Chapter XII: Preface: To the European Edition

In authorizing the circulation of this work on the
Continent of Europe, the author has only this apology,
that the love of _man_ is higher than the love of
country.

The great mystery which all Christian nations hold in
common, the union of God with man through the humanity
of Jesus Christ, invests human existence with an awful
sacredness; and in the eye of the true believer in
Jesus, he who tramples on the rights of his meanest
fellow-man is not only inhuman but sacrilegious, and
the worst form of this sacrilege is the institution of
_slavery_.

It has been said that the representations of this book
are exaggerations! and oh, _would_ that this were true!
Would that this book were indeed a fiction, and not a
close mosaic of facts! But that it is not a fiction the
proofs lie bleeding in thousands of hearts; they have
been attested by surrounding voices from almost every
slave State, and from slave-owners themselves. Since so
it must be, thanks be to God that this mighty cry, this
wail of an unutterable anguish, has at last been heard!

It has been said, and not in utter despair but in
solemn hope and assurance may we regard the struggle
that now convulses America,--the outcry of the demon
of slavery, which has heard the voice of Jesus of
Nazareth, and is rending and convulsing the noble
nation from which at last it must depart.

It cannot be that so monstrous a solecism can long
exist in the bosom of a nation which in all respects is
the best exponent of the great principle of universal
brotherhood. In America the Frenchman, the German,
the Italian, the Swede, and the Irish all mingle on
terms of equal right; all nations there display their
characteristic excellences and are admitted by her
liberal laws to equal privileges: everything is tending
to liberalize, humanize, and elevate, and for that very
reason it is that the contest with slavery there grows
every year more terrible.

The stream of human progress, widening, deepening,
strengthening from the confluent forces of all nations,
meets this barrier, behind which is concentrated all
the ignorance, cruelty, and oppression of the dark
ages, and it roars and foams and shakes the barrier,
and anon it must bear it down.

In its commencement slavery overspread every State in
the Union: the progress of society has now emancipated
the North from its yoke. In Kentucky, Tennessee,
Virginia, and Maryland, at different times, strong
movements have been made for emancipation,--movements
enforced by a comparison of the progressive march
of the adjoining free States with the poverty and
sterility and ignorance produced by a system which in a
few years wastes and exhausts all the resources of the
soil without the power of renewal.

The time cannot be distant when these States will
emancipate for self-preservation; and if no new slave
territory be added, the increase of slave population in
the remainder will enforce measures of emancipation.

Here, then, is the point of the battle. Unless more
slave territory is gained, slavery dies; if it is
gained, it lives. Around this point political parties
fight and manoeuvre, and every year the battle wages
hotter.

The internal struggles of no other nation in the world
are so interesting to Europeans as those of America;
for America is fast filling up from Europe, and every
European has almost immediately his vote in her
councils.

If, therefore, the oppressed of other nations desire
to find in America an asylum of permanent freedom, let
them come prepared, heart and hand, and vote against
the institution of slavery; for they who enslave man
cannot themselves remain free.

True are the great words of Kossuth: "No nation can
remain free with whom freedom is a _privilege_ and not
a principle."

This preface was more or less widely copied in the twenty translations of the book that quickly followed its first appearance. These, arranged in the alphabetical order of their languages, are as follows: Armenian, Bohemian, Danish, Dutch, Finnish, Flemish, French, German, Hungarian, Illyrian, Italian, Polish, Portuguese, Romaic or modern Greek, Russian, Servian, Spanish, Wallachian, and Welsh.

In Germany it received the following flattering notice from one of the leading literary journals: "The abolitionists in the United States should vote the author of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' a civic crown, for a more powerful ally than Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe and her romance they could not have. We confess that in the whole modern romance literature of Germany, England, and France, we know of no novel to be called equal to this. In comparison with its glowing eloquence that never fails of its purpose, its wonderful truth to nature, the largeness of its ideas, and the artistic faultlessness of the machinery in this book, George Sand, with her Spiridion and Claudie, appears to us untrue and artificial; Dickens, with his but too faithful pictures from the popular life of London, petty; Bulwer, hectic and self-conscious. It is like a sign of warning from the New World to the Old."

Madame George Sand reviewed the book, and spoke of Mrs. Stowe herself in words at once appreciative and discriminating: "Mrs. Stowe is all instinct; it is the very reason she appears to some not to have talent. Has she not talent? What is talent? Nothing, doubtless, compared to genius; but has she genius? She has genius as humanity feels the need of genius,--the genius of goodness, not that of the man of letters, but that of the saint."

Charles Sumner wrote from the senate chamber at Washington to Professor Stowe: "All that I hear and read bears testimony to the good Mrs. Stowe has done. The article of George Sand is a most remarkable tribute, such as was hardly ever offered by such a genius to any living mortal. Should Mrs. Stowe conclude to visit Europe she will have a triumph."

From Eversley parsonage Charles Kingsley wrote to Mrs. Stowe:--

A thousand thanks for your delightful letter. As for
your progress and ovation here in England, I have no
fear for you. You will be flattered and worshiped.
You deserve it and you must bear it. I am sure that
you have seen and suffered too much and too long to
be injured by the foolish yet honest and heartfelt
lionizing which you must go through.

I have many a story to tell you when we meet about the
effects of the great book upon the most unexpected
people.

Yours ever faithfully,
C. KINGSLEY.

March 28, 1853, Professor Stowe sent the following communication to the Committee of Examination of the Theological Seminary at Andover: "As I shall not be present at the examinations this term, I think it proper to make to you a statement of the reasons of my absence. During the last winter I have not enjoyed my usual health. Mrs. Stowe also became sick and very much exhausted. At this time we had the offer of a voyage to Great Britain and back free of expense."

This offer, coming as it did from the friends of the cause of emancipation in the United Kingdom, was gladly accepted by Mr. and Mrs. Stowe, and they sailed immediately.

The preceding month Mrs. Stowe had received a letter from Mrs. Follen in London, asking for information with regard to herself, her family, and the circumstances of her writing "Uncle Tom's Cabin."

In reply Mrs. Stowe sent the following very characteristic letter, which may be safely given at the risk of some repetition:--

ANDOVER, _February 16, 1853._

MY DEAR MADAM,--I hasten to reply to your letter, to me
the more interesting that I have long been acquainted
with you, and during all the nursery part of my life
made daily use of your poems for children.

I used to think sometimes in those days that I would
write to you, and tell you how much I was obliged to
you for the pleasure which they gave us all.

So you want to know something about what sort of a
woman I am! Well, if this is any object, you shall
have statistics free of charge. To begin, then, I am
a little bit of a woman,--somewhat more than forty,
about as thin and dry as a pinch of snuff; never very
much to look at in my best days, and looking like a
used-up article now.

I was married when I was twenty-five years old to a man
rich in Greek and Hebrew, Latin and Arabic, and, alas!
rich in nothing else. When I went to housekeeping,
my entire stock of china for parlor and kitchen was
bought for eleven dollars. That lasted very well for
two years, till my brother was married and brought
his bride to visit me. I then found, on review, that
I had neither plates nor teacups to set a table for
my father's family; wherefore I thought it best to
reinforce the establishment by getting me a tea-set
that cost ten dollars more, and this, I believe, formed
my whole stock in trade for some years.

But then I was abundantly enriched with wealth of
another sort.

I had two little, curly-headed twin daughters to
begin with, and my stock in this line has gradually
increased, till I have been the mother of seven
children, the most beautiful and the most loved of
whom lies buried near my Cincinnati residence. It was
at his dying bed and at his grave that I learned what
a poor slave mother may feel when her child is torn
away from her. In those depths of sorrow which seemed
to me immeasurable, it was my only prayer to God that
such anguish might not be suffered in vain. There
were circumstances about his death of such peculiar
bitterness, of what seemed almost cruel suffering, that
I felt that I could never be consoled for it, unless
this crushing of my own heart might enable me to work
out some great good to others....

I allude to this here because I have often felt that
much that is in that book ("Uncle Tom") had its root
in the awful scenes and bitter sorrows of that summer.
It has left now, I trust, no trace on my mind, except
a deep compassion for the sorrowful, especially for
mothers who are separated from their children.

During long years of struggling with poverty and
sickness, and a hot, debilitating climate, my children
grew up around me. The nursery and the kitchen were my
principal fields of labor. Some of my friends, pitying
my trials, copied and sent a number of little sketches
from my pen to certain liberally paying "Annuals" with
my name. With the first money that I earned in this
way I bought a feather-bed! for as I had married into
poverty and without a dowry, and as my husband had only
a large library of books and a great deal of learning,
the bed and pillows were thought the most profitable
investment. After this I thought that I had discovered
the philosopher's stone. So when a new carpet or
mattress was going to be needed, or when, at the close
of the year, it began to be evident that my family
accounts, like poor Dora's, "wouldn't add up," then I
used to say to my faithful friend and factotum Anna,
who shared all my joys and sorrows, "Now, if you will
keep the babies and attend to the things in the house
for one day, I'll write a piece, and then we shall
be out of the scrape." So I became an author,--very
modest at first, I do assure you, and remonstrating
very seriously with the friends who had thought it best
to put my name to the pieces by way of getting up a
reputation; and if you ever see a woodcut of me, with
an immoderately long nose, on the cover of all the U.
S. Almanacs, I wish you to take notice, that I have
been forced into it contrary to my natural modesty by
the imperative solicitations of my dear five thousand
friends and the public generally. One thing I must say
with regard to my life at the West, which you will
understand better than many English women could.

I lived two miles from the city of Cincinnati, in the
country, and domestic service, not always you know to
be found in the city, is next to an impossibility to
obtain in the country, even by those who are willing to
give the highest wages; so what was to be expected for
poor me, who had very little of this world's goods to
offer?

Had it not been for my inseparable friend Anna, a
noble-hearted English girl, who landed on our shores
in destitution and sorrow, and clave to me as Ruth to
Naomi, I had never lived through all the trials which
this uncertainty and want of domestic service imposed
on both: you may imagine, therefore, how glad I was
when, our seminary property being divided out into
small lots which were rented at a low price, a number
of poor families settled in our vicinity, from whom
we could occasionally obtain domestic service. About
a dozen families of liberated slaves were among the
number, and they became my favorite resort in cases
of emergency. If anybody wishes to have a black face
look handsome, let them be left, as I have been, in
feeble health in oppressive hot weather, with a sick
baby in arms, and two or three other little ones in
the nursery, and not a servant in the whole house to
do a single turn. Then, if they could see my good old
Aunt Frankie coming with her honest, bluff, black face,
her long, strong arms, her chest as big and stout as
a barrel, and her hilarious, hearty laugh, perfectly
delighted to take one's washing and do it at a fair
price, they would appreciate the beauty of black people.

My cook, poor Eliza Buck,--how she would stare to think
of her name going to England!--was a regular epitome
of slave life in herself; fat, gentle, easy, loving
and lovable, always calling my very modest house and
door-yard "The Place," as if it had been a plantation
with seven hundred hands on it. She had lived through
the whole sad story of a Virginia-raised slave's life.
In her youth she must have been a very handsome mulatto
girl. Her voice was sweet, and her manners refined and
agreeable. She was raised in a good family as a nurse
and seamstress. When the family became embarrassed, she
was suddenly sold on to a plantation in Louisiana. She
has often told me how, without any warning, she was
suddenly forced into a carriage, and saw her little
mistress screaming and stretching her arms from the
window towards her as she was driven away. She has told
me of scenes on the Louisiana plantation, and she has
often been out at night by stealth ministering to poor
slaves who had been mangled and lacerated by the lash.
Hence she was sold into Kentucky, and her last master
was the father of all her children. On this point she
ever maintained a delicacy and reserve that always
appeared to me remarkable. She always called him her
husband; and it was not till after she had lived with
me some years that I discovered the real nature of
the connection. I shall never forget how sorry I felt
for her, nor my feelings at her humble apology, "You
know, Mrs. Stowe, slave women cannot help themselves."
She had two very pretty quadroon daughters, with her
beautiful hair and eyes, interesting children, whom I
had instructed in the family school with my children.
Time would fail to tell you all that I learned
incidentally of the slave system in the history of
various slaves who came into my family, and of the
underground railroad which, I may say, ran through our
house. But the letter is already too long.

You ask with regard to the remuneration which I have
received for my work here in America. Having been poor
all my life and expecting to be poor the rest of it,
the idea of making money by a book which I wrote just
because I could not help it, never occurred to me. It
was therefore an agreeable surprise to receive ten
thousand dollars as the first-fruits of three months'
sale. I presume as much more is now due. Mr. Bosworth
in England, the firm of Clarke & Co., and Mr. Bentley,
have all offered me an interest in the sales of their
editions in London. I am very glad of it, both on
account of the value of what they offer, and the value
of the example they set in this matter, wherein I think
that justice has been too little regarded.

I have been invited to visit Scotland, and shall
probably spend the summer there and in England.

I have very much at heart a design to erect in some of
the Northern States a normal school, for the education
of colored teachers in the United States and in Canada.
I have very much wished that some permanent memorial
of good to the colored race might be created out of
the proceeds of a work which promises to have so
unprecedented a sale. My own share of the profits will
be less than that of the publishers', either English
or American; but I am willing to give largely for this
purpose, and I have no doubt that the publishers, both
American and English, will unite with me; for nothing
tends more immediately to the emancipation of the slave
than the education and elevation of the free.

I am now writing a work which will contain, perhaps,
an equal amount of matter with "Uncle Tom's Cabin."
It will contain all the facts and documents on which
that story was founded, and an immense body of facts,
reports of trials, legal documents, and testimony of
people now living South, which will more than confirm
every statement in "Uncle Tom's Cabin."

I must confess that till I began the examination of
facts in order to write this book, much as I thought
I knew before, I had not begun to measure the depth
of the abyss. The law records of courts and judicial
proceedings are so incredible as to fill me with
amazement whenever I think of them. It seems to me
that the book cannot but be felt, and, coming upon the
sensibility awaked by the other, do something.

I suffer exquisitely in writing these things. It may
be truly said that I write with my heart's blood. Many
times in writing "Uncle Tom's Cabin" I thought my
health would fail utterly; but I prayed earnestly that
God would help me till I got through, and still I am
pressed beyond measure and above strength.

This horror, this nightmare abomination! can it be in
my country! It lies like lead on my heart, it shadows
my life with sorrow; the more so that I feel, as for my
own brothers, for the South, and am pained by every
horror I am obliged to write, as one who is forced
by some awful oath to disclose in court some family
disgrace. Many times I have thought that I must die,
and yet I pray God that I may live to see something
done. I shall in all probability be in London in May:
shall I see you?

It seems to me so odd and dream-like that so many
persons desire to see me, and now I cannot help
thinking that they will think, when they do, that God
hath chosen "the weak things of this world."

If I live till spring I shall hope to see Shakespeare's
grave, and Milton's mulberry-tree, and the good land of
my fathers,--old, old England! May that day come!

Yours affectionately,
H. B. STOWE.

FOOTNOTE:

[13] Students in the Seminary.