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196 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,