I will now dismiss John Bull and return to Mrs. Stowe and her abolition coadjutors in general—­one and all.  I am heartily sick and tired of this whole abolition clap-trap, catch-penny business.  I cannot express my views on the subject better than in the language of Graham’s Magazine.  Alluding to Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and other kindred publications, he very justly remarks, “that they are all together speculations in patriotism—­a question of dollars and cents, not of slavery or liberty.  Many persons who are urging on this negro crusade into the domain of letters, have palms with an infernal itch for gold.  They would fire the whole republic, if they could but take the gems and precious stones from the ashes.  They care nothing for principle, honor or right, &c.”  No, they care nothing about negro slavery, or negro oppression.  Money is their sole object in all these publications.  Sympathy for the poor benighted African, has no agency whatever in the matter.  The object is to make money out of the woolly heads, and after that is accomplished they have no farther use for them.  The same motives prompt them to write books on slavery—­negro oppression and the negroes woes, that induce the cotton grower and the sugar planter to work slaves on their farms.  Money is as truly the object of the former, as it is of the latter.  And facts prove that the cotton growers and sugar planters, have more sympathy for the African race, than Northern abolitionists.

SECTION IV.

How mortifying the reflection, that such a work as Uncle Tom’s Cabin, should have become so popular in England and America.  As an American, we can but view it with shame and regret.  Where is the Bible?  Where are Shakespeare and Milton, and Addison and Johnson?  And where are our own immortal poets and prose writers?  Who reads the chaste and beautiful writings of Washington Irvin?  What has become of our well written and instructive histories and biographies?  Why is it that a filthy negro novel is found in every body’s hand?  Uncle Tom’s Cabin!  What is it?  What can be expected from it?  Will it improve the manners, the morals, or the literary tastes of our country-men, and fair country-women?  No!  Never!  Its very touch is contaminating.  Filth, pollution, and mental degradation, follow in the train of this class of writers.  In what consists the merit of Uncle Tom’s Cabin?  It is hard to tell.  Look at its dark design—­its injustice—­its falsehoods!  Its vulgarisms, negroisms, localisms, and common place slang!  Its tendency to pervert public taste, and corrupt public morals.  How remarkable that a work of its character, should have been so much read and admired!  We may boast of our intelligence and virtue to our hearts content, the reception of this work is a sad commentary on the age in which we live.  We may boast of our religion; it is little else at last, but self-righteous phariseism!  We throw around ourselves religion as a cloak; the