Part 11

To sum up, we consider the 'Scourge of the Ocean' a very clever performance, for a first and hurried effort; open, indeed, to many minor objections, but exhibiting much talent, and more promise; and as such, we commend it to our readers.

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GLEANINGS IN EUROPE. ENGLAND: BY AN AMERICAN. In two volumes, 12mo. pp. 530. Philadelphia: CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD. New-York; WILEY AND PUTNAM.

WHATEVER may be said of this work, no one will pretend to deny that it is well and vigorously written, and that it possesses more than common interest. The volumes are presented, we should infer, pretty much as composed, 'in their naturals.' They are full of slight descriptive sketches, comments, and brief arguments, upon conventional, moral, social, and political topics; insomuch, that the reader is compelled to believe, that the author 'could an' if he would, or if he list to speak,' easily furnish a portable volume, embracing all things that are to be known, or believed, or practised, by the world at large, and gentlemen-republicans in particular. As for the English, heaven help them! they will here find some of the pegs let down that make their national music; and will learn that there is at least one American writer, who 'does na care a button for 'em,' and who has not hesitated to pick holes in the weak sides of their governmental, religious, and social edifices. Mr. COOPER is certainly no flatterer. He is in no awe of bishops, whom he meets in society, 'with wigs that set at naught both nature and art, and little silk petticoats called stoles;' he cares not for the clergy, however high they may stand, who fight duels; nor is he carried away with 'the first body of gentleman in the world,' the British Parliament. He is led to doubt a little, when he sees a speaker half drunk, and at the same moment, six members with one foot on the back of the seats before them, and three with both; he does not recognise the justice of this laud, when he hears one member, in debate, for the purpose of interrupting an opponent, crowing like a cock, another bleating like a sheep, and numbers making a very pretty uproar, by _qua-a-cking_, like a flock of ducks. Our author would not succeed as a courtier; for one who declares that the king is an ignoramus, and cannot write intelligible English, is too plain-spoken, ever to be on the high road to preferment.

Mr. COOPER is not less unmincing in his consideration of, and remarks upon, _things_, than he is in relation to usages and men. He says the houses in New-York and Boston are generally better furnished, (though not so profusely,) than those of the English; that New-York is a better town for eating and drinking, than London; and, save that our tables are invariably too narrow, they are better served with porcelain, glass, cutlery, and table-linen, than are those of our British metropolitan neighbors. He is in no extacies at Westminster Abbey, nor the Tower; he condemns the pinched and mean towers of the former, and considers the latter quite inferior to the donjon at Vincennes, or the Tower of Paris. Half the brilliants here exhibited in the crown, he has no doubt, are paste! Windsor he thinks far beneath Versailles, and hardly worthy the name of a palace, greatly lacking magnificence, although not without a certain pleasing quaintness and picturesque beauty; yet exhibiting in the state apartments, which are far inferior to the French, 'such vulgarisms as silver' andirons, and other puerilities.' The London bridges are out of proportion, too heavy for the stream they span, and quite unnecessarily solid. Moreover, American women, in all except the shoulders and bust, possess more beauty than the English women, and their complexion and features will better bear a close examination; while our men, too, he believes, are taller than the mass in England, English travellers to the contrary notwithstanding.

In his pungent remarks upon society and manners in England, Mr. COOPER seems to have been impelled, by considerations mainly personal, to praise or condemn. And we cannot resist the impression, that he is himself, with all his _amor patriæ_, a marked exception to the mass of Americans, who, he says, 'care no more for a lord than for a wood-chuck.' Titled personages are lugged in, on almost every page of his work. Lord This, Lord That, and Lord T'other, are as plenty as blackberries; and not an earl or a duke, who can by any possibility be alluded to, but is compelled to do duty in confirming the somewhat questionable hypothesis, that 'a man is _always_ known by the company he keeps;' and if there be a chance to establish a remote connection between any member of the writer's family, and the 'nobility or gentry,' the opportunity is eagerly embraced, no matter how awkward the _modus operandi_. This penchant is in miserable taste; and we venture to say, will counterbalance, by way of example, whole pages of most unexceptionable precept.

Our author dwells continually upon the assumption, that the English hate the Americans with a perfect hatred. He says this spirit mingles with every thought, colors every concession, and even tempers the charities of life. He saw a thousand proofs of it himself; and it was so well known to another American, that he _blushed_ when the land of his birth was mentioned before Englishmen! Now we very much question whether this feeling prevails in England to any thing like the depth or extent imagined by Mr. COOPER. Would WASHINGTON IRVING, in whose character there is a happy conjunction of civility, freedom, ease, and sincerity, and who has had ample opportunities of inspecting beyond the surface and rind of things, support these declarations? We think not. Doubtless Mr. COOPER in London, as in Paris, was not without the idea that the American republic was represented in his own person. Such certainly appears to have been his impressions, if one may judge from his deductions from any real or imaginary slight or discourtesy which may have crossed him in society. He is ever on the rack, lest his pretensions should be overlooked. He instantly resents what he deems indifference, and yet seems to be suspicious of any one who is particularly civil, without some apparent reason. Mr. COOPER's claims, as a gentleman of good manners, cannot be very exalted, if it be true, as we believe it is, that he is the best bred man who makes the fewest persons uneasy in society; and we conceive the offensive observation, which sent 'head to head, beyond the salt,' and caused the host to declare 'It is too bad,' as both pertinent and impertinent, and as sufficient proof of the correctness of our position, even if there were not ample kindred testimony. _Personal concession_ is a prominent part of real politeness, and springs from a courteous spirit, and a generous nature; and no one possessing these qualities would cavil at a gentleman who should, without at all incommoding him, look at the same public print, on the wall-file of a reading-room, or enlarge unduly upon a slight, and probably wholly unintentional, infraction of etiquette toward him.

We agree with Mr. COOPER, entirely, in very many of his views in relation to the society and manners of England and America. The ridiculous affectation of simplicity, the heartlessness and the flippancy of the English, whom he met in society, are defects which lay them bare to the lash, and the lash has been well laid on. This putting a rein upon the lungs, and drilling of muscles to order, for mere fashion's sake, is a legitimate theme for satire; and we are glad to see, by the squirming of the malevoli among the English critics, who are nibbling away at the excrescences of the work, that our author's random shots have '_told_' well. Mr. COOPER is equally just and felicitous in many of his comments upon American society. The mere tyranny of public opinion he sets forth in its true light. He very justly, too, repudiates the influence of those among us, whose narrow souls never moved in a wider circle than the circumference of a dollar, and who carry their brains in their pockets; and he ridicules, with proper motives and good grounds, the American propensity to use 'great swelling words' to express the commonest ideas, or merest matters of fact, which he illustrates by a characteristic anecdote. A rail-car companion, at Bordentown, who wished to say, 'They have laid the foundations of a large building here,' oracularly observed, instead: 'Judging from external symptoms, they have commenced the construction, in this place, of an edifice of considerable magnitude, calculated, most likely, to facilitate the objects of the rail-road company!' This lingual magniloquence is proverbial of American parvenus. Some months since, just as that sweet singer, Mrs. AUSTIN, was leaving New-York in the steam-boat for a Liverpool packet, lying in the stream, some inflated personage called out: 'It is proposed to pay a parting tribute to the distinguished vocalist who has, by her fine powers of music, so long delighted our citizens, and who is now about to depart from us!' 'Three cheers for Mrs. AUSTIN!' would have been understood, and heartily responded to; but this rigmarole only induced a sort of bastard applause, which fell feebly on the ear, and sent its prompter away, covered with confusion.

Our author's repeated sneers at the public press, and literary men, coming from one who is a writer by profession, and sucks his sustenance through a quill, is in exceeding bad taste; and his allusion to New-England editors, constitutes a characteristic specimen of aimless spite, which is quite beneath a person of his standing as an author. Some one native of New-England, obnoxious, from some cause, to Mr. COOPER, is undoubtedly at the bottom of this sweeping allusion. Had we that honor, or had we leisure, we should be glad to show _who_ are the men whom Mr. COOPER would thus traduce, _en masse_.

We have imperceptibly extended our remarks beyond reasonable limits; and must close, for the present, by recommending their subject to the perusal of our readers, satisfied that, amid much to condemn, they will find a great deal to admire; and well assured, that none will deem their time misspent in the perusal.

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POEMS BY WILLIAM THOMPSON BACON. In one volume. pp. 134. Boston: WEEKS, JORDAN AND COMPANY.

'THESE poems are the results of my leisure at college, and published for experiment. If the public find any thing worth reading in them, they may be followed by another volume.' Such is the sensible and sententious preface to this very beautiful little book, which we have read with much gratification. The preface itself, so often a medium for childish extenuation, forced egotism, or the long-winded dissertations of those adepts in the art of being deep-learned and shallow-read, who are ambitious of 'showing off,' led us to anticipate something more than mere respectable mediocrity at the hands of the author; and we have by no means been disappointed. As might be expected, we find in this little work no affected phrases, nor new-conceited words. The young writer has evidently chosen the best models; and the good taste which generally characterizes his productions, evinces that he possesses, to a great degree, the ability to separate beauty of thought and style from the corruption which apes it. He is a quiet but acute observer of nature; his ever-veering spirit catches naturally its sunlight and shadow; and he has the power often to clothe the heart of the reader with the changeful vesture which robes his own. In the blank verse, we sometimes detect examples of false rhythm, and inharmonious words now and then mar the construction of an otherwise well-turned poetical sentence. These faults, however, are amply counterbalanced by abounding graces of language and diction, and by a pervading spirit of pure feeling, and moral and religious sentiment. We had prepared for insertion an extract from a poem entitled 'Other Days,' with one or two passages from 'A Forest Noon-Scene;' and although in type, for the intended gratification of the reader, we are compelled to postpone their publication until the November number. We repeat, we welcome this little volume with unaffected pleasure, and commend it to the reader's favorable suffrages.

EDITORS' TABLE.

'BIANCA VISCONTI: OR THE HEART OVERTASKED.'--A successful tragedy, at the present day, is an event too rare to be passed over with indifference. The modern stage has been poverty-stricken so long, that it welcomes every thing in the shape of its natural food; although it is constantly reminded of its too credulous judgment, in the repeated nausea which it suffers from the flatulent and unsubstantial trash which its starved condition urges it to attempt to swallow. The American drama, if indeed we have any claim to such a possession, is such as may reasonably be expected, more lean and wretched than the drama of any of the more cultivated nations. But we _have_ no national drama, as yet, although we think the corner-stone of its structure has been laid, and that there is bright promise of a noble edifice, in the aspiring efforts of the many able writers whom a few years have brought to light, as well as in the encouragement which the taste of the American people seems inclined to afford to this branch of literature.

The tragedy now before us, is the first dramatic effort of a pen whose easy and finished tracings have made its master, even in the spring-time of his life, well known to fame. A mere experiment, in this most difficult department of literature, is worthy of praise. Whoever has considered the difficulties attendant upon the production of a play, of any class of the drama, would shrink from the task of bringing an original tragedy before the public, unless urged on by that firm confidence which genius gives to its possessor, and upheld through all by the hope of that ample reward which must attend the successful dramatist. SCOTT, in his letters to a theatrical friend in London, often adverts to the restraining of taste which the purveying for conceited or interested actors and actresses demands at the hands of a dramatic author, whose success is at their mercy, not less than at that of those of the audience who come to the theatre with palled animal and spiritual appetites, to 'snooze off their dinners and wine.' An expressionless 'oratorial machine,' high in the '_supe_' department, whose delivery of the commonest matter of fact is Stentorian and Ciceronian, may have it in his power, by ludicrous _mal addresse_, to mar the best acting play, and to render ridiculous the most refined poetry; while a higher order of Thespian, by slumbering over a level part, in a villanously indifferent manner, inadmissible as acting, may jeopardize an entire drama. But to return to 'Bianca Visconti.'

Mr. WILLIS has bravely accomplished his task; and without the slightest thought of depreciating the efforts of others of our countrymen who have written for the stage, we must honestly declare, that his work deserves the place of honor above them all. 'Bianca Visconti,' if considered merely as a dramatic poem, is replete with enduring beauties of poetry. Considered as a tragedy, it has many of the essential qualities of an acting play; not all, perhaps, in their highest perfection, but sufficiently marked, to convince the most fastidious of the power which the writer possesses, and of a certain promise of future efforts more decidedly faultless. The story of Bianca Visconti is well told. Although it proceeds without the aid of any extraordinary incidents, yet an interest is awakened, continued, and increased to the catastrophe. The characters are naturally drawn, and they have the especial merit of possessing in themselves an individuality--a form of their own, defined and marked out; and not, as is too often the case in modern dramas, made with the sole quality of filling up the space not occupied by the principal character. In other words, they have a merit in themselves, detached from the heroine, and are only subservient to the natural progress of the drama.

There is hardly incident enough in the first three acts, to keep up that melo-dramatic influence which the artificial appetite of the present day delights in. The author seems to have scorned the _clap-trap_ which has become the chief merit of many modern playwrights. In this we think he has done wisely, on more accounts than one. In the first place, clap-trap is dangerous. We have seen an audience 'bathed in stillness,' the pulse of a crowded theatre beating like that of one man, convulsed by some blundering misconception of a forced dramatic point, into roars of laughter, though the play were a deep tragedy. We have seen the devil, in 'Faust,' by reason of a 'solution of continuity' in the waist-band of his diabolical unmentionables, make a palpable _hit_ on the stage, dropping unexpectedly from an upward distance of some twelve feet, with the emphasis of 'a squashed apple-dumpling.' We have seen the cauldron in Macbeth, through some defect in the subterranean witch-craft, return, after its disappearance, before the eyes of an enrapt auditory, with the greasy hats and dirty coats of the prime movers exposed to the general eye. In short, we have seen enough to convince us, that profuse clap-trick, whether of language or scenic addittaments, although it may make the million stare or applaud, seldom fails to 'make the judicious grieve.'

The character of _Bianca Visconti_ is drawn with marked power. She is truly a fond, doting, enthusiastic lover; a woman who devotes her present and eternal peace to love, and breaks her heart in the unrequited sacrifice. Hers is an enthusiasm which all must admire, and still regret, in pity. _Sforza_ is a bold, not heartless, but ambitious hero. His love for Bianca is concealed beneath the grand passion of his soul. It is shut out for a time, only to burst forth at last with dazzling but hopeless splendor. The quaint _Pasquali_, the courtly poet and the philosophic lover, is a creation worthy the pen of a KNOWLES. He is to this tragedy what _Fathom_ is to the 'Hunchback;' a bright gleam of sunshine ever and anon breaking through the darkness of the rising storm, in striking contrast to the gloom of the gathering clouds. His admirer, _Fiametta_, although not an apt scholar in the mazes of poetry and philosophy, is, like the _Audrey_ of 'As You Like it,' most willing to learn, and ambitious to share in the laurelled honors of her sage teacher.

As a literary composition, 'Bianca Visconti' abounds with beauties. The images are clear, and radiant with poetical and delicate imaginings; and there are occasionally those fine bursts of feeling, which seem to come fresh from the soul, and to raise up a kindred sentiment, with their spirit-stirring words, in the souls of all who listen. What, for example, can be more like the picture of the bright thoughts of a young, enthusiastic girl, than Bianca's rapturous anticipation of a life of love:

'Oh, I'll build A home upon some green and flowery isle In the lone lakes, where we will use our empire Only to keep away the gazing world. The purple mountains and the glassy waters Shall make a hush'd pavilion with the sky, And we two in its midst will live alone, Counting the hours by stars and waking birds, And jealous but of sleep!'

Or what more glorious to the fancy that would clothe the delicacy of the female character in the gorgeous robes of heroic majesty, than Sforza's description of the fair Giovanna:

'Gods! what a light enveloped her! She left Little to shine in history; but her beauty Was of that order, that the universe Seemed governed by her motion. Men look'd on her As if her next step would arrest the world; And as the sea-bird seems to rule the wave He rides so buoyantly, all things around her-- The glittering army, the spread gonfalon, The pomp, the music, the bright sun in heaven-- Seemed glorious by her leave!'

Bianca's picture of the two Sforzas, though often quoted, is too beautiful and striking to be here omitted:

'Mark the moral, Sir: An eagle once, from the Euganean hills, Soared bravely to the sky. In his giddy track, Scarce marked by them who gazed upon the first, Followed a new-fledged eaglet, fast and well. Upward they sped, and all eyes on their flight Gazed with admiring awe: when suddenly The parent bird, struck by a thunder-bolt, Dropped lifeless through the air. The eaglet paused And hung upon his wings; and as his sire Plashed in the far-down wave, men look'd to see him Flee to his nest affrighted!

_Sforza._ 'Did he so?'

_Bianca._ 'My noble lord, he had a monarch's heart! He wheeled a moment in mid air, and shook Proudly his royal wings, and then right on, With crest uplifted, and unwavering flight, Sped to the sun's eye, straight and gloriously!'

There is a fine opportunity for the display of the power of the actress, in the scene where news is brought to Bianca of her father's death. The struggle between the joy which this event produces, by giving a chance of the coronet to her husband, and the sorrow which affection for her parent should cause, one acting against the other, present a scene which calls for the highest powers of the histrionic art to portray faithfully; and it is but just to say, that Miss CLIFTON did it justice. There is a great deal of quaint humor, and many truths wittily delivered, in the part of _Pasquali_. His exposition of the true meaning of the word imagination, to the homely understanding of his pupil, is as ingenious as true. One of GOLDSMITH's characters, if we do not mistake, reasons not unlike the Milanese bard, upon the same or a similar theme:

_Pasquali._ Answer me once more, and I'll prove to thee in what I am richer. Thou'st ne'er heard, I dare swear, of imagination.

_Fiametta._ Is't a Pagan nation, or a Christian?

_Pasq._ Stay; I'll convey it to thee by a figure. What were the value of thy red stockings, over black, if it were always night?

_Fiam._ None!

_Pasq._ What were beauty, if it were always dark?

_Fiam._ The same as none.

_Pasq._ What were green leaves better than brown, diamonds better than pebbles, gold better than brass, if it were always dark?

_Fiam._ No better, truly.

_Pasq._ Then the shining of the sun, in a manner, dyes your stockings, creates beauty, makes gold, and diamonds, and paints the leaves green?

_Fiam._ I think it doth.

_Pasq._ Now mark! There be gems in the earth, qualities in the flowers, creatures in the air, the Duke ne'er dreams of. There be treasuries of gold and silver, temples and palaces of glorious work, rapturous music, and feasts the gods sit at, and all seen only by a sun, which to the Duke is black as Erebus.

_Fiam._ Lord! Lord! Where is it, Master Pasquali?

_Pasq._ In my head! All these gems, treasuries, palaces, and fairy harmonies, I see by the imagination I spoke of. Am I not richer now?

The tragedy was well received, and attracted large audiences; and its success has satisfied us, that were the author to essay another attempt, with the additional knowledge of stage effect which the production and presentation of the present effort must have given him, he could scarcely fail of acquiring a high rank as a dramatist. The vein which has been opened, cannot have been exhausted at one running, as we hope yet to see made manifest.

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