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were the movements of the bride that a
casual spectator never would have ima
gined that she was already married to
death. The proclaiming of the banns had
attracted no attention, for it was done in
a church, and not a soul, beyond the four
individuals, was aware of the nature of
this singular union. Several other couples
were married at the same time; and, as
they all stood up, Eliza seemed among
them a being of another world. She w r ent
through the ceremony without evincing
symptoms of exhaustion; though, when
she reached home, she fainted repeatedly,
and it appeared as if her wedding-day
was to be her last. Next day she was
better; and a momentary delusion came
over Harry’s mind that she might still
live. But the “wife” felt that it was a
delusion ; she was done with this world,
she said, and contented to be done with
it —“Harry, my own husband, remember
me when 1 am dead !”
Two weeks after the wedding, it ap
peared evident that her departure was at
hand. Harry and her mother sat up du
ring the night, reading at intervals por
tions of the New Testament. The light
of morning had begun to penetrate the
window blinds, when Eliza said, in a
whispering, but not complaining tone,
“Mother, my feet are very cold—oh,
mother, lam becoming so cold!” and
then the mother, whose heart was too dry
for tears, made a sign to Harry that
Death had of a certainty entered the
chamber, and was hovering over the bed.
“Where is Harry]” she murmured,
and he took her hand in his. “Harry,
read a verse to me ; and he repeated from
memory, “Beloved, now are we the sons
of God, and it doth not yet appear what
we shall be, but we know that when He
shall appear, we shall be like Him, for
we shall see Him as He is.”
“Ah, that is good,” she said, “science
is very good, Harry, but that is worth all
your science to me just now. Harry,
come near me ; I cannot see you —where
are you ?”
“I am here, dear Eliza.”
“And mother?”
“Here, my child.”
“May God bless you both—Harry, call
me ‘wife’ before I die.”
He leaned forward to whisper the af
fectionate word in her ear, and heard her
muttering, “What we know not now, we
shall know hereafter. Then a few inco
herent expressions followed; a gentle
sigh, and one or two sobs; and just as
the rays of the sun illuminated the apart
ment, the spirit of a noble creature de
parted.
W hat a picture it would be for an artist
to represent an active politician “taking
the stump:' 1 Dr. Hitchcock is one of
the first of his class in this line. — Carpet
Bag.
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.
(a review.)
[Continued from our last.]
In attributing this perfection to the ne
gro character, Mrs. Stowe not only “o’er
steps the modesty of nature,” but she
places in a strong light the absurdity of
the whole story of Mrs. Shelby’s sacrifice.
An Irish soldier in our army was once
rebuked by his commanding officer for
getting drunk. “Arrah! yer honour,”
said Bat, “yer wouldn’t be after expect
in’ all the Christian vartues in a man, for
eight dollars a month !” In like manner
we would ask if a sensible man like Mr.
Shelby could be expected to sell so much
of prudence, honesty, foresight, sobriety
and affection as were found in Uncle Tom,
for any sum that Haley would be willing
to allow for him ? We are not told what
this sum was, but judging from Haley’s
grinding disposition, and the fact that he
afterwards sold Uncle Tom for thirteen
hundred dollars, it is fair to fix his origi
nal price at one thousand dollars. Now,
admitting Mr. Shelby’s embarrassments
and conceiving it possible that he could
set aside all his long-standing attachment
for Uncle Tom at the bidding of an inso
lent trader, is it likely that so valuable,
or rather so invaluable, a piece of prop
erty would have been relinquished for so
small a “consideration?” But a high
toned and chivalrous Kentuckian can not
so easily divest himself of his humanity,
and it is a slander upon that gallant State
to represent the scene within her borders.
The dialogue with which Mrs. Stowe’s
novel opens, if carried to its legitimate
conclusion, would have been a short one.
Mr. Shelby would have “participated
matters,” as Mrs. Malaprop says, by
knocking Haley down stairs.
But our authoress would have Uncle
Tom sold, and we now return to him,
with his new master —
Floating down be riber of the O-hi-o !
In due time they reach the Mississippi,
upon whose turbid flood they are borne
to New Orleans. Before arriving at this
metropolis, an incident occurs to Uncle
Tom which operates a material change in
his condition. Among the passengers in
the steamer, there is a certain Mr. St.
Clare, a young, rich, clever and handsome
Louisiana planter on his way home from
a Northern excursion, accompanied by
his daughter, a fair-haired little seraph
of five or six years of age, and a New
England cousin, one Miss Ophelia St.
Clare, who has never before been in the
Southern States. One day this little
daughter falls overboard from the forward
deck, just as the boat is leaving a land
ing. Tom, who has been reading his
bible near at hand, plunges after her in a
moment, and rescues her from drowniim.
A friendship springs up between the child
and Uncle Tom which leads to his pur-
chase by Mr. St. Clare, to whose luxuri
ous establishment in New Orleans our
sable hero is now speedily transferred.
The role assigned him was that of coach
man, but his duties amounted to no more
than a general supervision of the stables.
The business of his life was to play the
companion to Evangeline, or Little Eva,
as she was generally called, to minister to
her simple wants, to pluck for her the
sunniest fruits and to twine roses in her
golden hair. Eva on her part was not
less zealous in gentle offices. She read
to him, as Tom had never heard them
read before, those passages of Holy Writ
which were most calculated to impress
both their imaginative intellects. Thus
for two years did “the foot of Time” with
Tom, “tread noiselessly on flowers.” But
the cheek of little Eva soon mantled with
that hectic glow which announces the
dread presence of consumption. The art
of the physician was invoked in vain to
arrest the fatal malady. Day by day the
form upon which parents and friends
gazed so fondly, wasted from their sight.
The fine intellect of the child flashed out
with preternatural brilliancy as its earthly
tenement was about to be dissolved.—
The vigils of Uncle Tom at the bedside
of the sufferer are described with a pathos
that goes to the heart of the reader. At
last the destroyer came. In the sad circle
of the bereaved there was none whose
grief was more bitter and abiding than
Uncle Tom’s.
This touching little episode is so far
the best part of the novel that it seems
to be not of it. It is a gem shining amid
surrounding rubbish. We think, how
ever, that we have read something very
like it before. The enchanting concep
tion of grace and innocence in the person
of little Eva is not original. Years ago,
the tears of thousands of readers were
drawn forth by the story of a child, in all
respects the prototype and H6w\ov of Eva,
whose angelic figure, floating above an
atmosphere of guilt and shame, seemed
to sanctify its habitation on earth, as the
presence of Eva hallowed the frivolity
and extravagance of the St. Clare house
hold. She too was fondly attached to an
old man, less saintly than Uncle Tom,
but feeling as deep a sentiment of love
for his youthful companion as ever Uncle
Tom felt. She too sickened of consump
tion and went down to a premature
grave. The story was written by Charles
Dickens, and our readers have doubtless
already noted the resemblance of Eva
and Tom to Little Nell and her grand
father.
One evening during Eva’s lifetime,
Miss Ophelia, the bustling little spinster j
to whom we have already alluded, came
into the room where St. Clare lay read
ing his paper, with a raw-head-and-bloody
bones account of a negro woman hav- 1
[<October 30,