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by a stab from a bowie-knife which he
had received while endeavouring to sepa
rate two combatants. lie lives but a
few moments and has no time to declare
his wishes as to the disposition of his
property. Tom finds himself, after the
pompous pageant of his master’s funeral
is over, at the mercy of a proud, selfish,
languid, fashionable,hard-hearted woman,
his master’s widow, —Marie St. Clare.
Os this woman we have not before spo
ken, because she exists in the tale hitherto
only as a parenthesis, without contribut
ing to its action or at all affecting its cha
racters. We may here say in brief that
as an individual we do not object to her,
for we have seen many such in the whirl
of fashion in New-York and Boston, and
such there may be in New Orleans, but
as the type of a class, as a portraiture of
Southern female character, she is a gross
and stupendous libel. And this libel is
all the more unpardonable because Mrs.
St. Clare is represented as a member of a
Christian Church, uniting with becoming
piopriety in all the observances of reli
gion,—whereby Mrs. Stowe seeks to
bring into contempt the entire commu
nion of the Southern States. W e have no
words to express our scorn of such an ef
fort, and therefore we proceed to say that
this pious widow sets at naught her hus
band’s already-begun proceedings with
regard to Uncle Tom, and sells him—
conduct of which not one Southern lady
of a thousand would be guilty, but in
perfect consistency with Marie’s natural
disposition, and altogether necessary to
the dreadful denouement Mrs. Stowe has
in store for us.
Behold Uncle Tom the property of Si
mon Legree, a Red River planter. And
here we may stop a moment to perform
an act of justice to Mrs. Stowe in saying
that she has transcended all delineations
of the scoundrel that have yet fallen under
our notice, in this head devil of her story.
Legree is a darker, a more perfect, a more
consistent, a more symmetrical piece of
diabolism than the literature of any lan
guage within the limited sphere of our
reading can furnish. Og, in the reeking
couplets of Dryden —Jean qui rit , the
laughing executioner of Louis XL, who
found it such capital sport to chop heads
off before breakfast —the worst fiends of
the Italian poets —lihadamanthus, in the
gloomy shades, punishing first and trying
afterwards —Tiberius in the debasement
of Caprem —all these bad characters, his
torical and imaginary, by throwing their
blackest traits into a joint stock and pre
senting them in one master-piece of asso
ciated deformity, could not have made up
such a mauvais svjet as our friend Simon.
And if “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” is remark
able in no other respect, it is certainly
entitled to the praise of giving the world
assurance of a villain.
(To be continued-)
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
Correspondence of the Southern Literary Gazette.
LETTERS FROM A LADY ABROAD.
NO. VIII.
Halle, Prussia, August, 1852.
My Dear Pupil Friends: — r lhe three
last steamers have each brought out a
most acceptable package from you. 1
hope, ere this, you have received my let
ter containing some account of Berlin,
the capital of Saxony. In that, I acknowl
edged all letters previously received.—
You know how warmly I welcome, and
how highly I prize, these thoughtful mis
sives, which seem to bring the very at
mosphere of home into this far and for
eign land. lam happy to learn that you
have read with interest my letters for the
Gazette \ if they afford pleasure, with
some degree of profit, I am fully reward
ed. When my friend, Mr. Richards, said
to me, before leaving America, “ You will
write some letters for the Gazette ?” it
was in all sincerity, and not from affecta
tion of humility, which you know is my
aversion, that I replied, “ I think not; so
many letters have been written from Eu
rope, that I can not interest.” But my
first impressions of the Old World were
so exciting to myself, and so intense was
my desire to share my pleasure with my
friends at home, that I yielded to the im
pulse. 1 fear, however, that the pictures
which glow in my mind, will lose very
much by my attempt to paint them ; but
1 trust, the historical facts which I have
endeavoured carefully to collect for you,
will not be lost, but will excite you to
study with fresh interest, the history of
the past.
A few weeks since we visited Leipsic,
where, in the city and in the immediate
vicinitv, scenes of intense interest have
occurred ; where thousands have yielded
up their lives ; and where the fate of na
tions has been sealed ; where Napoleon
fell from his eagle height, and Gustavus
Adolphus perished on the battle field,
and Poniatow’ski lost his life amid the
dying and the dead, who, with their
horses and armies, literally obstructed
the course of the river Elbe. Like the
ancient Simois—
“ Übi tot Simois correpta sub undis,
Scuta virum, galeasque, et fortia corpora volvit.”
From llalle to Leipsic, we passed a
fine country —a part of the table land of
Germany. The moat which once served
as a defence to the city of Leipsic, is now
its ornament. It is now overgrown with
fine shade trees, and converted into a
beautiful promenade, extending entirely
round the city. Our first visit in Leipsic
was to the strong castle of Pleissenburg.
It is in perfect preservation, and withstood
the attacks of Tilly, in the thirty years’
war, for several weeks after the city had
surrendered. By a long and winding
stairway we reached the tower. Its sum
mit, surrounded by a balustrade, com
mands a view of the city, and overlooks
the grounds where three memorable ac
tions occurred. The third, in the time of
Napoleon, “The Battle of the Nations,”
and the first and second in the days of
Gustavus Adolphus, who, although the
heroic champion of the Protestant faith,
was tolerant and noble to those who con
scientiously differed from him in religious
sentiment. When the Swedish King first
entered Germany, he was styled, in con
tempt, the “ Snow King,” and it was sar
castically said, that he would soon melt
away beneath the rays of the “ Imperial
Sun.” But his first battle near Leipsic,
snatched from the Emperor Ferdinand,
the fruits of a twelve years’ war, and the
Snow King was hailed by the persecuted
people as a luminary whose effulgent
beams would disperse darkness and
gloom.
The iron-hearted Count Tilly, who
made the diabolical boast that he had
never known love or affection, after taking
Magdeburg, which adhered to the Protes
tant faith, and after committing the most
heart-rending atrocities in that devoted
city, turned to Saxony and made an at
tack on Leipsic. Gustavus gave him bat
tle near the city, in the village of Breit
enfeld. Gustavus gained a decisive vic
tory ; and Tilly, wounded and exhausted,
fled to Halle, and died in a subsequent
engagement. The next year, 1632, the
second battle was fought at Leiken. Gus
tavus had been driven from Moritsburg,
one of the interesting ruined castles I de
scribed in a former letter, and he took
his army toward the place of encounter.
Previous to his last engagement, so glo
rious and so fatal, a prophetic sadness
took possession of his mind, and shadows
overcast his brilliant and hopeful spirit.
The love and worship of his people over
whelmed him. They gathered about
him, and adoringly kissed his feet. He
said to his chaplain —“ Our cause is good,
[October 30,