History of the Negro Race in America from 1619 to 1880
Chapter 141 : P. S. I will say for I know it will be a satisfaction to all of you, that we are all k

P. S. I will say for I know it will be a satisfaction to all of you, that we are all kindly treated, and I hope the North will not fail to give Sheriff Campbell and Captain Avis due acknowledgment for their kind and n.o.ble actions.

E.

LETTER FROM EDWIN COPPOCK TO THOMAS WINN.

MY DEAR FRIEND THOMAS WINN: For thy love and sympathy, and for thy unwearied exertion in my behalf, accept my warmest thanks. I have no words to tell the grat.i.tude and love I have for thee. And may G.o.d bless thee and thy family, for the love and kindness thee has always shown towards my family and me. And when life with thee is over, may we meet on that sh.o.r.e where there is no parting, is the farewell prayer of thy true friend.

EDWIN COPPOCK.

THAT LETTER.

The following is the letter from Edwin Coppock, seized upon by the Virginia authorities as a pretence for not commuting his sentence. The offensive remark consisted alone wherein he spoke of the chivalry as "the enemy." There certainly is nothing in this communication that could justify a Government in taking the life of a man whom it otherwise considered not guilty of a capital crime, but whose greatest offence was that of being found, as Wise claimed, in bad company. We give the letter entire:

EDWIN COPPOCK TO MRS. BROWN.

CHARLESTON JAIL, VIRGINIA, November --, 1859.

MRS. JOHN BROWN--Dear Madam: I was very sorry that your request to see the rest of the prisoners was not complied with. Mrs. Avis brought me a book whose pages are full of truth and beauty, ent.i.tled "Voice of the True-Hearted," which she told me was a present from you. For this dear token of remembrance, please accept my thanks.

My comrade, J. E. Cook, and myself, deeply sympathize with you in your sad bereavement. We were both acquainted with Anna and Martha. They were to us as sisters, and as brothers we sympathize with them in the dark hour of trial and affliction.

I was with your sons when they fell. Oliver lived but a few moments after he was shot. He spoke no word, but yielded calmly to his fate. Watson was shot at 10 o'clock on Monday morning, and died about 3 o'clock on Wednesday morning. He suffered much.

Though mortally wounded at 10 o'clock, yet at 3 o'clock Monday afternoon he fought bravely against the men who charged on us.

When the enemy were repulsed, and the excitement of the charge was over, he began to sink rapidly.

After we were taken prisoners, he was placed in the guard-house with me. He complained of the hardness of the bench on which he was lying. I begged hard for a bed for him, or even a blanket, but could obtain none for him. I took off my coat and placed it under him, and held his head in my lap, in which position he died without a groan or a struggle.

I have stated these facts thinking that they may afford to you, and to the bereaved widows they have left, a mournful consolation.

Give my love to Anna and Martha, with our last farewell.

Yours truly, EDWIN COPPOCK.

COOK'S LAST LETTER TO HIS WIFE.

CHARLESTOWN JAIL, Dec. 16, 1859.

MY DEAR WIFE AND CHILD: For the last time I take my pen to address you--for the last time to speak to you through the tongue of the absent. I am about to leave you and this world forever.

But do not give way to your grief. Look with the eyes of hope beyond the vale of life, and see the dawning of that brighter morrow that shall know no clouds or shadows in its sunny sky--that shall know no sunset. To that eternal day I trust, beloved, I am going now. For me there waits no far-off or uncertain future. I am only going from my camp on earth to a home in heaven; from the dark clouds of sin and grief, to the clear blue skies, the flowing fountains, and the eternal joys of that better and brighter land, whose only entrance is through the vale of death--whose only gateway is the tomb.

Oh, yes! think that I am only going home; going to meet my Saviour and my G.o.d; going to meet my comrades, and wait and watch for you. Each hour that pa.s.ses, every tolling bell, proclaims this world is not our home. We are but pilgrims here, journeying to our Father's house. Some have a long and weary road to wander; shadowed o'er with doubts and fears, they often tire and faint upon life's roadside; yet, still all wearied, they must move along. Some make a more rapid journey, and complete their pilgrimage in the bright morn of life; they know no weariness upon their journey, no ills or cares of toil-worn age. I and my comrades here are among that number. Our pilgrimage is nearly ended; we can almost see our homes. A few more hours and we shall be there.

True, it is hard for me to leave my loving partner and my little one, lingering on the rugged road on which life's storms are bursting. But cheer up, my beloved ones; those storms will soon be over; through their last lingering shadows you will see the promised rainbow. It will whisper of a happy land where all storms are over. Will you not strive to meet me in that clime of unending suns.h.i.+ne? Oh! yes, I know you will; that you will also try to lead our child along that path of glory; that you will claim for him an entrance to that celestial city whose maker and builder is G.o.d. Teach him the way of truth and virtue. Tell him for what and how his father left him ere his lips could lisp my name. Pray for him. Remember that there is no golden gateway to the realms of pleasure here, but there is one for the redeemed in the land that lies starward. There I hope we may meet, when you have completed your pilgrimage on the road of life. Years will pa.s.s on and your journey will soon be ended. Live so that when from the verge of life you look back you may feel no vain regrets, no bitter anguish for mis-spent years. Look to G.o.d in all your troubles; cast yourself on Him when your heart is dark with the night of sorrow and heavy with the weight of woe. He will shed over you the bright suns.h.i.+ne of His love, and take away the burden from your heart.

And now farewell. May that all-wise and eternal G.o.d, who governs all things, be with you to guide and protect you through life, and bring us together in eternal joy beyond the grave. Farewell, fond partner of my heart and soul. Farewell, dear babe of our love. A last, long farewell, till we meet in heaven.

I remain, in life and death, your devoted husband.

JOHN E. COOK.

FUNERAL OF JOHN E. COOK.

The funeral of Capt. Cook took place at Brooklyn on the 20th, from the residence of Mrs. S. L. Harris. The services were conducted by the Rev. Mr. Caldicott, of the Lee Avenue Dutch Reformed Church, and at the Cypress Hills Cemetery by the Rev. Wm. H. Johnson. Of the body the day previous, the _Tribune_ says:

Owing to the length of time that elapsed between the decease and the time the body was delivered into the charge of Dr. Holmes, the process of embalming has been somewhat difficult, and consequently the appearance of the remains is not so natural as it otherwise would have been. Last evening the body was placed in an erect position, in order to allow the injected fluid to settle in the veins and arteries, so as to give to the face a more natural appearance. The swelling has entirely disappeared from the neck and face, and the decomposition which had set in had been checked. The remains will not be enshrouded until this morning, when they will be placed in the coffin, enclosed in a white merino robe with a satin collar, satin cord about the waist, and a black neckerchief about the neck.

Yesterday afternoon the father, sisters, and wife of the deceased were permitted to view the remains. His wife removed the breast-pin and a miniature of their child from about his neck, which she had placed there but a few days previous to his execution. She is but eighteen years of age, and has an infant four months old. She is from Harper's Ferry, Va., where she was married about seventeen months since. She, as well as the other relatives, was overwhelmed with sorrow, and it was some moments before they were sufficiently recovered to be enabled to leave the body. The refusal of the Consistories of the Lee Avenue and Fourth Reformed Dutch Churches to permit the services to be held in their edifices has given rise to the expression of much feeling, and many of the friends of the deceased infer that this refusal is made from a fear of censure on the part of some of the members of their congregations, in allowing a Christian burial to the remains.

In the little burial-ground at Oberlin, Lorain County, Ohio, there is a monument dedicated to the memory of three of the John Brown Men, as follows:

L. S. Leary, died at Harper's Ferry, Oct. 20, 1859, aged 24 years.

S. Green, died at Charlestown, Virginia, Dec. 2, 1850, aged 28 years.

J. A. Copeland, died at Charlestown, Virginia, Dec. 2, 1859, aged 25 years.

The monument bears the following inscription:

These Colored citizens of Oberlin, the heroic a.s.sociates of the Immortal John Brown, gave their lives for the Slave.

THE NEGRO ARTIST OF THE STATUE OF LIBERTY ON THE CAPITOL.

When the bronze castings were being completed at the foundry of Mr.

Mills, near Bladensburg, his foreman, who had superintended the work from the beginning, and who was receiving eight dollars per day, struck, and demanded ten dollars, a.s.suring Mr. M. that the advance must be granted him, as n.o.body in America, except himself, could complete the work. Mr. M. felt that the demand was exorbitant, and appealed in his dilemma to the slaves who were a.s.sisting in the moulding. "I can do that well," said one of them, an intelligent and ingenious servant, who had been intimately engaged in the various processes. The striker was dismissed, and the negro, a.s.sisted occasionally by the finer skill of his master, took the striker's place as superintendent, and the work went on. The black master-builder lifted the ponderous, uncouth ma.s.ses, and bolted them together, joint by joint, piece by piece, till they blended into the majestic "Freedom," who to-day lifts her head in the blue clouds above Was.h.i.+ngton, invoking a benediction upon the imperilled Republic!

Was there a prophecy in that moment when the slave became the artist, and with rare poetic justice, reconstructed the beautiful symbol of freedom for America?[143]

FOOTNOTES:

[143] Was.h.i.+ngton Correspondent of the New York Tribune, December 2, 1863.

Part 7.

_THE NEGRO IN THE WAR FOR THE UNION._