"ONE pre-eminence we may fairly claim over the nations of Europe," said an American the other day, in conversation with an Englishman. "When changes take place in the opinions or habits of our people, they are made in far less time than in the old world, whether they be for the better or for the worse." "Generally for the better," was the courteous reply.

  It is not very long since in this city the mob stormed Chatham street Chapel, drove out the peaceful assembly of men and women, and obliged two of the principal persons in the assembly, Rev. Dr. Cox and Mr. Arthur Tappan, to hide themselves from the frantic violence that threatened their lives. The mob, as our readers may recollect, was not composed of labouring men; it was called at the time, by way eminence, the genteel mob; the persons of whom it was made up wore, for the most part, fine broad-cloth coats and unexceptionable shirts. The meeting broken up was an Anti-Slavery meeting. The mob was instigated by New York merchants and the New York Courier was employed in the work of stimulating the rioters to the work of illegal violence. For some time after that event, any man who should be bold enough to attempt the getting up of an Anti-Slavery meeting in New York, would have been suspected of privately having an eye to the crown of martyrdom.

  Since that time Dr. Cox has changed his views concerning the cause in which he was then so zealous, and has become a public defender of the Fugitive Slave Law. But this is not the change of which we meant to speak.

  In the very street to which the mob were led on their brutal errand, a little north of the Chatham Street Chapel, and very near it, is the National Theatre, Chatham Street Theatre, as it is frequently called, and here an Anti-Slavery meeting, numerously attended, is held every night without the slightest attempt to break it up, or even to disturb it. Uncle Tom's Cabin, dramatized, is represented on the boards of this theatre—the plot is very faithfully preserved, the speeches animadverting upon Slavery are not omitted or minced. Crowded houses weep at the pathetic parts; and when there is any well-sounding declamation about liberty, they applaud till the walls shake. For three weeks this piece, with all its characters, the events, and the catastrophes of the original narrative unchanged, has been played every night without any apparent diminution of the public interest in it.

  The people who attend these nightly meetings do not wear clothes made by the most expensive and fashionable tailors, as did the genteel mob of which we have been speaking, but they have strong arms, and it would be dangerous to attempt to eject them from the theatre. If the attempt should be made, the assailants would be knocked down as fast as they came in, or would get soundly drubbed outside, and piled in the gutters by the way.

  But, to do the genteel mob justice, there is no disposition on their part to break up these meetings. There is not one of those who once surrounded Chatham Street Chapel with murder in their hearts, who would now acknowledge that he was there in any other character than a looker-on. All classes in the community see that the free expression of opinion is not to be put down in this way, but that on the contrary, any unpopular cause or doctrine acquires popularity, gains friends, and is recommended to the public sympathy, by the very violence which is used to put it down. The example to which we refer has taught a lesson which long will be remembered. Those who were engaged in that outrage, if they do not repent of it as wrong, are at least ashamed of it as foolish. Political toleration at this moment stands upon a firmer basis than it has stood at any time for the last thirty years. Professed politicians, for the most part, perhaps, are as yet servile—there is something in their profession which disposes them to servility—but, out of that class, the freedom which is exercised in the expression of opinion on all public questions is so complete in this community that we are not sure that it can possibly be enlarged.—Evening Post.