Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  exhibited on sale. They made them up with far sadder feelings

  than they would have sewed on their own shrouds. Hope had

  almost died out of their bosoms. A few days before the gang

  were to be sent off, their sister made them a sad farewell visit.

  They mingled their prayers and tears, and the girls made up

  little tokens of remembrance to send by her as parting gifts to

  their brothers and sisters, and aged father and mother; and

  with a farewell sadder than that of a death-bed, the sisters

  parted.

  The evening before the coffle was to start drew on. Mary

  and Emily went to the house to bid Bruin's family good-bye.

  Bruin had a little daughter who had been a pet and favourite

  with the girls. She clung round them, cried, and begged them

  not to go. Emily told her that if she wished to have them

  stay, she must go and ask her father. Away ran the little

  pleader, full of her errand; and was so very earnest in her

  importunities, that he, to pacify her, said he would consent to

  their remaining, if his partner, Captain Hill, would do so. At

  this time Bruin, hearing Mary crying aloud in the prison, went

  up to see her. With all the earnestness of despair, she made

  her last appeal to his feelings. She begged him to make the

  case his own, to think of his own dear little daughter--what if

  she were exposed tobe torn away from every friend on earth,

  and cut off from all hope of redemption, at the very moment,

  too, when deliverance was expected! Bruin was not absolutely

  a man of stone, and this agonising appeal brought tears to his

  eyes. He gave some encouragement that, if Hill would consent,

  they need not be sent off with the gang. A sleepless night

  followed, spent in weeping, groaning, and prayer. Morning

  at last dawned; and, according to orders received the day

  before, they prepared themselves to go, and even put on their

  bonnets and shawls, and stood ready for the word to be given.

  When the very last tear of hope was shed, and they were going

  out to join the gang, Bruin's heart relented. He called them

  to him, and told them they might remain! Oh, how glad were

  their hearts made by this, as they might now hope on a little

  longer! Either the entreaties of little Martha or Mary's plea

  with Bruin had prevailed.

  Soon the gang was started on foot--men, women, and chil-

  dren, two and two, the men all handcuffed together, the right

  wrist of one to the left wrist of the other, and a chain passing

  through the middle from the handcuffs of one couple to those

  of the next. The women and children walked in the same

  manner throughout, handcuffed or chained. Drivers went be-

  fore and at the side, to take up those who were sick or lame.

  They were obliged to set off singing! accompanied with fiddles

  and banjoes!--“For they that carried us away captive required

  of us a song, and they that wasted us required of us mirth.”

  And this is a scene of daily occurrence in a Christian country!

  and Christian ministers say that the right to do these things is

  given by God himself!!

  Meanwhile poor old Paul Edmondson went northward to

  supplicate aid. Any one who should have travelled in the cars

  at that time might have seen a venerable-looking black man, all

  whose air and attitude indicated a patient humility, and who

  seemed to carry a weight of overwhelming sorrow, like one who had

  long been acquainted with grief. That man was Paul Edmondson.

  Alone, friendless, unknown, and, worst of all, black, he came

  into the great bustling city of New York, to see if there was

  any one there who could give him twenty-five hundred dollars

  to buy his daughters with. Can anybody realise what a poor

  man's feelings are, who visits a great, bustling, rich city, alone

  and unknown, for such an object? The writer has now, in a

  letter from a slave father and husband who was visiting Port-

  land on a similar errand, a touching expression of it:

  I walked all day, till I was tired and discouraged. O! Mrs. S--, when I see

  so many people who seem to have so many more things than they want or know

  what to do with, and then think that I have worked hard, till I am past forty, all

  my life, and don't own even my own wife and children, it makes me feel sick and

  discouraged!

  So sick at heart and discouraged felt Paul Edmondson. He

  went to the Anti-Slavery Office, and made his case known. The

  sum was such a large one, and seemed to many so exorbitant,

  that though they pitied the poor father, they were disheartened

  about raising it. They wrote to Washington to authenticate the

  particulars of the story, and wrote to Bruin and Hill to see if

  there could be any reduction of price. Meanwhile the poor old

  man looked sadly from one adviser to another. He was recom-

  mended to go to the Rev. H. W. Beecher, and tell his story.

  He inquired his way to his door--ascended the steps to ring

  the door-bell, but his heart failed him: he sat down on the

  steps, weeping!

  There Mr. Beecher found him. He took him in, and inquired

  his story. There was to be a public meeting that night to raise

  money. The hapless father begged him to go and plead for his

  children. He did go, and spoke as if he were pleading for his

  own father and sisters. Other clergymen followed in the same

  strain, the meeting became enthusiastic, and the money was

  raised on the spot, and poor old Paul laid his head that night

  on a grateful pillow--not to sleep, but to give thanks!

  Meanwhile the girls had been dragging on anxious days in the

  slave-prison. They were employed in sewing for Bruin's family,

  staying sometimes in the prison, and sometimes in the house.

  It is to be stated here that Mr. Bruin is a man of very

  different character from many in his trade. He is such a man

  as never would have been found in the profession of a slave-

  trader, had not the most respectable and religious part of the

  community defended the right to buy and sell, as being conferred

  by God himself. It is a fact, with regard to this man, that he

  was one of the earliest subscribers to the National Era, in the

  District of Columbia; and when a certain individual there

  brought himself into great peril by assisting fugitive slaves, and

  there was no one found to go bail for him, Mr. Bruin came

  forward and performed this kindness.

  While we abhor the horrible system and the horrible trade

  with our whole soul, there is no harm, we suppose, in wishing

  that such a man had a better occupation. Yet we cannot forbear

  reminding all such that, when we come to give our account at

  the judgment-seat of Christ, every man must speak for himself

  alone; and that Christ will not accept as an apology for sin the

  word of all the ministers and all the synods in the country. He

  has given fair warning, “Beware of false prophets;” and if

  people will not beware of them, their blood is upon their own

  heads.

  The girls, while under Mr. Bruin's care, were treated with as


  much kindness and consideration as could possibly consist with

  the design of selling them. There is no doubt that Bruin was

  personally friendly to them, and really wished most earnestly

  that they might be ransomed; but then he did not see how he

  was to lose two thousand five hundred dollars. He had just

  the same difficulty on this subject that some New York members

  of churches have had, when they have had slaves brought into

  their hands as security for Southern debts. He was sorry for

  them, and wished them well, and hoped Providence would pro-

  vide for them when they were sold, but still he could not afford

  to lose his money; and while such men remain elders and com-

  municants in churches in New York, we must not be surprised

  that there remain slave-traders in Alexandria.

  It is one great art of the enemy of souls to lead men to com-

  pound for their participation in one branch of sin by their

  righteous horror of another. The slave-trader has been the

  general scape-goat on whom all parties have vented their indig-

  nation, while buying of him and selling to him.

  There is an awful warning given in the fiftieth Psalm to those

  who in word have professed religion and in deed consented to

  iniquity, where from the judgment-seat Christ is represented as

  thus addressing them:--“What hast thou to do to declare my

  statutes, or that thou shouldst take my covenant into thy mouth,

  seeing thou hatest instruction, and castest my words behind

  thee? When thou sawest a thief, then thou consentedst with

  him, and hast been partaker with adulterers.”

  One thing is certain, that all who do these things, openly or

  secretly, must, at last, make up their account with a Judge who

  is no respecter of persons, and who will just as soon condemn

  an elder in the church for slave-trading as a professed trader;

  nay, He may make it more tolerable for the Sodom and Gomorrah

  of the trade than for them--for it may be, if the trader had the

  means of grace that they have had, that he would have repented

  long ago.

  But to return to our history.--The girls were sitting sewing

  near the open window of their cage, when Emily said to Mary,

  “There, Mary, is that white man we have seen from the North.”

  They both looked, and in a moment more saw their own dear

  father. They sprang and ran through the house and the office,

  and into the street, shouting as they ran, followed by Bruin, who

  said he thought the girls were crazy. In a moment they were

  in their father's arms, but observed that he trembled exceedingly,

  and that his voice was unsteady. They eagerly inquired if the

  money was raised for their ransom. Afraid of exciting their

  hopes too soon, before their free papers were signed, he said he

  would talk with them soon, and went into the office with Mr.

  Bruin and Mr. Chaplin. Mr. Bruin professed himself sincerely

  glad, as undoubtedly he was, that they had brought the money;

  but seemed much hurt by the manner in which he had been

  spoken of by the Rev. H. W. Beecher at the liberation meeting

  in New York, thinking it hard that no difference should be made

  between him and other traders, when he had shown himself so

  much more considerate and humane than the great body of them.

  He, however, counted over the money and signed the papers with

  great good will, taking out a five-dollar gold piece for each of

  the girls, as a parting present.

  The affair took longer than they supposed, and the time

  seemed an age to the poor girls, who were anxiously walking up

  and down outside the room, in ignorance of their fate. Could

  their father have brought the money? Why did he tremble so?

  Could he have failed of the money, at last? Or could it be that

  their dear mother was dead, for they had heard that she was

  very ill!

  At length a messenger came shouting to them, “You are free,

  you are free!” Emily thinks she sprang nearly to the ceiling

  overhead. They jumped, clapped their hands, laughed and

  shouted aloud. Soon their father came to them, embraced them

  tenderly, and attempted to quiet them, and told them to prepare

  themselves to go and see their mother. This they did they

  know not how, but with considerable help from the family, who

  all seemed to rejoice in their joy. Their father procured a car-

  riage to take them to the wharf, and, with joy overflowing all

  bounds, they bade a most affectionate farewell to each member

  of the family, not even omitting Bruin himself. The “good

  that there is in human nature” for once had the upper hand,

  and all were moved to tears of sympathetic joy. Their father,

  with subdued tenderness, made great efforts to soothe their

  tumultuous feelings, and at length partially succeeded. When

  they arrived at Washington, a carriage was ready to take them

  to their sister's house. People of every rank and description

  came running together to get a sight of them. Their brothers

  caught them up in their arms, and ran about with them, almost

  frantic with joy. Their aged and venerated mother, raised up

  from a sick-bed by the stimulus of the glad news, was there,

  weeping and giving thanks to God. Refreshments were pre-

  pared in their sister's house for all who called, and amid greet-

  ings and rejoicings, tears and gladness, prayers and thanks-

  givings, but without sleep, the night passed away, and the

  morning of November 4, 1848, dawned upon them free and

  happy.

  This last spring, during the month of May, as the writer has

  already intimated, the aged mother of the Edmondson family

  came on to New York, and the reason of her coming may be

  thus briefly explained. She had still one other daughter, the

  guide and support of her feeble age, or, as she calls her, in her

  own expressive language, “the last drop of blood in her heart.”

  She had also a son, twenty-one years of age, still a slave on a

  neighbouring plantation. The infirm woman in whose name the

  estate was held was supposed to be drawing near to death, and

  the poor parents were distressed with the fear that, in case of

  this event, their two remaining children would be sold for the

  purpose of dividing the estate, and thus thrown into the dreaded

  Southern market. No one can realise what a constant horror

  the slave-prisons and the slave-traders are to all the unfortunate

  families in the vicinity. Everything for which other parents

  look on their children with pleasure and pride is to these poor

  souls a source of anxiety and dismay, because it renders the

  child so much more a merchantable article.

  It is no wonder, therefore, that the light in Paul and Milly's

  cottage was overshadowed by this terrible idea.

  The guardians of these children had given their father a

  written promise to sell them to him for a certain sum, and

  by hard begging he had acquired a hundred dollars towards the

  twelve hundred which were necessary. But he was now confined

  to his bed with sickness. After pouring out earne
st prayer to

  the Helper of the helpless, Milly says, one day she said to Paul,

  “I tell ye, Paul, I'm going up to New York myself, to see if I

  can't get that money.”

  “Paul says to me, `Why, Milly dear, how can you? Ye

  an't fit to be off the bed, and ye's never in the cars in your

  life.'

  “Never you fear, Paul,' says I; `I shall go trusting in

  the Lord; and the Lord, He'll take me, and He'll bring me,

  that I know.'

  “So I went to the cars and got a white man to put me

  aboard; and, sure enough, there I found two Bethel minis-

  ters; and one set one side o' me, and one set the other, all

  the way; and they got me my tickets, and looked after my

  things, and did everything for me. There didn't anything

  happen to me all the way. Sometimes, when I went to set

  down in the sitting-rooms, people looked at me and moved

  off so scornful! Well, I thought, I wish the Lord would give

  you a better mind.”

  Emily and Mary, who had been at school in New York State,

  came to the city to meet their mother, and they brought her

  directly to the Rev. Henry W. Beecher's house, where the

  writer then was.

  The writer remembers now the scene when she first met this

  mother and daughters. It must be recollected that they had

  not seen each other before for four years. One was sitting each

  side the mother, holding her hand; and the air of pride and

  filial affection with which they presented her was touching to

  behold. After being presented to the writer, she again sat

  down between them, took a hand of each, and looked very

  earnestly first on one and then on the other; and then looking

  up, said, with a smile, “Oh, these children! how they do lie

  round our hearts!”

  She then explained to the writer all her sorrows and anxieties

  for the younger children. “Now, madam,” she says, “that

  man that keeps the great trading-house at Alexandria, that

  man,” she said with a strong, indignant expression, “has sent

  to know if there's any more of my children to be sold. That

  man said he wanted to see me! Yes, ma'am, he said he'd give

  twenty dollars to see me. I wouldn't see him if he'd give me

  a hundred! He sent for me to come and see him when he

  had my daughters in his prison. I wouldn't go to see him; I