People who are sensitive are apt to suppose a fever has run its course when it passes its critical stage. So, a long time ago, when the DAILY TIMES was young, those who were not fortunate enough to have read Uncle Tom's Cabin, before the third or fourth edition, were ashamed to read it, supposing that it had passed out of date. But, since then, the Cabin has been reproduced thousands of times, and in every variety of climate. Uncle Toms have become more numerous than John Smiths. They have sat by the fireside with great Lords, and huddled over the last dying embers, in the cellars of the poor, and been considered very good company by both. Whereas he was the best of Christians, and was supposed to be in all respects a "meeting man," he has received company for thirty-three together weeks at the National Theatre, in Chatham-street;—was at BARNUM's for a month or so, every night; and now is on his seventh week at the Bowery, with promise of remaining there an indefinite time to come. He keeps a carriage, though it is got up in the form of the same cabin he inhabited in his lowly days, and driven through the most crowded streets, announcing, by bills and verbal statements from its door, on what consideration his soirees may be attended. Poor Uncle Tom!—was ever any uncle so strangely treated before? To be called out by a peanut-eating crowd, night after night—so modest as he was—to say his prayers before the b'hoys, who, instead of an "amen," shout "hi! hi!" when the petition is particularly fervent.

  We seriously doubt if the famine in Ireland ever caused so many tears as have Uncle Tom's sorrows. The tears that have trickled down tender, and downy, rough and bearded cheeks would, united, make a very respectable "Mother of Waters." We have not the statistics to justify us in being definite, but we are probably within bounds when we say that if our uncle had the faucet that could command them, and "the modern improvements" in his cabin, he might indulge the luxury of a warm tear-bath every morning, without difficulty. With the popularity of the Cabin, we have wondered that some of our capitalists have not constructed rows of cabins in the upper part of town, to rent "to genteel families, without children."

  It has been our fortune to ride up for many nights on the City cars, which pass by the doors of the three theatres in which "Uncle Tom" has been performing. About six nights out of seven our ride was taken at just that hour when, from some one of the three, a company varying from half a dozen to more than the most capacious car could accommodate, rushed in to make up the load. Of course, the talk has been perpetually of Little Evas and Topsys, Legrees and Uncle Toms. So that we feel ourselves perfectly posted in the whole matter. We know in which theatre Eva dies the best, where Uncle Tom takes his thrashings the most naturally, and in which Cassy raves the most intolerably. And yet we have not personally paid our respects to our sable uncle, notwithstanding the fact that he is getting rich and must have a large fortune to dispose of some day. Last night, to our surprise, the topic of the crowd going up was of Shanghais, Cochins, Brahmas, and not a syllable was said of "Uncle Tom."

  It was the doctrine of JOHN HUNTER, we have read, that two grave diseases could not coexist in the same body. If that is true, we have reached the last book of the Uncle Tomiad. For the poultry fever, which has been showing its premonitory symptoms a long time, now evidently is fastening itself upon the body of the people. However, we are not sure that it is like the chicken-pox, which comes but once upon the same person; on the contrary, it is probably more like the quinsy, which, Biddy says, seldom attacks anybody who has not been affected with it before. And here let us mention a curious literary observation of ours. We know several literary men who have never read MILTON; several who have not read more than half a dozen plays of SHAKSPEARE, and one who has not read Uncle Tom. Yet, if we remember rightly, he has written one review of the book, and seldom gets through an essay on our domestic policy without alluding to what he calls its deleterious influence.