
besought the Lord long and fervently to inspire him with the right
determination. The judge, overhearing this petition, was so much amused
at it that, in spite of the gravity of his own position, he laughed
aloud. "Judge ----," cried John Brown, "if you mock at my prayers, I
shall know what to do with you without asking the Almighty."

I remember now that I saw John Brown's wife on her way to visit her
husband in prison and to see the last of him. She seemed a strong,
earnest woman, plain in manners and in speech.

This brings me to the period of the civil war. What can I say of it that
has not already been said? Its cruel fangs fastened upon the very heart
of Boston, and took from us our best and bravest. From many a stately
mansion fat