Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin

didn't want to see them there!”

  The two daughters, Emily and Mary, here became very much

  excited, and broke out in some very natural but bitter language

  against all slaveholders. “Hush, children! you must forgive

  your enemies,” she said. “But they're so wicked!” said the

  girls. “Ah, children, you must hate--the sin, but love the

  sinner.” “Well,” said one of the girls, “mother, if I was

  taken again and made a slave of, I'd kill myself.” “I trust

  not, child; that would be wicked.” “But, mother, I should; I know I never could bear it.” “Bear it, my child!” she

  answered, “it's they that bears the sorrow here is they that has

  the glories there.”

  There was a deep, indescribable pathos of voice and manner

  as she said these words; a solemnity and force, and yet a

  sweetness, that can never be forgotten.

  This poor slave-mother, whose whole life had been one long

  outrage on her holiest feelings; who had been kept from the

  power to read God's Word, whose whole pilgrimage had been

  made one day of sorrow by the injustice of a Christian nation,

  she had yet learned to solve the highest problem of Christian

  ethics, and to do what so few reformers can do--hate the sin, but love the sinner!

  A great deal of interest was excited among the ladies in

  Brooklyn by this history. Several large meetings were held in

  different parlours, in which the old mother related her history

  with great simplicity and pathos, and a subscription for the

  redemption of the remaining two of her family, was soon on

  foot. It may be interesting to know that the subscription-list

  was headed by the lovely and benevolent Jenny Lind Gold-

  schmidt.

  Some of the ladies who listened to this touching story were

  so much interested in Mrs. Edmondson personally, they wished

  to have her daguerreotype taken, both that they might be

  strengthened and refreshed by the sight of her placid counte-

  nance, and that they might see the beauty of true goodness

  beaming there.

  She accordingly went to the rooms with them, with all the

  simplicity of a little child. “Oh,” said she to one of the ladies,

  “you can't think how happy it's made me to get here, where

  everybody is so kind to me! Why, last night, when I went

  home, I was so happy I couldn't sleep. I had to go and tell

  my Saviour, over and over again, how happy I was.”

  A lady spoke to her about reading something. “Law bless

  you, honey! I can't read a letter.”

  “Then,” said another lady, “how have you learned so much

  of God and heavenly things?”

  “Well, 'pears like a gift from above.”

  “Can you have the Bible read to you?”

  “Why, yes; Paul, he reads a little, but then he has so much

  work all day, and when he gets home at night he's so tired!

  and his eyes is bad. But the Sperit teaches us.”

  “Do you go much to meeting?”

  “Not much now, we live so far. In winter I can't never.

  But, oh! what meetings I have had, alone in the corner--my

  Saviour and only me!” The smile with which these words

  were spoken was a thing to be remembered. A little girl,

  daughter of one of the ladies, made some rather severe remarks

  about somebody in the daguerreotype rooms, and her mother

  checked her.

  The old lady looked up, with her placid smile. “That puts

  me in mind,” she said, “of what I heard a preacher say once.

  `My friends,' says he, `if you know of anything that will make

  a brother's heart glad, run quick and tell it; but if it is some-

  thing that will only cause a sigh, bottle it up, bottle it up!'

  Oh, I often tell my children, `Bottle it up, bottle it up!' ”

  When the writer came to part with the old lady, she said

  to her, “Well, good-bye, my dear friend; remember and pray

  for me.”

  “Pray for you!” she said, earnestly. “Indeed I shall;

  I can't help it.” She then, raising her finger, said, in an

  emphatic tone, peculiar to the old of her race, “Tell you what:

  we never gets no good bread ourselves till we begins to ask for

  our brethren.”

  The writer takes this opportunity to inform all those friends,

  in different parts of the country, who generously contributed

  for the redemption of these children, that they are at last free!

  The following extract from the letter of a lady in Washington

  may be interesting to them:--

  I have seen the Edmondson parents--Paul and his wife Milly. I have seen the

  free Edmondsons--mother, son, and daughter--the very day after the great era of

  free life commenced, while yet the inspiration was on them, while the mother's

  face was all light and love, the father's eyes moistened and glistening with tears,

  the son calm in conscious manhood and responsibility, the daughter (not more

  than fifteen years old, I think) smiling a delightful appreciation of joy in the

  present and hope in the future, thus suddenly and completely unfolded.

  Thus have we finished the account of one of the families who

  were taken on board the “Pearl.” We have another history to

  give, to which we cannot promise so fortunate a termination.

  CHAPTER VII.

  Among those unfortunates guilty of loving freedom too well

  was a beautiful young quadroon girl, named Emily Russell,

  whose mother is now living in New York. The writer has seen

  and conversed with her. She is a pious woman, highly esteemed

  and respected, a member of a Christian church.

  By the avails of her own industry she purchased her freedom,

  and also redeemed from bondage some of her children. Emily

  was a resident of Washington, D. C., a place which belongs not

  to any State, but to the United States; and there, under the

  laws of the United States, she was held as a slave. She was of

  a gentle disposition and amiable manners; she had been early

  touched with a sense of religious things, and was on the very

  point of uniting herself with a Christian church; but her heart

  yearned after her widowed mother and after freedom, and so, on

  the fatal night when all the other poor victims sought the Pearl, the child Emily went also among them.

  How they were taken has already been told. The sin of the

  poor girl was inexpiable. Because she longed for her mother's

  arms and for liberty, she could not be forgiven. Nothing would

  do for such a sin, but to throw her into the hands of the trader.

  She also was thrown into Bruin and Hill's gaol, in Alexandria.

  Her poor mother in New York received the following letter from

  her. Read it, Christian mother, and think what if your daughter

  had written it to you!--

  Alexandria, Jan. 22, 1850.

  My dear Mother--I take this opportunity of writing you a few lines, to inform

  you that I am in Bruin's Jail, and Aunt Sally and all of her children, and Aunt

  Hagar and all her children, and grandmother is almost crazy. My dear mother, will

  you please to come on as soon as you can? I expect to go away very shortly. O

  mother! my dear mother! come now and see your distressed and heart-b
roken

  daughter once more. Mother! my dear mother! do not forsake me, for I feel

  desolate! Please to come now.

  Your daughter,

  Emily Russell.

  To Mrs. Nancy Cartwright, New York.

  P.S.--If you do not come as far as Alexandria, come to Washington, and do

  what you can.

  That letter, blotted and tear-soiled, was brought by this

  poor washerwoman to some Christian friends in New York,

  and shown to them. “What do you suppose they will ask

  for her?” was her question. All that she had--her little house,

  her little furniture, her small earnings--all these poor Nancy

  was willing to throw in; but all these were but as a drop to the

  bucket.

  The first thing to be done, then, was to ascertain what Emily

  could be redeemed for; and, as it may be an interesting item of

  American trade, we give the reply of the traders in full:--

  Alexandria, Jan. 31, 1850.

  Dear Sir,--When I received your letter I had not bought the negroes you spoke

  of, but since that time I have bought them. All I have to say about the matter is,

  that we paid very high for the negroes, and cannot afford to sell the girl Emily for

  less than EIGHTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS. This may seem a high price to you,

  but, cotton being very high, consequently slaves are high. We have two or three

  offers for Emily from gentlemen from the South. She is said to be the finest-

  looking woman in this country. As for Hagar and her seven children, we will

  take two thousand five hundred dollars for them. Sally and her four children, we

  will take for them two thousand eight hundred dollars. You may seem a little

  surprised at the difference in prices, but the difference in the negroes makes the

  difference in price. We expect to start South with the negroes on the 8th Feb-

  ruary, and if you intend to do anything, you had better do it soon.

  Yours respectfully,

  Bruin & Hill.

  This letter came to New York before the case of the Edmond-

  sons had called the attention of the community to this subject.

  The enormous price asked entirely discouraged effort, and before

  anything of importance was done they heard that the coffle had

  departed, with Emily in it.

  Hear, O heavens! and give ear, O earth! Let it be known,

  in all the countries of the earth, that the price of a beautiful

  Christian girl in America, when she is set up to be sold to a life

  of shame, is from EIGHTEEN HUNDRED TO TWO THOUSAND

  DOLLARS; and yet, judicatories in the church of Christ have

  said, in solemn conclave, that American slavery as it is

  is no evil!*

  From the table of the Sacrament and from the sanctuary of

  the church of Christ this girl was torn away, because her beauty

  was a saleable article in the slave-market in New Orleans!

  Perhaps some Northern apologist for slavery will say she was

  kindly treated here--not handcuffed by the wrist to a chain, and

  forced to walk, as articles less choice are; that a waggon was

  provided, and that she rode; and that food abundant was given

  her to eat, and that her clothing was warm and comfortable, and

  therefore no harm was done. We have heard it told us, again

  and again, that there is no harm in slavery, if one is only warm

  enough, and full-fed, and comfortable. It is true that the slave-

  woman has no protection from the foulest dishonour and the

  utmost insult that can be offered to womanhood--none what-

  ever in law or gospel; but so long as she has enough to eat and

  wear, our Christian fathers and mothers tell us it is not so bad!

  Poor Emily could not think so. There was no eye to pity,

  and none to help. The food of her accursed lot did not nourish

  her; the warmest clothing could not keep the chill of slavery

  from her heart. In the middle of the overland passage, sick,

  weary, heart-broken, the child laid her down and died. By that

  lonely pillow there was no mother; but there was one Friend,

  who loveth at all times, who is closer than a brother. Could

  our eyes be touched by the seal of faith, where others see only

  the lonely wilderness and the dying girl, we, perhaps, should see

  one closed in celestial beauty, waiting for that short agony to

  be over, that He might redeem her from all iniquity, and

  present her faultless before the presence of his Grace with

  exceeding joy.

  Even the hard-hearted trader was touched with her sad fate,

  and we are credibly informed that he said he was sorry he had

  taken her.

  Bruin and Hill wrote to New York that the girl Emily was

  dead. The Quaker, William Harned, went with the letter, to

  break the news to her mother. Since she had given up all hope

  of redeeming her daughter from the dreadful doom to which she

  had been sold, the helpless mother had drooped like a stricken

  woman. She no longer lifted up her head, or seemed to take

  any interest in life.

  When Mr. Harned called on her, she asked eagerly,

  “Have you heard anything from my daughter?”

  “Yes, I have,” was the reply--“a letter from Bruin and

  Hill.”

  “And what is the news?”

  He thought best to give a direct answer--“Emily is dead.”

  The poor mother clasped her hands, and, looking upwards,

  said, “The Lord be thanked! He has heard my prayers at

  last!”

  And, now, will it be said this is an exceptional case--it hap-

  pens one time in a thousand? Though we know that this is the

  foulest of falsehoods, and that the case is only a specimen of

  what is acting every day in the American slave-trade, yet, for

  argument's sake, let us, for once, admit it to be true. If only

  once in this nation, under the protection of our law, a Christian

  girl had been torn from the altar and the communion-table, and

  sold to foulest shame and dishonour, would that have been a

  light sin? Does not Christ say, “Inasmuch as ye have done it

  unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me?” Oh,

  words of woe for thee, America! words of woe for thee, church

  of Christ! Hast thou trod them under foot and trampled them

  in the dust so long that Christ has forgotten them? In the

  day of judgment everyone of these words shall rise up, living

  and burning, as accusing angels to witness against thee. Art

  thou, O church of Christ! praying daily, “Thy kingdom come?”

  Darest thou pray, “Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly?” Oh, what

  if He should come? What if the Lord, whom ye seek, should

  suddenly come into his temple? If his soul was stirred within

  him when he found within his temple of old those that changed

  money, and sold sheep, and oxen, and doves, what will he say

  now, when he finds them selling body, blood, and bones of his

  own people? And is the Christian church, which justifies this

  enormous system--which has used the awful name of her

  Redeemer to sanction the buying, selling, and trading in the

  souls of men--is this church the bride of Christ? Is she one

  with Christ, even as Christ is one with the Father? Oh, bitter

  mockery!
Does this church believe that every Christian's body

  is a temple of the Holy Ghost? Or does she think those solemn

  words were idle breath, when, a thousand times, every day and

  week, in the midst of her, is this temple set up and sold at

  auction, to be bought by any godless, blasphemous man who has

  money to pay for it!

  As to poor Daniel Bell and his family, whose contested claim

  to freedom was the beginning of the whole trouble, a few mem-

  bers of it were redeemed, and the rest were plunged into the

  abyss of slavery. It would seem as if this event, like the

  sinking of a ship, drew into its Maelstrom the fate of every

  unfortunate being who was in its vicinity. A poor, honest,

  hard-working slave-man, of the name of Thomas Ducket, had a

  wife who was on board the Pearl. Tom was supposed to know

  the men who countenanced the enterprise, and his master, there-

  fore, determined to sell him. He brought him to Washington

  for the purpose. Some in Washington doubted his legal right to

  bring a slave from Maryland for the purpose of selling him, and

  commenced legal proceedings to test the matter. While they

  were pending, the counsel for the master told the men who

  brought action against his client, that Tom was anxious to be

  sold; that he preferred being sold to the man who had pur-

  chased his wife and children rather than to have his liberty. It

  was well known that Tom did not wish to be separated from

  his family, and the friends here, confiding in the representation

  made to them, consented to withdraw the proceedings.

  Some time after this they received letters from poor Tom

  Ducket, dated ninety miles above New Orleans, complaining

  sadly of his condition, and making piteous appeals to hear from

  them respecting his wife and children. Upon inquiry, nothing

  could be learned respecting them. They had been sold and gone

  --sold and gone--no one knew whither; and as a punishment

  to Tom for his contumacy in refusing to give the name of the

  man who had projected the expedition of the Pearl, he was

  denied the privilege of going off the place, and was not allowed

  to talk with the other servants, his master fearing a conspiracy.

  In one of his letters he says, “I have seen more trouble here in

  one day than I have in all my life.” In another, “I would be

  glad to hear from her (his wife), but I should be more glad to