l never be purged away but with blood. I had, as I now think
vainly, flattered myself that without very much bloodshed it might be
done.'

Upon the scaffold he only bade them be quick, as he was quite ready.
Ready! Yes, he had been ready many a year, and it was no unwilling
victim that swung mid-air that December morning.

They carried his body to the old log-house he occupied at North Elba,
where it was buried upon the farm. That farm has been recently
purchased for a public park; and the grave, with the big boulder upon
it, forms a conspicuous feature. Thousands approach it with reverent
feet, not so much because of the body which lies mouldering there, but
for the sake of the soul which is marching on. They had sung in
Northern streets a grim ditty during those days of suspense before his
execution, with the refrain, addressed to the Southerner:

And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown,
May trouble you more than ever
When you've nailed his coffin down.

It contains a true word of prophecy. Says an American writer: soon
after, 'I meet him at every turn. John Brown is not dead; he is more
alive than ever he was.' As that same year the Northern States gird
themselves for the great Presidential contest, determined that at
length a thorough Abolitionist named Abraham Lincoln shall tenant the
White House, it is evident that John Brown's soul is marching on.

When at length fierce civil war breaks out, and those same Northern
States month by month are brought to the sure conviction that Freedom
as certainly as Union is the cause for which they fight, and as through
long disappointment and suspense, lavish effusion of blood, generous
sacrifice of their bravest sons they steadily press to victory under
the ever-patient, dogged leadership of President Lincoln and General
Grant, it is evident that John Brown's soul is marching on.

In the tramp of ten thousands of armed men, in the strains of that
grand old battle-hymn of the Republic, I hear the march of his soul:

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible, swift sword:
His truth is marching on.
Glory, glory, hallelujah, &c.

He hath sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgement-seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul! to answer Him; be jubilant, my