We have given the poem entire, and though we do not think it will add much to Mr. Butler's fame, we must say the reading of it causes us to rate the author's talent for making verses higher than his patriotism. The man who could come away from the base of Crawford's statue of Washington to indulge in abuse of Vir. ginia, the loving mother that raised it and crowned it with the wreaths of eloquence and song, whatever may be his dexterity in weaving rhymes, has no warm sympa thy with his fellow-countrymen, and no large affection for his native land. The scene selected for poetic contrast by Mr. Butler, that of the slave sale, has been frequently made use of by anti-slavery writers to point their malicious paragraphs against the Southern States, though we feel bound to say, that in the majority of in stances they have described the incidents of the auction more exactly and with less of melodramatic horror than the author of "Nothing to Wear." Some allowance must be made we suppose for poetic liberties, and the fact that

poets succeed but in fiction, And truth to the tribe proves a curse,

but we happen, at this moment, to recollect two accounts of visits paid to the slave auction by Englishmen, who certainly entertain no very friendly feelings towards the Southern people of the United States, Mr. Robert Chambers and the Earl of Carlisle, in which the shocking circumstances which Mr. Butler versifies, were very dif ferently represented. We are very far from declaring that painful scenes may not

WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER.

sometimes be witnessed at the slave sale, and the internal traffic in slaves is something in the highest degree distasteful to the better feeling of our own citizens, as much so as it can be to the delicate sensibilities of Mr. Butler, but we of the South are well assured that it is an evil necessarily connected with the institution, which is more than counterbalanced by the advantages of slavery to the blacks themselves, and in no degree more abhorrent than the phases of negro-life presented in free society. Let Mr. Frederick S. Cozzens speak as to what he saw in Nova Scotia, upon this point.* Nay more, before Mr. Butler moistens the Independent with his melodious tears over the proximity of the negro-jail to the bronze image of the PATER PATRIÆ, let him bewail the frightful contrasts which appear around him, and reflect that society is responsible for all the lawlessness and crime and suffering and moral death that roll, in a weltering mass, against the very doors of the Bible House and the stone porches of Fifth Avenue.

The force of Mr. Butler's poem is somewhat impaired by a trifling fact which he altogether forgets to mention, that Washington, and all his illustrious compatriots, whose images are to adorn the monument "At Richmond," were themselves the owners of slaves, and were so comfortable in their possession of human beings, that the Constitution which bears the immortal signature of Washington, as President of the Convention, could never have been framed without a special recognition of the obligations arising out of the institution. But we have said enough about

the poem. If the author of "Nothing to Wear" had all the lyric strength of Tyrtous, and all the nameless grace of Beranger, he might tune his lyre against slavery to deathless measures, without depopulating a single cotton plantation, or hastening by a single hour the day when under God's providence slavery shall dis

appear.

We must lodge a complaint against our friends, Messrs. Rudd & Carleton of New York, for having failed to send us a copy of "The Vagabond, By ADAM BADEAU," one of the most entertaining of their recent publications, which is not as well known in this quarter of the country as it should be. The accomplished author was vagabondizing in August at the White Sulphur Springs, where he made many pleasant acquaintances, one of whom has been kind enough to call our attention to his volume. We have found it full of good sense conveyed in paragraphs upon the topics of the town in New York, the church, the opera, the galleries of art et cetera, et cetera. The title is all to which we positively object. Mr. Badeau is no more a vagabond, in any sense of that term, than Dr. Johnson was, when they translated "The Rambler" into French as "Le Vagabond," and the burly old dogmatist lived shut up in London. The Doctor wandered as far as the Hebrides, and Mr. Badeau gets off as far as Washington in one direction and Boston in another, but for the most part his range of reflection is bounded by the two rivers and the Central Park. If we accept as a definition of the word, what the municipal courts rather than the lexicographers give as its meaning-"having no visible means of support"-then obviously the title is ill chosen, for such articles furnished to a weekly periodical, suggest a handsome salary, whereas "The Vagabond" suggests the life of a Bohemian in garrets and Chatham Street eating-houses. purpose is not to comment on the author or the contents of his book-we design only to quote from it a few pencilled passages, which will be acceptable to our readers, and give them a notion of its merits. The following tribute to Meyerbeer seems to us as just as it is happily expressed:

But our

"Art, in other times, has been expressed in other ways. The old Greeks gave vent to their love for the beautiful in the more tangible forms of architecture and sculpture, and the temples and statues that delighted the ancients have never been surpassed. In the middle ages, it burst into flower in painting, and the gorgeous creations of the Italian masters were the result. To-day, art finds its development in music. Our painting is poor and our sculpture is cold, compared with the passion and poetry that breathe in the music of the nineteenth century; and if we must yield the palm to other ages in other arts, here we can claim a super-excellence. The ancients had no conception of the power of music; the moderns, until now, have been groping before the dawn of that day in whose meridian splendour we are basking. Compare the fugues and the cathedral music of two centuries back with the harmonic glories ushered in by Gluck, aud brought to perfection by Beethoven and Mozart! Compare even the discoveries of Palestrina with the science of Meyerbeer!

And if music culminates to-day, it is because it is the truest exponent of the feeling of the present age. Emotions too subtle for other embodiment, sentiments too fleeting, passions too intense, feelings too profound even for poetry, are here told; and especially do I recognize in the music of this century the utterance of that feeling which struggles for expression in the deeper literature of the time-the wild unrest, the earnestness, the uncertainty of Tennyson, of Carlyle, of George Sand, of Margaret Fuller, are all expressed in the sublime music of modern composers, are all expressed in Meyerbeer. The pretty strains of Auber may do for some; the passion of Donizetti and the intensity of Verdi, perhaps, are the fit correlatives of the outside turbulence and revolutionary spirit of our age; the exquisite flow of Rossini and the divine calm of Mozart are soothing and religious; but only the awful terror and unearthly wildness, the supernatural grandeur and unequalled sublimity, the fierce struggles and piercing agonies of Meyerbeer, combine all the characteristics of this era.

"Robert le Diable" tells of the spirit which breathes in Goethe's "Faust," and pervades every page of the earnest literature of England, France, Germany and America-the peering into forbidden secrets, the dealing with more than earthly beings; the scepticism, the doubt, the anxiety, the terror, and the struggle. Who that has ever heard the "Robert, toi que j'aime" that piercing wail of a spirit that is bound-that cry to man to save himself-but has thrilled with an intense reality that made him forget the pageant of

the stage. For my part, I shut my eyes, and care nothing for the mimic life there represented; the great genius has spoken to an inner being. The calm of Alice, the wildness of the incantation scene, the gloom that shrouds Bertram as with a garment, and the humanity of Robert, are told as no poet ever told them. Robert is equal to Faust, Alice is greater than Gretchen. They stand out individualized as distinctly in our memories as the creations of the greatest of poets, or the figures of the greatest painters.

Another such magnificent subject could not be found as the strife of a demon for his son, with the simple, pure peasant girl of Normandy, and the struggle of that son, beset by the entreaties of love and the seduction of hell! It is the history of every man; it is the grand problem of life interpreted into sound; it is the very mystery of being, set before us.

Then in "Le Prophète" how vividly do we see the Ana-baptists! How wonderful a creation is Fides! How natural the variable Jean of Leyden-now triumphant, now yielding, now lost-a type again of man! And Fidès, with all the fervor and intensity of woman--woman in her purest, truest, noblest aspect, the mother--all compressed into the "Ah, mon fils!" which rivals the "Robert, toi que j'aime !" in depth of pathos, sublimity of expression, and intensity of meaning.

These are the glories, the marvellous works of Meyerbeer. He has not the dramatic feeling of Donizetti, nor perhaps the élan which Italian composers infuse into the expression of earthly passion. He does not represent love as they do; but when something more than human is to be told, when something clear from every stain of human dross is to be expressed-the cry of a mother over a son, or the appeal of a woman to her lover to save himself-Meyerbeer is equal to the emergency. No guilty raptures, no Favorita, no Norma, does he portray; but the sublime purity of an Alice, or the holy fervor of a Fidès."

From music to theology the transition is not, perhaps, so violent as some others, and we cannot but think there is a great deal of force in the query here propounded:

"When will the preachers of this day learn how wide-spread is the doubt that disturbs the minds of educated men? Not only is it diffused among those who avow themselves unbelievers, but among members of Christian churches, among those who seldom acknowledge their perplexity; and stranger still, among those who appear immersed in business or pleasure, there

are many who think earnestly, seriously, faithfully; many who cannot be satisfied; who determine not to think, to drown doubts in the whirl of excitement, but to whom these thoughts return in spite of themselves, to whom they cling like the old man of the mountain to Sinbad, which they cannot shake off. And yet preachers go lazily on, telling men and women that God is love, and will damn them all if they don't believe. While many, perhaps a majority of the leading literary minds of this and other countries are tinctured with free-thinking notions, no effort is made, or none commensurate with the need, to affect the age. Missionaries are sent to Boroboolah Gha, and a wail is made over the Five Points, but the mass of the educated people of the country will be infidel before the preachers know it."

The foregoing is from a well considered criticism on E. H. Chapin; what follows is the concluding paragraph of a sketch of Henry Ward Beecher

"His independence is that on which he prides himself most; it has done him the most harm and the most good. A certain degree of this is indispensable to a man's success; but what if it is offensive, unchristian, unministerial? What if it amounts to a disregard of another's tastes and feelings and interests? if it makes him careless even of the effects of what he says and does, and so work against himself? if it makes him abrupt and affrontful, so that he injures any cause he defends quite as much as he aids it? He stands out prominently, indeed, but so does a scarecrow."

We might go on to select other passages of judicious commentary upon public speakers, but we must be content with one more extract from "The Vagabond" of quite a different character. The author spends a night with Edwin Booth at an old house formerly occupied by his father, and rummages among old papers of a former generation. Let him describe their search, (after the perusal of which description the reader will probably ask at the nearest bookstore for the volume)

"Before long, darkness overtook us; but we were prepared for all emergencies, and had brought candles from a country shop on the road. What to stick them in was the question. Mambrino's basin did service better than when it was transformed into a hemlet, and the experience of my comrade suggested other expedients for lighting the scene. One was that I

should serve as a candlestick, after the fashion of the martyrs in Nero's time: he had seen something of the sort on the stage, I suppose. This, however, did not take my fancy as it did his, and we compromised by sticking the candle in an old shoe. Then we sat on the floor together, in a closet, and revelled over our treasures. First one would cry out at a fresh discovery; then the other exclaimed as he struck a vein or came upon a placer.

It was

"Letters and journals, as well as books, were open to the scrutiny. Engagements offered to Junius Booth nearly half a century ago; particulars of his quarrel with Edmund Kean; invitations to the box of the elder Mathews; witty notes from Elliston were tumbled by turns out of old trunks and corners, where they had lain till they were mouldy. The piles of playbills had a wonderful fascination for me. The first appearance of Edmund Kean and Junius Brutus Booth in the same piece was announced; the débût of Booth in America; the first night of the Apostate,' in which the son now plays the part the father once declined. strange to look at these bills that were first handled fifty years ago, and three thousand miles away; that told of the pleasures of people long since in their graves. Manager, and actor, and audience, all have passed away, and here were we two young men wondering and gossipping over all that remained of what was once so interesting. These little bits of paper called up the scene very vividly. I could imagine the crowded house, and the green curtain, and the applauding audience, as they must have appeared long before I was born; and as I looked up at the face of my companion, all aglow with interest, it was no difficult task to summon the handsome, expressive countenance his own is said to be so like, and to fancy the person and powers of the great actor whose manly beauty he inherits. The plays were many of them the very same in which young Booth excels. I saw the bills printed when the father was at the exact age of his son to-day: Sir Giles Overreach, Richard III., Sir Edward Mortimer were in as much demand in England in 19, as they are in America in '59 So I thought of the long career of triumphs the father had gone through, and wondered whether fate had in store for the youth at my side a corresponding history, as she had already showered on him corresponding gifts. There was a tinge of soberness in our mirth. The glee with which we gloated over these strange treasures could not but be tinctured by thoughts of the utter oblivion into which much of what had once been so intensely present had forever sunk; and as we saw the parts so familiar cast to names

we never heard, though we talked not much of sentiment, I am sure we both felt it. Then, too, in the midst of these mementoes of the father, we came upon a pile of play-bills belonging to the son, and compared the casts; we thought of the time when some youngsters would be looking over these very lists, and we should have long since mouldered. The candles were getting low, you see.

"We were neither of us good at snuffing them; and more than ouce overturned the stand and all in our ill-judged attempts, besides blacking our fingers. The time passed away very quickly, and when Hamlet took out his watch and made me guess the hour, I said ten o'clock, though it was past two. We had made no arrangements

for sleeping; there was no bedding in the house; but we were having a night of it, and concluded to adventure bravely. Armed with candles, we roamed around the rooms, and finally put two sofas together, and discovered an old mattrass. But the night was cool, and we must have some covering; so Roscius got into the old wardrobe of his father, pulled out an ermine cloak that belonged to Macbeth, and some of the trappings of Shylock or Lear, and tossed them to me. I made a pillow out of the very mantle of Cæsar through which the envious dagger ran, and slumbered quietly enough, though Macbeth had murdered sleep in the robe that kept me warm. We talked away long after our candles had burned out; previous to which I induced Hamlet to read me some funny stories, and when he got tired of reading, to tell me more; so I fell into a doze, with his voice ringing in his ears; and he may tell of having put one auditor to sleep by his monotonous delivery. I warrant you, some of his fair admirers would not have slept, so long as he talked, and doubtless they envy me my snooze on his arm. 'twas dark, and I couldn't see his eyes; besides, I had seen them all day.

But

"Next morning we rose late; the bed was so good, that not till eleven did I hear the tragedian arouse me with the first words that Sir Edward Mortimer speaks in the play. We went out to the pump to make our toilettes, and then opened a tin kettle containing sandwiches we had brought from the country tavern. The negroes gave us milk, but we had no confidence in their cleanliness, and washed. a broken cup and an old plate that we found, for ourselves. This breakfast equip age was disposed on a garden table, and Hamlet did the honours very gracefully. The banquetting scene was not disturbed; no ghost entered with gory locks; but you should have seen Lear washing a tea-cup, and Romeo making the beds. However, he had a way of doing even these that was worth looking at; and moody, and

morose and quiet as he often is, was full of wit and geniality with me. He quoted Shakspeare constantly and felicitously; he made faces for me out of all his plays; he looked like Richard when he says: "What do they in the north?" and struck the attitude of Richelieu when he launches the curse of Rome. In this vein, we went to the wardrobe, and had another hour of sport.

"He got out old wigs-one that Kean had worn in Lear: the very one that was torn from his head in the mad scene, and yet the pit refused to smile; he found me his father's in Othello, and put it on to show the look. There was a picture of the elder Booth hard by on the wall, and the likeness was marvellous. Ho told me the history of this sword, and a story about that red cloak; he dressed me up in toggery, and then decorated himself for a farce, declaring he would have made a hit in Little Toddlekins, only it was too much trouble to be funny."

We cheerfully comply with the request of one of the Faculty of William and Mary College, that we should give a place in the Messenger to the following eloquent letter from the Hon. Edward Everett, written in response to an invitation to attend the 167th anniversary of that seminary of learning. In laying it before our readers, we have infinite pleasure in stating that the new college edifice has been completed, and that the beloved old Alma Mater of so many distinguished men is about to enter, under the happiest auspices, on a new career of usefulness and honour.

My Dear Sir,

BOSTON, 12 February 1859.

I did not receive your letter of the 20th ult., kindly inviting me, on behalf of the Faculty and Alumni of William and Mary College, to attend the celebration of its 167th anniversary, till my return a day or two since from Philadelphia. It would have afforded me the greatest pleasure to be with you on this interesting and important occasion, with an opportunity of visiting, at the same time, the localities mentioned in your letter, the very names of which appeal so powerfully to the patriotic heart. The recent calamity will, I fear, prevent the celebration from taking place; but even if it should not, I find myself so much fatigued and otherwise slightly indisposed from my recent laborious excursion, as to need repose.

In addition to the high literary attractions held out in the Oration of President Tyler and the poem of Mr. Tucker, there

is no little in the history of the College it self, to interest a son of Harvard. Next to our ancient Seminary yours is the oldest in British North America. William and Mary for many years stood in the same relation to the Southern colonies, that Harvard did the Northern,-the Alma Mater of many of their most honored sons. William and Mary gave to the United States the Author of the declaration of Independence, Harvard its most eloquent supporter on the floor of the Continental Congress. A most respectable literary Society, of which branches now exist in many of the New England Colleges, (I wish it would take a good plain English name), was originally founded in William and Mary, and in virtue of a "Charter" from your College established in Harvard in 1781. In 1783 you elected Virginia's peerless son to the honorary office of Chancellor; twelve years before Harvard had conferred upon him the highest honorary distinction in her power to bestow. But even without these kindly associations, you are entitled to the sympathy of all seminaries of good learning, as an institution, which had the confidence of the Father of his Country, as one whose strenuous endeavor it was to place "the system of education on such a basis, as will render it most beneficial to the State and the republic of letters, as well as to the more extensive interests of humanity and religion."

Since the date of your letter you have experienced a most heavy loss in the destruction of the college, its library, and laboratory, by fire. Let me cherish the hope, that this deplorable event will, by a kind Providence, be turned into a blessing, by awakening a renewed interest in the welfare of the Institution, on the part of its Alumni, its friends, and the public at large.

With assurances of sincere sympathy with you in this day of your calamity, and with the best wishes for the restoration of your time-honored seminary to more than its former prosperity,

I remain, Dear Sir, sincerely your friend, EDWARD EVERETT.

Professor JoYNES.

A notable discussion is going on in the newspapers of Charleston, S. C., the point at issue being whether Mr. William Gilmore Simms can write good English. We shall expect to hear soon that the good people of Boston are in doubt as to Mr. Longfellow's acquaintance with the alphabet, and that the London Athenæum is perplexed about Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton's familiarity with the auxiliary verbs. When will the people of the South learn to know and honour their worthiest literary men?