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270THE SOLDIERS’ JOURNALThe Grave of John Brown.While journeying recently in northern New York, I visited with special interest the former home and the grave of “Old John Brown.”— North Elbe is surrounded by the wildest of the Adirondack mountains. It is most easily reached by landing at Port Kent, on the west shore of Lake Champlain, opposite Burlington. From Port Kent there is a good stage road to Keese-ville, thence to Jay and Wilmington, and an added ten miles drive through the grandest of mountain scenery takes one through ‘the Notch,’ and a dense uninhabited wilderness to the little settlement of North Elba. This settlement consists of half a dozen diminutive houses and barns. Two miles further on, leaving the main road, crossing an open field, and penetrating a forest of original growth, we reach the John Brown Homestead, The house and burn are of moderate size, plain and unpainted. In the yard near the house is a rock of huge proportions. By the side of this rock lies buried the body of the distinguished martyr, whose name has become a household word, and ‘whose soul is marching on.’ The grave is marked by a plain marble slab, formerly used to designate the burial-place of Capt. John Brown, the grandfather of the hero of Harper’s Ferry. Upon this stone are the following inscriptions:In Memory of Capt. John Brown, who died at Now York, Sept. ye 3, 1776, in the 48 years of his age.John Brown, Born May 9, 1800, was executed at Charlestown, Va., Dec. 2, 1859.Oliver Brown, Born May 9, 1839, was killed at Harper’s Ferry, Oct. 17, 1859.In ;Memory of Frederick, son of John and Dianthe Brown, Born Dec. 31, 1830, and murdered at Ossawatomio, Kansas, Aug. 30,185G, for his adherence to the cause of Freedom.Watson Brown, Born Oct. 7, 1838, was wounded at Harper’s Ferry, Oct. 17, and died Oct. 19, 1859.The humble stone described as above will have a sacred place in American history. A few rosebushes surround the grave. The grave and grounds are enclosed by a plain board fence.The homestead is completely surrounded by the finest of the mountain and forest scenery forwhich the Adirondack region is so justly celebrated. ‘The Notch,’ through which we pass in approaching North Elba, is a mountain pass, unsurpassed for grandeur by anything of its kind on the continent.Mrs. Brown, Salmon Brown and wife, Anna, Ellen and Sarah, who continued to occupy the homestead until within a few months, have left to seek another and more eligible home in California. They undertook the journey via the overland route, taking with them some cattlo and Vermont fine-wooled sheep. There is a painful rumor, not yet fully confirmed, that after leaving Missouri, it having been ascertained that they were John Brown’s family, they were pursued by Missouri guerrillas, captured, robbed and murdered. Nothing would be morenatural than, once known to the Missourians of the guerilla order, they should be thus victimized.The homestead is at present occupied by Mr.Hinckley, a brother of Salmon Brown’s wife.— Though not of the Harper’s Ferry party, lie was deeply in sympathy with the anti-slavery purpose of the old man whoso grave ho now has the care of. I was informed by Mr. Hinckley that during the present season, many tourists from various parts of the country, who have gone tothe Saranac lakes, a^d among the Adirondack mountains, have made a pilgrimage also to the grave of John Brown. Thus does the nation begin to do honor to him, • whom so recently as ’59it crucified because he loved liberty too well.—A nt LSIavery Standard.A Graphic Sketch.The editor of the Litchfield Enquirer, on a trip to Berkshire County, Mass., gives the following touching incident, which may occassion a little more thoughtfulness in future:“ We were at the railroad depot when the train came up from Bridgeport. All Barrington was there with us to welcome a wounded hero—a lieutenant of the 28tli Conn., who was to arrive 4 home from the war.’ He came, and was received with rousing cheers from the multitude, with waving handkerchiefs and fragrant bouquets from the gentler sex, with hearty welcome and enthusiastic hand-shaking from all. Three open carriages were there to carry him, and home he went, escorted by the crowd and followed by the crowd, and followed by ever swelling greetings. Which was well. Which was proper. Which was well deserved by the gallant young officer, who had risked his life for his country, and brought home an honorable scar.But there was another side of the picture that we saw. It was this. On the same train upon which came the lieutenant, came also a young soldier—a private in the same regiment, wounded, perhaps not, but evidently worn and wasted by the terrible fever of the camp, more deadly than bullets, more difficult to endure. lie too was from Barrington, and had returned to his old home as speedily as possible, to see his wife and children, before being mustered out. We saw him leave the large depot, and go “silently and alone down the street. No one cheered him ; no one that we saw greeted him ; two of the carriages that went up to the depot for the lieutenant, passed him on the way returning empty;— still he trudged on wearily, bent beneath the weight of the the heavy knapsack and blankets he carried on his back, weak, evidently, and sick with the fever—aye sick unto death—tremulously yet cheerfully, lie walked down the street to his home, though alone. This was Friday. On Sunday morning he was mustered out of the service—by Death ! His name was Lyman Terrill, of Co. F. and ho was enlisted from Winstead in our own county.We have no comments to make on the contrast. It was a sad picture, and yet, as we have said, only too common.The Man who wrote the four simple lines, beginning with “ Now I lay me down to sleep,” seemed to do a very little thing. He wrote four lines for his little child. His name has not come down to us ; but he has done more for the good of his race than if ho had commanded the victorious army at Waterloo. The little tires which the good man kindled bore and there on the shores of time never go out, but ever and anon they flame up and throw light on the pilgrim’s path. There is hardly anything so fearful as the mind reaching down to the coming age, and writing itself for evil upon the minds of unborn generations. The unknown author has unconsciously taught the lips of millions a sweet and beautiful prayer, which wins the heart of every infant, and forms the brightest, simplest, and holiest recollections of maturity. Rough men warm with kindness when they reflect upon its past use. Its tenderness and simplicity is beyond forgetting.
Newspaper Details
Alexandria Soldiers Journal
Alexandria, Virginia, US
Wed, Oct 05, 1864
Page 6
Full Page
Clipped by
Daniel E.
FL, USA 16 Feb 2022
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