* * * "Uncle Tom's Cabin!" "Uncle Tom's Cabin" is all the topic here, aside from the vulgar theme of politics; which (though surface broad penetrates no deeper) is at present well nigh being eclipsed by its greater rival, my "Uncle Tom's Cabin," since its entry into Gotham.

Mrs. Beecher Stowe has deserved well of her country, in thus bringing Uncle Tom's Cabin, and all its associations, from the sunny South, into these Northern regions, and placing it upon the Northern track, and sending it thence round the land. This species of abolitionism finds its way into quarters here, hitherto so faced over with the adamant of pro-slavery politics, unionism, churchism, and every other shade of "ism" hammered out, and welded on by his satanic majesty and faithful subjects, for the last half century, that it completely staggers belief and puts credulity wholly at fault. Shop-keepers that heretofore exposed for sale, but fancy articles for Southern gentry, ponderous volumes for the benefit of Southern slavery, Webster speeches and other dough-faced articles for Southern benefits; or, exhibited in their windows Zip Coon, or JIM CROW, with his naked toes kicking out the panes, for general amusement, profit and loyalty to the Southern God; I say that these very shop-keepers are now proud to illume these very windows through the windows of my Uncle Tom's Cabin; while good Old Aunt Chloe peeps out just to see what the matter is. May she continue to look out until every Uncle Tom is restored to his God-given rights—his full manhood—till every vestige of justice is done him.

The truth is, this species of literature will soon assume its wanted place here, which is one of high eminence, and it may not be regretted should its march be in an inverted order; the blacks (who by position ought to be the more faithful delineators of oppression, and the keenest searchers after justice, that she fully does her office-work) being found in the REAR instead of being found, not merely in the FRONT RANK, but in the very LEAD. Of one thing, however, be assured, there is something in the heart of this community deeper rooted than the teachings of politicians, demagogues, and robed priests, and is growing, and will, if they do not mend their ways, and change their teaching, in its giant-strength, eject them from society, and consign them to their proper place—Oblivion.

One thing more; prosaic writers—white or black, may ere long lay down their pens, that are not wetted to wield in behalf of the rights, and the equality of man; for "to this complexion we must all come at last:" and high on the willows may poets hang their harps, if not attuned to sing of this noble theme:

For who that hath a soul, can longer wake their muse,
E'en now, to sing of tyrants baser deeds in praise;
Or who can longer string their harps in praise of wrong!
Base, black, unmitigated wrong, and feel he's not a thing!!
A dog whose steps are hurrying from the road where tread the truly good.

When, my dear sir, I take a perspective look up the path of the bright future, the reflection it induces, "brings the light of other days around me." * * * * . . .

FROM OUR BROOKLYN CORRESPONDENT