My
husband was then away lecturing, and my heart was burning itself out
in indignation and anguish. Henry told me then that he meant to fight
that battle in New York; that he would have a church that would stand
by him to resist the tyrannic dictation of Southern slaveholders. I
said: "I, too, have begun to do something; I have begun a story,
trying to set forth the sufferings and wrongs of the slaves." "That's
right, Hattie," he said; "finish it, and I will scatter it thick as
the leaves of Vallambrosa," and so came "Uncle Tom," and Plymouth
Church became a stronghold where the slave always found refuge and a
strong helper. One morning my brother found sitting on his doorstep
poor old Paul Edmonson, weeping; his two daughters, of sixteen and
eighteen, had passed into the slave warehouse of Bruin & Hill, and
were to be sold. My brother took the man by the hand to a public
meeting, told his story for him, and in an hour raised the two
thousand dollars to redeem his children. Over and over again,
afterwards, slaves were redeemed at Plymouth Church, and Henry and
Plymouth Church became words of hatred and fear through half the
Union. From that time until we talked together about the Fugitive
Slave Law, there was not a pause or stop in the battle till we had
been through the war and slavery had been wiped out in blood. Through
all he has been pouring himself out, wrestling, burning, laboring
everywhere, making stump speeches when elections turned on the slave
question, and ever maintaining that the cause of Christ was the cause
of the slave.
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