see him in prison. He treated them civilly, but told the jailer, after
they left, that he did not like being made a monkey show of. Everybody
who loved slavery, was allowed to gape and stare at John as much as they
pleased; but John’s friends, although they were ladies and gentlemen who
had traveled a long distance, found it hard work to get leave to take a
peep at him.
John’s wife wanted to come and see him before he died, and bid him good
by. John told her she would be insulted and badly treated, and she had
better stay at home with the children; and besides, I suppose, John was
afraid it would make it harder for him to die, and leave her and the
girls all alone in the world. But the poor woman could not bear not to
look in the face of her children’s father once more, and at last John
told her she might come. When she got there, the jailer led her into the
cell, but she could not speak to John, nor John to her. She only laid
her head upon his breast, and clasped his neck with her arms.
Then, seeing a heavy chain on John’s ankles, and fearing it might pain
him, she kneeled on the floor and pulled two pair of woolen socks on his
feet. Then John told her what to say to his children at home, and how he
wanted them to live, when he was dead; and that she must pay some money
to some persons for him, whom he named; and then he read her his “will,”
which he had made. And then John and his wife ate their “last supper”
together. Perhaps these words will remind you, as they did me, of
another “Last Supper.” And then the jailer, Captain Anis, told the poor
wife that she must go. And then John said to his wife, “God bless you!
Mary; good by;” and then she went out, and never saw John more, till she
looked upon his dead face.
There were three ropes sent to hang John Brown with; South Carolina sent
one, Missouri one, and Kentucky one. They chose the Kentucky rope,
because it was the stronger, and then it was shown, in public, to the
people. Well, the second day of December, when the old man was to be
strangled, came at last. It was a lovely day, so mild and warm that the
windows of all the houses were open. The scaffold was to be in a field,
half a mile from the jail. At seven in the morning the carpenters came
to fix it. At eight o’clock the soldiers began to come; horsemen,
dressed in scarlet jackets, were placed about the field, and a double
line of sentries farther on; then the State of Virginia, fearing, after
all this, that it would not be safe enough from a feeble, sick old man,
brought a huge brass cannon, so placed and pointed, that if a rescue
were attempted, John might be blown into little atoms in a moment. There
were about five hundred soldiers in the field; and lines of them were
stretched over fifteen miles. There were not many people of the place
there to see John hung, for they dared not leave their slaves alone at
home, for fear of mischief in their absence; for all the poor slaves
knew very well that John was to be hung that day, because he was _their
friend_.
At eleven o’clock, they brought John out of jail, and put him in the
wagon, to drive him to execution.
As John stepped from out the door of his prison, a black woman, with a
little child in her arms, stood near. He stopped for a moment, stooped
over, and kissed the little black child. Soon after, as he passed along,
another black woman said, “God bless you! old man. I wish I could help
you, but I cannot.” This made the tears come in John’s eyes for the
first time.
By John’s side was seated the undertaker, and on the wagon was a black
coffin, enclosed in a box, because his body was to go to his poor wife
after these Virginians had done with him. Then several companies of
soldiers, mounted on horseback, rode beside the wagon, which was drawn
by two white horses. As they went along, John looked at the lovely Blue
Mountains and the bright sky, and the warm sunshine spread over all, and
said, calmly, “This is a beautiful country; I have not seen it before.”
The jailer, who sat beside him, could hardly say “yes,” he was so
astonished to see John so quiet and smiling, as if he were only taking a
ride on that lovely day. Then the undertaker said to John, “You are more
cheerful than I am, Captain Brown.”
“Yes,” said the old man, “_I ought to be_.”
And now the wagon had come to the field, where stood the gallows, and
all those hundreds of soldiers, and the great brass cannon. The bright
sun shone on the bayonets and muskets of the soldiers and their gay
uniforms, and the lovely Blue Mountains looked very calm and peaceful;
and the soldiers kept very close to old John, for Virginia felt uneasy
till the breath was out of him. Then John got out of the wagon and stood
on the scaffold, and took his hat off for the last time, and laid it
down by his side. Then he thanked the jailer, who had been kind to him;
then they tied his elbows and ankles; then they drew a white cap over
his eyes, and then they put the Kentucky rope around his neck. Then the
sheriff told John to step forward; and John said, “I can’t see; you must
lead me.” Then the sheriff asked John to drop his handkerchief, for a
signal for him to hang him; and John said, “Now I am ready; only don’t
keep me long waiting.”
When John asked his enemies for time for his trial, they wouldn’t let
him have any; now, when he did not want any more time, they kept him
waiting. So they made the old man stand there, blindfolded, full ten
minutes, while they marched the soldiers up and down, and in and out,
just as if they were drilling on parade. Some of the soldiers felt
ashamed of this cruelty to the old man, and muttered between their
teeth, for it was as much as their necks were worth to say it loud,
“Shame! shame!” Then, at last, after the military maneuvers were over,
the rope was cut, and John struggled and strangled and died. Then, you
know, after that, Virginia had to be _very_ sure the old man _was_
really dead; so first the Charlestown doctors went up and poked him
over, and pulled him about; then the military doctors had their turn;
lifting up his arms, and putting their ears a great deal closer to his
breast than they would have cared to do once, to see if he breathed;
then they swung the body this way and that, in the air, for thirty-eight
minutes. Then they lifted the body upon the scaffold, and it fell into a
harmless heap. Then, although all the doctors who had pulled him around
declared that he was dead, still Virginia was so afraid of John, that
she insisted on cutting the dead body’s head off, or making it swallow
some poison, for fear, by some hocus pocus, it might wake up again. But
it didn’t wake—_at least, not in the way they expected_. But there is
fierce fighting down in Virginia to-day; for, though John Brown’s body
lies mouldering in the grave,
_His soul is marching on!_
THE PLOUGHBOY POET.
Mother Nature does not always, like other mothers, lay her pet children
on downy pillows, and under silken canopies. She seems to delight in
showing that money shall buy everything _but_ brains. At any rate, she
not only opened our poet’s big, lustrous eyes, in a clay cottage, put
roughly together by his father’s own hands, but, shortly after his
birth, she blew it down over his head, and the mother and child were
picked out from among the ruins, and carried to a neighbor’s for safe
keeping—rather a rough welcome to a world which, in its own slow
fashion, after the mold was on his breast, heaped over it honors, which
seemed then such a mockery.
But the poor little baby and his mother, happy in their mutual love,
knew little enough of all this. A good, loving mother she was, Agnes by
name; keeping her house in order with a matron’s pride; chanting old
songs and ballads to her baby-boy, as she glided cheerfully about; not
discouraged when things went wrong on the farm, and the crops failed,
and the table was scantily supplied with food—singing, hoping, trusting,
loving still; a very woman, over whose head cottages _might_ tumble, so
that her _heart_ was but satisfied.
Robert’s father was a good man, who performed each day’s duty as
carefully as though each day brought other reward than that of having
done his duty. It is a brave, strong heart, my dear children, which can
do this. All can labor when success follows; it is disaster, defeat,
difficulties, which prove what a man’s soul is made of. It is just here
that the ranks grow thin in life’s battle—just here that the
faint-hearted perish by the wayside, or desert, like cowards, to the
enemy. William Burns stood manfully to his duty, plodding on, year after
year;—when one plan failed, trying another; never saying, when his day’s
work was done, “Ah! but this is too discouraging! I’ll to the alehouse,
to drown my griefs in strong drink!” Neither did he go home moody and
disconsolate, to drive his children into corners, and bring tears to the
eyes of his toiling wife. But morning and evening the prayer went up,
with unfailing trust in Heaven. Oh! but that was glorious! I love
William Burns! Did he say at night, when so weary, “_Now_, at least,
I’ll rest?” Not he: there were little bright eyes about him, out of
which the eager soul was looking. So he gathered them about his armchair
on those long winter evenings, and read to them, and taught them, and
answered their simple yet deep questions. One of Robert’s sweetest
poems, the Cotter’s Saturday Night, was written about this. Robert’s
father told his children, too, of the history of their country; of
skirmishes, sieges, and battles; old songs and ballads, too, he repeated
to them, charming their young ears. Was not this a lovely home picture?
Oh! how much were these peasant children to be envied above the children
of richer parents, kept in the nursery, in the long intervals when their
parents, forgetful of these sweet duties, were seeking their own
pleasure and amusement. More blessed, surely, is the humblest roof,
round whose evening hearth gather nightly, all its inmates, young and
old.
Nor—poor as they were—did they lack books. Dainties they could forego,
but not books; confusedly thrown about—soiled and thumbed; but—unlike
our gilded, center-table ornaments—well selected, and well read. And so
the years passed on, as does the life of so many human beings, quiet,
but eventful.
Who sneers at “old women”? I should like to trace, for a jeering world,
the influence of that important person in the Burns family. Old Jenny
Wilson! Little she herself knew her power, when, with Robert Burns upon
her knee, she poured into his listening ear her never-ending store of
tales about fairies, and “brownies,” and witches, and giants, and
dragons. So strong was the impression these supernatural stories made
upon the mind of the boy, that he declared that, in later life, he could
never go through a suspicious-looking place, without expecting to see
some unearthly shape appear. Who shall determine how much this withered
old woman had to do with making the boy a poet? And yet, poor humble
soul—that is an idea which seldom enters the mind of his admirers. The
bent figure, with wrinkle-seamed face, gliding noiselessly about your
house, doing odds and ends of household labor, now singing a child to
sleep, now cooking at the kitchen fire, now repairing a garment, or
watching by a sickbed—always on hand, yet never in anybody’s way;
silent, grateful, unobtrusive, yet beloved of Heaven—have you not known
them?
Robert’s mother, the good Agnes, had a voice sweet as her name. The
ballads she sang him were all of a serious cast. She had learned them,
when a girl, from _her_ mother. Oh, these songs! Many a simple hymn,
thus listened to by childhood’s ear, has been that soul’s last utterance
this side the grave. All other childish impressions may have faded away,
but “mother’s hymn” is never forgotten. That strain, heard by none else,
will sometimes come, an unbidden, unwelcome guest; and neither in noise
nor wine can that bearded man drown it—this _mother’s hymn_! Sing on,
sing on, ye patient, toiling mothers! over the cradle—by the fireside.
Angels smile as they listen. The lark whom the cloud covers, is not
lost.
The father of Robert Burns did not consider, because he was a poor man,
that it was an excuse for depriving his boys of any advantages of
education within his reach, as many a farmer, similarly situated, and
intent only on gain, has thought it right to do. His good sense, in this
respect, was well rewarded; for Robert’s first teacher said of him, that
“he took such pleasure in learning, and I in teaching, that it was
difficult to say which of the two was most zealous in the business.” It
is such scholars as these who brighten the otherwise _dreary_ lot of the
teacher. Pupils who study, not because they must, and as little as
possible at that, but because they have an appetite for it, and crave
knowledge. Of course, a good teacher endeavors to be equally faithful to
all the pupils who are intrusted to him—the stupid and wayward, as well
as the studious. But there must be to him a peculiar pleasure in
helping, guiding, and watching over a pupil so eager to acquire. The
mother bird, who coaxes her fledglings to the edge of the nest, and, by
circling flights overhead, invites them to follow, understands, of
course, how the little, cowering thing, who sits crouched on a
neighboring twig, may be too indolent, or too timid to go farther; but
she looks with proud delight upon the bold little soarer, who, observing
well her lesson, reaches the top of the tallest tree, and sits, swaying
and singing, upon its topmost branch.
Robert, however, had not always the good luck to have, as in this case,
an intelligent, appreciative teacher. I suppose it is not treason to
admit, even in a child’s book, which, by some, is considered a place for
tremendous fibbing, that a teacher may occasionally err, as well as his
pupil. That teachers have been known to mistake their vocation, when
they have judged themselves qualified, after trying and failing in every
other employment, to fill such a difficult and honorable position.
It seems there was a certain Hugh Rodgers, to whose school Robert was
sent. It was the very bad custom of those times, when pupils of his age
first entered a school, to take the master to a tavern, and treat him to
some liquor. This Robert did, in company with another boy, named Willie,
who entered at the same time. Do you suppose that schoolmaster ever
thought remorsefully about this in after years, when he heard what a
wreck strong drink had made of poor Robert? Well, the boy Willie and
Robert became great friends from that day; often staying at each other’s
houses, and always spending the intervals between morning and afternoon
school, in each other’s company. When the other boys were playing ball,
they would talk together on subjects to improve their minds. Now, as
they _walked_ while they talked, their omitting to play ball was not of
so much consequence as it would otherwise have been—at least, according
to my motto, which is, _chests first, brains afterward_. But to go on.
These disputatious youngsters sharpened their wits on all sorts of
knotty subjects, and also invited several of their companions to join
their debating society—whether to improve them, or to have an audience
to approve their skill, I can’t say; perhaps a little of both.
By and by the master heard of it. He didn’t like it. He had an idea boys
should have no ideas that the master didn’t put into their heads for
them. So one day, when the school was all assembled, he walked up to the
desks of Robert and Willie, and began, very unwisely, to taunt them
about it before all the scholars—something in this style: “So, boys, I
understand that you consider yourselves qualified to decide upon matters
of importance, which wiser heads usually let alone. I trust, from
debating, you won’t come to blows, young gentlemen,” &c., &c. Now, the
boys who had not joined their debating society, set up a laugh, like
little rascals, at the rebuked Robert and Willie. This, of course, as
the teacher should have known, stung them to the quick; and Robert, with
a flushed face, resolved to “speak up” to the master. I find no fault
with his reply, which was this; that both he and Willie rather thought
that he (the master) would be pleased, instead of displeased, at this
effort to improve their minds. At this, Hugh Rodgers laughed
contemptuously, and said he should be glad to know what these mighty
nonsensical discussions might be about. Willie replied that they had a
new subject every day; that he could not recollect all; but that the
question of that day had been, whether is a great general, or
respectable merchant, the more valuable member of society. At this, Hugh
Rodgers laughed more uproariously and provokingly than before, saying,
that it was a very silly question, since there could be no doubt for a
moment about it. “Very well,” said Robert Burns, now thoroughly roused,
“if you think so, I will take any side you please, if you will allow me
to discuss it with you.”
The unfortunate schoolmaster consented. He commenced the argument with a
pompous flourish in favor of the general. Burns took the other side, and
soon had the upper hand of the schoolmaster, who made a very lame reply.
Soon the schoolmaster’s hand was observed to shake, his voice to
tremble, and, in a state of pitiable vexation, he dismissed the school.
Poor man! he understood mathematics better than human nature; and
himself least of all. This was an unfortunate victory, for two reasons.
It was an unnecessary degradation of a man who had his estimable
qualities, and it increased the self-sufficiency of young Burns, who was
born with his arms sufficiently a-kimbo. Alexander-fashion, he soon
sighed for another conquest. His bedfellow, John Nevins, was a great
wrestler. Nothing would do, but he must floor John Nevins. Strutting up
to John, he challenged him to the combat. John soon took that nonsense
out of him, by laying him low. Vanquished, he sprang to his feet, and
challenged him to a discussion. _There he had him!_—John having more
muscle than brain. Burns’s pride was comforted, and he retreated, a
satisfied youth. This is all I know about Robert’s _childhood_.
Silver hairs were now gathering thickly on his good father’s temples, as
he toiled on, to little use, while children grew up fast about his
knees, to be fed, schooled, and clothed by his labor. Robert and his
brother looked sadly on, as his health declined. Robert had little
inclination for his father’s work, and yet, somebody must take his
place; for consumption was even then making rapid and fearful havoc with
his constitution. The good old man ceased from his labors at last, and
went where the weary rest. For a while, Robert strove to fill his
place—strove well, strove earnestly. But the farmer who stops to write
poems over his plough, seldom reaps a harvest to satisfy hungry mouths.
And so, poverty came, instead of potatoes, and Robert Burns, although
the troubled eyes of his wife looked into his, and his little children
were growing up fast about him, and needed a good father, to teach them
how to live in this world, and to earn bread for them till they became
big enough to earn it for themselves, it came about that, instead of
doing this, he drank whisky to help him forget that he ought to keep on
ploughing, if poetry did not bring him bread, and so made poverty a
great deal worse. His wife was very, very sorrowful about it, and his
little children became tired of waiting for him to love them, and care
for them. Perhaps you say, Oh, how _could_ he do so? My dear children,
how can _anybody_ ever do wrong? How can _you_ ever vex your dear
mother, who is so good to you, and go pouting to bed, and never tell her
that you are “sorry”? and still, while you are sleeping, that dear,
good, forgiving mother stoops over your little bed, and kisses your
forehead, and looks to see if you are warm and comfortable, before she
can sleep, the same as if you had been a good child, instead of a bad
one. I hope you will think of this before that good mother dies, and
tell her that you are very sorry for grieving her; and I hope, too, that
Robert Burns, before it was too late, said that he was sorry for
grieving those who loved him, and for wasting his life; but I do not
know about that.
OLD HICKORY.