Last Saturday evening . . . we made a visit to the National Theatre. . . .

  A good many weeks have elapsed since we entered Mr. Manager Purdy's establishment; and, as we were disposed to have everything pass off agreeably and profitably to ourselves and our politics, we took an old friend along with us. He was of what is called the hard shell school of politicians. . . .

  Mr. Manager Purdy, who is a portly gentleman, with a countenance indicative of benevolence and good humor, was pleased to give us a private box; and, with our hard shell friend under our arm, we entered it.

  The first impression produced on our minds after looking around the house, was that of amazement. The old and dingy aspect of the theatre had been entirely obliterated by the hands of the painter and gilder; everything bore a fresh and airy aspect; and, we wondered if we were within the walls of the old National.

A New Audience

  And then too, the audience looked so different and so strange. The parquette, or pit, which used to be occupied almost exclusively by our friends the newsboys, had been entirely "transmogrified," all the old benches had been removed, and handsome and comfortable arm chairs supplied their places.

  Among the audience, we recognized many people who have been taught to look on the stage and all that belongs to it with horror and contempt; and, not the least conspicuous among the rare faces, was that of a Quaker gentleman whose drab, shad-belly coat and remarkably broad brimmed beaver, gave him a commanding aspect. . . .

  There were also recognized among the mass who occupied and crowded the theatre, Methodists, Baptists, Presbyterians, and Congregationalists of the straight-laced school, beside a variety of other religionists whose creeds are not accounted absolutely orthodox.

  The gallery was filled with a heroic class of people, many of them in red woolen shirts, with countenances as hardy and rugged as the implements of industry employed by them in the pursuit of their vocation. There was also a very considerable array of beauty and fashion sprinkled among the parquette and boxes.

  The play of the night was "Uncle Tom's Cabin," and, though it had been played upwards of ninety-five nights anteriorly, the most intense excitement in relation to it was depicted on the countenances of all present.

  We happened to get rather late to the theatre; and found the piece well under way. The scene then being delineated was that of the escape of Eliza Harris across the Ohio River with her infant in her arms. It appeared to be rather coldly received by the audience; who, when the dauntless mother reached the Indiana shore and offered her thanks to Almighty God for His interposition and preservation—at which point, what is theatrically called "a decided hit," is supposed to be made by the actress—there was not a hand of applause beyond what we gave. We were astonished that a part so cleverly conceived and executed should not obtain some testimonial of approbation, when, on looking around, we discovered that the whole audience was in tears! It was composed of those, who, if they

"Came to laugh, remained to pray."

  The object of all was to witness a delineation on the stage of the scenes embraced in Mrs. Beecher Stowe's book—neither a novel or romance can it be called—by the players. It was evident that all sympathised with the sentiments embodied in the play; for, if such had not been the fact, how could it happen that a theatre which the aristocracy of the profession, as well as the aristocracy of the city has denominated "plebeian" and "minor," should be actually stuffed with the aristocracy of morality, religion, patriotism, intelligence and virtue?

  There was not, in the whole establishment, unless she was under sanctified hypocritical protection, which we do not believe was the case, one of those frail sisters of the town and pave, who nightly seek a market-place in the corridors of other theatres. . . .

Tears Instead of Cheers

  The next scene was that in which the "entrappers are entrapped," and made to feel the vengeance of self-emancipated freemen. It closed with scarcely an intimation of applause or approbation; and, we fancied that the whole piece was to be put down as a decided failure. As the scene ended with tableaux we had time to look around the house, after the smoke of the blue and red fire had subsided, and found everybody in tears! We do not know how it was; but, the infection caught hold of our old fogy hard-shell friend and companion of the night; and, in despite of every effort we could make, the brine had to come. And come it did, though our hard-shell friend wiped up, as soon as possible, remarking, as he dashed a tear as big as an old blue nosed potato aside, "I don't know that this weeping and "slinging" is consistent with the principles set down and advanced by the Baltimore Platform."

  The succeeding scene, which is set forth in the bills of the theatre as "The Freeman's Defence," passed off without producing any apparent emotion. In violation of all the "platforms" of the day, however, we made up our minds to give George Harris, (Mr. Prior) a round of applause, for his noble sentiment and manly avowal of the rights of man; and, though our hard-shell old fogy friend, whose eye was still directed toward the Custom House, begged us not to do so, whilst he was in the box, we could not hold up, and George Harris (Mr. Prior) obtained his round of applause. It was somewhat faint, however; and, for the reason, that all who were in the theatre, with the exception of the red shirts in the gallery, were of opinion, with old Jeremy Taylor, that "boisterous, uproarious clamor of the play housen ill becometh the disciples of God."

  Old Uncle Tom, who is the hero of the piece, was enacted by Mr. J. Lingard, a gentleman whose fame had not previously reached our ears. He was, we thought, from our long residence in the slave states, rather too well dressed in the incipient scenes; for, though Uncle Tom was originally the confidential servant of Mr. Shelby, and subsequently attached to the body and household of St. Clair, his Louisiana master, he was not by either, we fancy, dressed as a well educated gentleman might be. The subsequent attire we did not witness; but, we cannot doubt that it was made more appropriate. The character of the meek, pious, and subdued old negro, however, was ably delineated; and, Mr. Lingard was entitled to the respect and good will of all who witnessed the effort. In almost every instance, he was as pathetic as the author had made the African he represented. In the conception and execution of the part, Mr. Lingard was faultless.

  Phineas Fletcher was most admirably played by Mr. G. W. L. Fox; St. Clair was executed with an ability not easily surpassed by Mr. J. B. Howe; and Legree, we doubt not, found an able representative in Mr. N. B. Clarke; but, as we were obliged to leave the theatre for the Harlem cars, before the piece was over, we were deprived of the pleasure of seeing him. . . .

Precious Gem of Precocity

  Eva was enacted by "little Miss Cordelia Howard," and, we shall not admit that we are extravagant, if we avow that Little Cordelia executed the part assigned her in accordance with the dictates of Jehovah and all his ministering angels. We have little, if any, faith in prodigies. Indeed, we have usually regarded them with the contempt that was manifested by Hotspur when he rebuked the pretensions of Glendower. But, we cannot refrain from avowing that the enacting of Eva, by Little Cordelia Howard, was one of the most delectable and affecting specimens of the art dramatique we ever beheld.

  This little girl cannot be far advanced beyond six or seven years, and yet she apparently throws into the character of Eva the very life, and soul, and spirit, that was intended by its author. Little Cordelia is, of course, a well trained and educated child—has been subjected to severe discipline and instruction; but after all, say what we may, she is one of those precious gems of intelligence and intellectual precocity, which sometimes leap into existence to astonish the world. Topsy was confided to Mrs. Mack, a lady of whom we never before heard. She rather overdressed the part, in the earlier scenes; but, she enacted it delightfully, and to the very life. Mrs. Mack is rather a timid lady; and, we suppose, is not willing to present Topsy in the attire she had on when St. Clair purchased her in New Orleans. Be this as it may, Mrs. Mack has every right to congratulate herself on the artistic and most happy manner in which she gave Topsy to the world. Miss Ophelia, the Vermont spinster, was played by Mrs. Radcliffe, and though she did not seem to be very much enamored of the part, she imparted to it a vigor, effect, and life-like delineation, which, but for the obesity of her person, might have been set down for a marked and superior delineation. Mrs. Radcliffe, who, by the way, is in figure and look, one of those whom old fogies are very apt to admire, made Miss Ophelia, we thought, rather too much of a tartar. Still, Mrs. Radcliffe was correct in the outline and delineation of the Vermont spinster.

  Well, we regretted that we could not remain, to see Uncle Tom's Cabin to the end of the chapter—to the end of the last act. The piece has been dramatized, without any great skill, from Mrs. Stowe's book; and, the language put into the mouths of the dramatic personae, with but few exceptions is extracted without mutilation, from that work. There was an occasional departure from it, by that very clever actor and artist, Mr. Herbert; and, he will be pleased to pardon us if we tell him, that his interpolations are signally gross and offensive, and unworthy a well regulated theatre.

  In one of the scenes, Uncle Tom thought fit to sing a song, entitled "Old Folks at Home," the words and music of which, the play-bills informed us, were composed by the manager of a band of negro minstrels. . . . The giving it, under the circumstances of the case, is an insult to the intelligence of the city, and to those who are the legitimate friends of the objects set forth by the author of Uncle Tom's Cabin.

  This drama, of Uncle Tom's Cabin, as we have already stated, has had a run of upwards of three months. Its success has scarcely ever been paralleled. And that success has been achieved in a theatre, which, it was supposed, would not dare to offer such a play. It was supposed that its annunciation would call up a ribald mob, composed of the viler classes of society, who would put it down, either by force or fraud.

The Democratic Masses

  The manager of the National Theatre, Mr. Purdy, we understand, produced it with great reluctance, being deeply impressed with the apprehension that it would subject him to scenes of violence, riot and bloodshed. How happily and signally, and fortunately, he has been disappointed! The audiences he originally had, stamped it with their approval and patronage, and then came forward to its defence and support. It was apprehended that they would hiss and abuse it; and, some, it may be, did go to the theatre, bent on the execution of such ignoble objects. They entered the house, revelling in base designs—they remained to laugh at the eccentricities of Topsy—to weep over the sorrows of poor Uncle Tom and Little Eva! Is it either singular or wonderful, that such a play should be played month after month, and captivate hearts which the brutality and insolence of aristocratic arrogance had endeavored to make the world believe were insensible to the nobler sympathies of nature—to impulses which Almighty God has decreed shall animate the hearts of all who are not brutalized by vice—who are not corrupted by gold! . . .

  We manifest neither hostility to, or love for the South. We would not interfere with any one of its rights—we would shoulder our muskets to fight its battles, if it were subjected either to invasion or insurrection. Her local and municipal regulations we do not wish to interfere with—we of the North, have no right to interfere with them. If the South is attached to the institution of slavery, and adheres to it, she is right; and, it ill becomes the North to attempt to interfere with her local affairs. Such are the opinions that we have always expressed, and probably shall express, as long as we live. But, when the South, through her demagogues, and political vagabond allies in the North, demands that the North shall not discuss at home and within the sacred precincts of her altars and her firesides, any question, and every question, that may be presented to her, then we, as Northmen and freemen, who cannot be made to employ the degraded language of the bondsman and villain, must object and demand for the North the rights secured to the whole American Republic. This is our platform.

  The drama of Uncle Tom's Cabin is now enacting in New York, Philadelphia, Boston—in all the principal towns and cities of the free states; and, for good or for evil, is producing effects on the democratic masses, which few anticipated.