A Plea for Captain John Brown: Read to the citizens of Concord, Massachusetts on Sunday evening, October thirtieth, eighteen fifty-nineThoreau, Henry David
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A Plea for Captain John Brown: Read to the citizens of Concord, Massachusetts on Sunday evening, October thirtieth, eighteen fifty-nine
The newspapers seem to ignore, or perhaps are really ignorant of the
fact, that there are at least as many as two or three individuals to a
town throughout the North who think much as the present speaker does
about him and his enterprise. I do not hesitate to say that they are an
important and growing party. We aspire to be something more than stupid
and timid chattels, pretending to read history and our bibles, but
desecrating every house and every day we breathe in. Perhaps anxious
politicians may prove that only seventeen white men and five negroes
were concerned in the late enterprise, but their very anxiety to prove
this might suggest to themselves that all is not told. Why do they
still dodge the truth? They are so anxious because of a dim
consciousness of the fact, which they do not distinctly face, that at
least a million of the free inhabitants of the United States would have
rejoiced if it had succeeded. They at most only criticise the tactics.
Though we wear no crape, the thought of that man’s position and
probable fate is spoiling many a man’s day here at the North for other
thinking. If any one who has seen him here can pursue successfully any
other train of thought, I do not know what he is made of. If there is
any such who gets his usual allowance of sleep, I will warrant him to
fatten easily under any circumstances which do not touch his body or
purse. I put a piece of paper and a pencil under my pillow, and when I
could not sleep, I wrote in the dark.
On the whole, my respect for my fellow-men, except as one may outweigh
a million, is not being increased these days. I have noticed the
cold-blooded way in which newspaper writers and men generally speak of
this event, as if an ordinary malefactor, though one of unusual
“pluck,”—as the Governor of Virginia is reported to have said, using
the language of the cock-pit, “the gamest man he ever saw,”—had been
caught, and were about to be hung. He was not dreaming of his foes when
the governor thought he looked so brave. It turns what sweetness I have
to gall, to hear, or hear of, the remarks of some of my neighbors. When
we heard at first that he was dead, one of my townsmen observed that
“he died as the fool dieth”; which, pardon me, for an instant suggested
a likeness in him dying to my neighbor living. Others, craven-hearted,
said disparagingly, that “he threw his life away,” because he resisted
the government. Which way have they thrown _their_ lives, pray?—Such as
would praise a man for attacking singly an ordinary band of thieves or
murderers. I hear another ask, Yankee-like, “What will he gain by it?”
as if he expected to fill his pockets by this enterprise. Such a one
has no idea of gain but in this worldly sense. If it does not lead to a
“surprise” party, if he does not get a new pair of boots, or a vote of
thanks, it must be a failure. “But he won’t gain anything by it.” Well,
no, I don’t suppose he could get four-and-sixpence a day for being
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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