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.
* * * * *
'THE TIMES THAT TRIED MEN'S SOULS.'--'Advance, ye future generations!
We would hail you, as you rise in your long succession, to fill the
places which we now fill, and to taste the blessings of existence,
where we are passing, and soon shall have passed, our own human
duration!' Such appeared to be the sentiment of a benevolent-looking
revolutionary veteran, the well-known Mr. ALLAIRE, of this city, as
he sat upon the deck of the Charleston and New-York Steam-Packet
'NEPTUNE,' on the occasion of her recent launch, and surveyed the
faces of the gay and light-hearted group around him. As the noble
craft glided gracefully and almost imperceptibly into the water,
and shot far over toward the Brooklyn shore, the 'old man eloquent'
remarked: 'Well, I remember Brooklyn, when there were but eight
houses in it. Now look at it!' added he, with a gesture of pride,
that he had lived to see its present prosperity. 'And New-York,
too,' he continued, 'I remember New-York when there was not a
house above the hospital. I recollect, when they were digging down
Catharine-street, how they disinterred the feet of the Hessians,
in the side-banks, where they had been hastily buried, many years
before. I read the Declaration of Independence,' continued the
venerable patriot, 'for the first time, at a sudden and enthusiastic
gathering at Tarrytown, before three thousand people. I heard the
shouts of applause from the true American spirits, and saw the tories
open their mouths, and _pretend_ to hurrah, yet no voice came from
their false lips. But they were forced, in such an assemblage, to
make a demonstration, to avoid suspicion.' And thus the old veteran
went on, a true exemplification of 'garrulous eld.'
At the sumptuous entertainment which succeeded, at the residence
of that true sailor and accomplished gentleman, Capt. PENNOYER,
commander of the 'Neptune,' we could not take our eyes from the aged
soldier of the revolution, who occupied a place of honor, nor cease
to think of the changes which he had seen in his day and generation.
He lived _through_ 'the times that tried men's souls,' and which gave
birth to the freedom of our noble republic. We could look at the
picture in the glowing light of the present, and the gorgeous hues
that robe the future; but, to adopt the beautiful thought of SCOTT,
_he_ could turn the tapestry, and see the blood-stained warp and woof
which bore the ground colors, and composed the prominent objects.
While upon the subject of revolutionary times, it will not be
inappropriate to introduce here two letters of GENERAL WASHINGTON,
which have never before been published. They were recently copied
by the junior publisher of this Magazine, from the originals in the
possession of his grandfather, to whom they were addressed. This
gentleman was President of a Massachusetts 'Council of Safety,'
and was high in the esteem and confidence of the Pater Patria.
Nothing can be more characteristic than the deliberation, the close
scrutiny into consequences, which these letters evince; compelled,
as the writer was, to guard against the cavils of the disaffected or
the envious, who had neither candor to suppose good meanings, nor
discernment to distinguish true ones, in the announcement of his
projects:
* * * * *
_Cambridge, August 22, 1775._
'SIR: In answer to your favor of yesterday, I must inform
you that I have often been told of the advantages of Point
Alderton, with respect to its command of the shipping
going in and out of Boston harbor; and that it has, before
now, been the object of my particular inquiry. I find the
accounts differ exceedingly in regard to the distance of the
ship-channel, and that there is a passage on the other side
of the Light-House Island for all vessels except ships of
the first rate. My knowledge of this matter would not have
rested upon inquiry only, if I had found myself, at any one
time since I came to this place, in a condition to have taken
such a post. But it becomes my duty to consider not only what
place is advantageous, but what number of men are necessary to
defend it; how they can be supported, in case of an attack;
how they may retreat, if they cannot be supported, and what
stock of ammunition we are provided with, for the purposes of
self-defence, or annoyance of the enemy. In respect to the
first, I conceive our defence must be proportioned to the
attack of General GATES' whole force, leaving him just enough
to man his lines on Charlestown Neck and Roxbury; and with
regard to the second and most important object, we have only
one hundred and eighty-four barrels of powder in all, which
is not sufficient to give thirty musket-cartridges a man, and
scarce enough to serve the artillery, in any brisk action, a
single day.
'Would it be prudent, then, in me, under these circumstances,
to take a post thirty miles distant from this place, when we
already have a line of circumvallation at least ten miles in
extent, and any part of which may be attacked (if the enemy
would keep their own counsel,) without our having one hour's
previous notice of it? Or is it prudent, to attempt a measure
which would necessarily bring on a consumption of all the
ammunition we have, thereby leaving the army at the mercy of
the enemy, or to disperse, and the country to be ravaged, and
laid waste at discretion? To you, Sir, who are a well-wisher to
the cause, and can reason upon the effect of such a conduct, I
may open myself with freedom, because no improper discoveries
will be made of our situation; but I cannot expose my weakness
to the enemy, (though I believe they are pretty well informed
of every thing that passes,) by telling this and that man, who
are daily pointing out this, that, and the other place, of all
the motives which govern my actions. Notwithstanding, I know
what will be the consequences of not doing it, namely: that
I shall be accused of inattention to the public service, and
perhaps with want of spirit to prosecute it. But this shall
have no effect upon my conduct. I will steadily (as far as my
judgment will assist me,) pursue such measures as I think most
conducive to the interest of the cause, and rest satisfied
under any obloquy that shall be thrown, conscious of having
discharged my duty to the best of my abilities.
'I am much obliged to you, as I shall be to every gentleman,
for pointing out any measure which is thought conducive to
the public good, and cheerfully follow any advice which is
not inconsistent with, but correspondent to, the general plan
in view, and practicable, under such particular circumstances
as govern in all cases of the like kind. In respect to Point
Alderton, I was no longer than Monday last talking to General
THOMAS on this head, and proposing to send Colonel PUTNAM down,
to take distances, etc., but considered it could answer no end
but to alarm, and make the enemy more vigilant. Unless we were
in a condition to possess the post to effect, I thought it as
well to postpone the matter awhile.
'I am, Sir,
'Your Very Humble Servant,
'GEO: WASHINGTON.'
'HON. J. PALMER, Watertown, Mass.'
* * * * *
Mark the just policy and far-reaching sagacity which the subjoined
letter evinces, nor lose sight of the numerous difficulties and
dangers which environed the writer, and threatened his plans:
_Cambridge, August 7, 1775._
'SIR: Your favor of yesterday came duly to my hands. As I did
not consider local appointments as having any operation upon
the general one, I had partly engaged (at least in my own
mind) the office of Quarter Master General, before your favor
was presented to me. In truth, Sir, I think it sound policy
to bestow offices, indiscriminately, among gentlemen of the
different governments, so far as to bear a proportionable part
toward the expense of this war. If no gentleman out of these
four governments come in for any share of the appointments, it
may be apt to create jealousies, which will in the end give
disgust. For this reason, I would earnestly recommend it to
your board to provide for some of the volunteers who are come
from Philadelphia, with my warm recommendations, though they
are strangers to me.
'In respect to the boats from Salem, I doubt, in the first
place, whether they could be brought over by land. In the
second place, I am sure nothing could ever be executed here by
surprise, as I am well convinced, that nothing is transacted
in our camp or lines, but what is known in Boston in less than
twenty-four hours. Indeed, circumstanced as we are, it is
scarcely possible to be otherwise, unless we were to stop the
communication between the country and our camp and lines; in
which case, we should render our supplies of milk, vegetables,
etc., difficult and precarious. We are now building a kind of
floating battery; when that is done, and the utility of it
discovered, I may possibly apply for timber to build more, as
circumstances shall require.
'I remain, with great esteem, Sir,
'Your most Obedient and Humble Servant,
'GEO: WASHINGTON.'
'HON'BLE J. PALMER, Watertown, Mass.'
We shall hereafter present an original and characteristic letter from
General WARREN, written the night before the battle of Bunker-Hill.
* * * * *
IN justice to the writer of the ensuing defence, which has been in
our possession since its date, it is proper to say, that we have
received, from various and most reputable sources, the strongest
testimony in relation to his personal character. He is represented
to us as a gentleman of untiring industry and perseverance, who,
often under circumstances of adversity and affliction, has labored
diligently and successfully, for a long series of years, in an
arduous avocation, and whose reputation for probity, and honorable
and generous acts, is alike unimpeachable and undeniable. Of the
merits of his works, having never examined them, we are unable
to form an opinion, farther than may be gathered from the almost
unexampled extent of their sale.
EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.
* * * * *
TO THE EDITORS OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.
GENTLEMEN: In the June number of the KNICKERBOCKER, I have seen an
'extract' purporting to be taken from the 'Introduction' of a yet
unpublished work upon English grammar, by GOOLD BROWN, which extract
seems to be a sort of criticism levelled at me and my works, but more
especially at my Grammar. Judging from the fury of this assault, one
would be inclined to think, that my antagonist believed his very
existence as an author depended upon his annihilation of me, and that
my future popularity and success are dependant upon _his_ opinion of
me and my works! My Grammar, gentlemen, has been attacked by abler
writers than Goold Brown, and has passed through the ordeal of their
criticisms unscathed. It is not to be expected, therefore, that I
should care a groat whether this self-constituted philological umpire
likes the work or not. Indeed, I would rather he would _not_ like
it; for sure I am, that if he liked it, few others would; a clear
proof of which we have, in a dull book on grammar, which he himself
produced, some twelve or fifteen years ago, on a plan and in a style
exactly suited to his own peculiar liking. Since then, it never
entered into my scheme to write a grammar to suit the taste of my
jealous rivals, but to please myself and the public. Having gained
the latter point, I can very complacently bear all the futile abuse
which may be heaped upon me.
I know it is mortifying for an author to fail, especially a conceited
one. I admit that it is hard for him to write eleven years for nine
hundred dollars,[7] even though his labors may not have been worth to
the public one-half that sum. It is natural, too, for such writers,
after having ascertained that nobody will _purchase_ their bantlings,
to turn philosophers, and become very disinterested, and affect to
despise the idea of connecting _emolument_ with the labors of their
mighty pens. Doubtless, also, it is sufficiently provoking, and
especially mortifying to a discomfitted author's vanity, to learn
that the works of a much younger writer, and one upon whom he once
affected to look down as his inferior, should go off by _thousands_,
while his own precious productions are with difficulty shoved off
by _tens_. That such an author should find nothing to praise in a
work so much more popular than his own, is not at all singular;
yet, when a conceited charlatan, himself a professed author, (and
a pretended _Quaker_, withal!) so far departs from the dignity and
decency of manly feeling, as to attempt, by gross misrepresentations
and low trickery, to destroy the hard-earned and honest fame of a
more successful fellow-laborer, for purposes of private malice, a
decent respect for the dignity of true criticism and the rights of
authorship, no less than a proper regard for the cause of learning,
requires that he should be held up to public detestation.