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198 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,