The Scourge of the Ocean: A Story of the Atlantic. By an Officer of the United States' Navy. In two volumes, 12mo. pp. 431. Philadelphia: E. L. Carey and A. Hart.

With many defects, incident to a first attempt at fictious narration, these volumes exhibit undeniable talent, and still more promise. They have been written, it seems, in haste; though this excuse would be hardly valid, save in consideration of the fact, that the young author, momentarily expecting to be ordered to sea, was hence compelled to hasten their publication. The common faults of a first production, it must be admitted, are sufficiently apparent; among the more prominent of which, may be mentioned the want of a natural order of progression, the liberal introduction of matters not correlative to the story proper, and an occasional carelessness of language. But these blemishes are well atoned for, by a general freedom of delineation, both of character and events, so easy and natural, that it often requires no stretch of the imagination to fancy the volumes actually alive, and talking with the reader. All who have read 'Jack Marlinspike's Yarn,' heretofore published in these pages, and introduced episodically in the work before us, will not need to be told, that our author has an unvarnished way of delivering his sentiments, whatever they may be, through his various characters; and this, in our judgment, constitutes an agreeable feature of the work. We had rather encounter occasional nervous inelegance of expression, and even a slight assault and battery upon Priscian, now and then, than the affectation of big words and fustian phrases, or the precise and prime sententiousness which many of our modern authors so much affect. We shall not attempt to trace the involutions and denouÉment of the story, since we lack both time and space for the purpose, and moreover, are unwilling to rob the labors of a new candidate for public favor of the strong interest of curiosity; but shall endeavor to present a sort of running commentary upon the principal features of the work.

We like our author better afloat than on shore. He is at home on the ocean; and some of his ship-board pictures strongly remind us of the kindred sketches of Cooper and Marryat, or Leggett, who is in no respect behind either in the power of graphic description. We subjoin an elaborate etching, which will exemplify the justice of our praise:

"It was evening; the blushes of sunset still lingered in the west, faintly relieving the far-off coast of America, that seemed more like some blue cloud sleeping upon the surface of the ocean, than a vast continent rising from its depths. The round full moon was ascending from the opposite sky with that increased magnitude she seems to possess when low in the horizon, and her light came over the sea, tinged with the mellow hue of paly gold, that always characterizes it when the luminaries rise and set at the same moment. A gentle breeze came sweeping up from the southward, and a balmy influence was respired in the air. Upon that part of the Atlantic to which we wish the reader to direct his attention, a ship was seen moving along toward the land that was but just perceptible in the west. She was a small vessel for her taunt and heavy appurtenance; and evidently intended for the purposes of war. Her long sharp hull seemed much too diminutive to sustain the pressure of the broad sheets of canvass that rose toweringly above it, and there were moments when it seemed that the lofty spars and wide-spread sails glided over the ocean without the support or aid of that most important part of the machinery of a vessel. Although the wind was very light, the foam curled in snow-white piles about her cut-water, and ever and anon, as she rose and pitched deeper into the element, masses of glittering spray would fly over her forecastle. It was evident from her speed in so gentle a breeze that she was a very superior sailer, but a single glance at her construction would scarcely need another or more convincing proof of her superiority in that respect. Aloft, every thing indicated the nicest care and attention; the masts, from the deck to the trucks, were stayed in line, and in an exact parallel to each other, while the rigging that supported them on every hand seemed to possess the inflexibility of so much iron. Each sail was hoisted taut up, so as to yield as little as possible to the bellying influence of the breeze, while their corners were drawn out upon the yards to their full extent. No ropes hung dangling from the rigging or tops; and, in short, every thing exhibited the characteristic regularity of a man-of-war.

"Upon deck, the arrangements were as neat as they were aloft. Eight twenty-four pound carronades, and a long eighteen, thrust their frowning muzzles out from either side; and rows of bright battle-axes, cutlasses, and pikes, were ranged along the bulwarks, in glittering and beautiful array. Each rope was carefully coiled upon its respective pin; and no unnecessary lumber obstructed the gangways or quarter deck. Between the fore and main masts, a large boat was nicely stowed, while its black cover served the double purpose of protecting it from the weather, and imparting a neater air to the arrangements of the deck. Abaft the mizzen-mast, or on that part distinguished as the quarter-deck, every thing was rich and expensive. Railings of polished brass surrounded the hatchways, and ladders of grated work communicated with the depth of the ship. The wheel and binnacles were of the rarest wood, and constructed in the most tasteful and elegant manner. The hammock boards were adorned with gilded ornaments, and the bolt-heads in the deck were screened by inserted mahogany, cut diamond-wise. In a word, that ship seemed to have been built by Profusion as an offering to Beauty. * * * Groups of seamen sat between the guns in discourse, or reclined with characteristic listlessness upon the deck, while a few, who were discharging the duties of look-outs, stood at their various stations with their faces turned toward the ocean."

This is but a fair example of many spirited descriptions to be found in the work; nor is the lively, though sometimes rather confused, dialogue unworthy of laud; excepting always the forced colloquies of Handsaw and Ramrod, two eminent bores, and unmitigated draw-backs, whom all the bad spelling in the world would fail to render entertaining. Much as the reader must condemn the tyrant Stanley, and little as he may think of his opinions, he will be inclined to agree with him on one point, namely, that Handsaw's ever-active 'propensity to talk about his wife,' renders him ridiculous, and in reality 'a source of uneasiness' as aggravating to the reader as it must have been to the hearer. With these exceptions, the sailor-dialogue is extempore and natural. Nothing can be finer than the description of the mutiny on board the Ganymede, the burning of the merchantman at sea, and the escape of the 'Scourge' from a labyrinth of pursuers, by a bold but politic and adroit manoeuvre. If the reader, however, while perusing the account of the escape of Everett from New-York, his first introduction to the family of General Adair, and his meeting the heroine with her father, at sea, should pause to ask himself how all this happened to occur so opportunely, he might be led to think that in all this the possible was taking precedence of the probable. Happily, such is the interest awakened, that he has no disposition to propound queries, but is tempted to 'keep due on,' until he has gained the end of the book.

We are sorry to perceive that the volumes are marred by an occasional grammatical error, ('laying down the musket, he done as much justice,' etc., and kindred lapsus pennÆ,) and by not infrequent typographical blunders, which should be looked to, in a second edition, should it be called for.

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.

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.

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.