bad as they are. It has often brought to mind an
altercation I once witnessed between a couple of boys. One remarked to
the other, that he was a thief. "I don't care," (replied the little
urchin,) "if I am a _tief_; you are a tief too." So it has been with
old mother England, she knew well, that she was a "_tief_" but she did
not care, provided she could make it appear that her daughter, the
United States, was a "_tief_" too.

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 i