here representatives of the general feeling that boils in the whole land—­not from our streets alone, but from our country valleys—­from our glens and our mountains O!  I wish that Mrs. Stowe would but spare time to go herself and study that enthusiasm amid its own mountain recesses, amid the uplands and the friths, and the wild solitudes of our own unconquered and unconquerable land.  She would see scenery there worthy of that pencil which has painted so powerfully the glories of the Mississippi; ay, and she would find her name known and reverenced in every hamlet, and see copies of Uncle Tom’s Cabin in the shepherd’s shieling, beside Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, the Life of Sir William Wallace, Rob Roy, and the Gaelic Bible.  I saw copies of it carried by travellers last autumn among the gloomy grandeurs of Glencoe, and, as Coleridge once said when he saw Thomson’s Seasons lying in a Welsh wayside inn, ‘That is true fame,’ I thought this was fame truer still. [Applause.] It is too late in the day to criticize Uncle Tom’s Cabin, or to speculate on its unprecedented history—­a history which seems absolutely magical.  Why, you are reminded of Aladdin’s lamp, and of the palace that was reared by genii in one night.  Mrs. Stowe’s genius has done a greater wonder than this—­it has reared in a marvellously short time a structure which, unlike that Arabian fabric, is a reality, and shall last forever. [Applause.] She must not be allowed, to depreciate herself, and to call her glorious book a mere ‘bubble.’  Such a bubble there never was before.  I wish we had ten thousand such bubbles. [Applause.] If it had been a bubble it would have broken long ago.  ‘Man,’ says Jeremy Taylor, ‘is a bubble.’  Yea, but he is an immortal one.  And such an immortal bubble is Uncle Tom’s Cabin; it can only with man expire; and yet a year ago not ten individuals in this vast assembly had ever heard of its author’s name. [Applause.] At its artistic merits we may well marvel—­to find in a small volume the descriptive power of a Scott, the humor of a Dickens, the keen, observing glance of a Thackeray, the pathos of a Richardson or Mackenzie, combined with qualities of earnestness, simplicity, humanity, and womanhood peculiar to the author herself.  But there are three things which, strike me as peculiarly remarkable about Uncle Tom’s Cabin:  it is the work of an American—­of a woman—­and of an evangelical Christian. [Cheers.] We have long been accustomed to despise American literature—­I mean as compared with our own.  I have heard eminent litterateurs say, ‘Pshaw! the Americans have no national literature.’  It was thought that they lived entirely on plunder—­the plunder of poor slaves, and of poor British authors. [Loud cheers.] Their own works, when, they came among us, were treated either with contempt or with patronizing wonder—­yes, the ‘Sketch Book’ was a very good book to be an American’s.  To parody two lines of Pope, we

  Admired such wisdom in a Yankee shape,
  And showed an Irving as they show an ape.’