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suppose a forgery, uttering fiendish revenge in regard to a man, against whom, by her own showing, there is not one particle of evidence to identify him with her wrongs.
Nothing impressed me more in my visit to the
Brown family, and in subsequent correspondence with them, than the utter absence of the slightest vindictive spirit, even in words.
The children spoke of their father as a person of absolute rectitude, thoughtful kindness, unfailing foresight, and inexhaustible activity.
On his flying visits to the farm, every moment was used; he was up at three A. M., seeing to every thing himself, providing for every thing, and giving heed to the minutest points.
It was evident that some of the older ones had stood a little in awe of him in their childish years.
“ We boys felt a little pleased sometimes, after all,” said the son, “ when father left the farm for a few days.”
“We girls
never did,” said the married daughter, reproachfully, the tears gushing to her eyes.
“Well,” said the brother, repenting, “we were always glad to see the old man come back again; for if we
did get more holidays in his absence, we always missed him.”
Those dramatic points of character in him, which will of course make him the favorite hero of all American romance hereafter, are nowhere appreciated more fully than in his own family.
In the midst of all their sorrow, their strong and healthy hearts could enjoy the record of his conversations with the Virginians, and applaud the keen, wise, simple answers which I read to them, selecting here and there from the ample file of newspapers I carried with me. When, for instance, I read the inquiry, “ Did you go out under the auspices of the Emigrant Aid Society?”
and the answer, “ No, sir; I went out under the auspices of
John Brown,” three voices eagerly burst in with, “That's true,” and “That's so.”
And when it was related that the young
Virginia volunteer taxed him with want of military foresight in bringing so small a party to conquer
Virginia, and the veteran imperturbably informed the young man that probably their views on military matters would materially differ, there was a general delighted chorus of, “ That sounds just like father.”
And his sublimer expressions of faith and self-devotion produced no excitement or surprise among them — since they knew in advance all which we now know of him — and these things only elicited, at times, a half-stifled sigh as they reflected that they might never hear that beloved voice again.
References to their father were constant.
This book he brought them; the one sitting room had been plastered with the last money he sent; that desk, that gun, were his ; this was his daguerreotype; and at last the rosy little Ellen brought me, with reverend hands, her prime
