Volume II Part 75 (1/2)

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.