were not good Christians, like the people out here North." We were, nevertheless, still oppressed by a load of guilt, and felt the insupportable gnawings of a guilty conscience. We had oppressed the poor and robbed the widow and orphans! We had defrauded our neighbor and slandered our brother! We had lied to both God and man! "Can it be possible," (said we to ourselves), "that there are human beings living, who have been guilty of more abominable crimes?" "What is more odious?" "What could be more detestable?" "What could render a human being more obnoxious to eternal vengeance?" We were in this deplorable condition, when we first set about trying to deceive ourselves. We pondered the matter well, and could devise no means, that in our judgment, would be so likely to bring relief to our troubled minds, as to find that there were others who were as bad, or probably a little worse than ourselves. We flattered ourselves, that while we were talking about the sins of others, we might forget our own; and at length be able to persuade ourselves that we were Christians. But it was all of no avail. Our consciences said "nay"--the Bible said "nay." It was at this critical moment, that Uncle Tom's Cabin came to our relief, and it settled the difficulty. It proved to our satisfaction, that these Southern people were infinitely worse than ourselves. We now found but little difficulty in persuading ourselves that we were really Christians. We then had Southern men just where we had long been trying to place them. We had nothing then to do, but to compare ourselves with them; and the result of the whole matter was, Mrs. Stowe had made them out so much worse than ourselves, that we were forced to the conclusion, that we were good Christians at last. Mrs. Stowe was a shrewd Yankee woman, and seeing the difficulties and embarrassments in which we were involved, and being in need of a little money, and knowing that we were willing to pay almost any price for something that would flatter ourselves, and blacken the characters of Southern people; she wrote her book. We received it with transports of joy, and cried aloud at the top of our voices, HUZZA FOR MADAM STOWE, _and her incomparable negro novel_; viz., Uncle Tom's Cabin, or Life among the Lowly. And so we go, in England and America! This is a marvelous world, and it is inhabited by a wondrous species of animals, called man!