place of his favourites,-his spaniel Etna, his cat, his tortoise, and his horse, which last was laid beneath the shade of a flourishing oak tree, reared from an acorn brought by himself from the shores of the Lake of Thrasymene in 1817. Over the grave of "Etna," his faithful companion of many years, the doctor, it is said, has been seen to stand until his eyes were suffused with tears, and he would exclaim, “Ah, poor Etty!" No anecdotes are trivial when, as in this instance, they display so clearly the nature of a man.

We quote the following extract, taken from a Roman Catholic journal, because, while it pays a just tribute to the excellence of Dr. Lingard, it alludes to a point which has been the subject of some dispute.

"The vast increase of fame and the enlarged income which his History of England' brought to the author, had not the effect of enlarging his ambition for ecclesiastical preferment, or of drawing him from his beloved seclusion; and the immortal historian of England died as he lived and where he lived, the humble priest of Hornby. He loved literature and privacy; and neither the presidency of Maynooth College, nor the Episcopal rank, nor even the dignity of the Purple, which it is generally understood he might have attained, could lure him from his quiet retreat-made glorious by the priceless gem it contained."

That the Pope ever had the least intention of making Dr. Lingard either a cardinal or a bishop is denied by Mr. Dalton of Northampton ; but the editor of the "Catholic Standard," to whom he has sent his letter, says: "As to the purple' we will not be positive; but we can state upon the authority of those who had spoken to Leo XII. on the subject, that that Pontiff was desirous of raising Dr. Lingard to the episcopal rank." Nothing is more likely than that a bishopric at least had been offered to Dr. Lingard, or virtue, talents, and learning are less valued in the Roman Catholic church than they ought to be, and than it is her interest to appreciate them."

We have now to speak, which we must do very briefly, of the works of Dr. Lingard. The "History of the Anglo-Saxon Church" is, undoubtedly, the fruit of great labour and research, containing a vast amount of most curious information which had lain buried for centuries. Others have since laboured in this field, or rather, worked in this mine, but they have added little to the mass which had been accumulated by the patient assiduity of our author.

The controversial pamphlets of the doctor we have looked into, but we are not ashamed to say, we have not read them. Dr. Oliver, no mean authority on the Roman Catholic side, proclaims Lingard to have been the ablest controversial writer in the Catholic body. It may be so; for in his controversy with Dr. Philpotts, we find (the points in dispute out of the question) that whilst he is, perhaps, equal to his most able antagonist in clearness, force, and vivacity of style, he is certainly greatly superior in temper, and that moral dignity, which so well become a Christian ecclesiastic. But we hope these clever controversial tracts are on their way to oblivion, whither so many thousands of their like have gone before. Would that the spirit which sometimes animates such performances, and which they often seek to perpetuate, were on its way thither likewise ! Alas! the expression of such a hope in these days savours of enthusiasm and wildness.

To Lingard's "History of England" too much praise cannot be awarded, and it has already had no ordinary share. It is, unquestion

ably, the very best, not only because it is the most impartial, but because it is the fullest and the completest history of this country that has ever been given to the world. As a mere writer, Lingard is certainly not equal to Hume, whose style, so easy, so simple, so idiomatic, is inimitable, and perhaps hardly to be excelled; but it is small praise of Dr. Lingard, that in all the higher qualities of an historian, in his "knowledge of the spirit of antiquity, in exactness and circumstantiality of narration," he is immeasurably superior to the great Scotchman. Hume's "History of the Stuarts," that portion of his work which he published first, ought to have condemned him for ever as a writer of history; and throughout his work, wherever his passions or his prejudices are awakened, no reliance whatever can be placed upon him.

He adopted a practice, too, utterly abhorrent to the spirit of historical composition, which practice has been highly praised by an eminent critic in the "Edinburgh Review." We quote the passage, and shall presently give an extract from Dr. Lingard's preface to his work, that the reader may see at a glance how a history should not, and should, be written.

"It was a practice of that great historian (Hume), on grave and important questions, where the justice or expediency of the course to be taken was doubtful or disputed, to bring forward the arguments that might be used upon both sides; and to give a more historic form to these discussions, it was not uncommon for him to state them as having been actually proposed and urged at the time by the contending parties. Dr. Lingard appears to disapprove of this practice, and calls it fiction. We are sure that no fraud was intended by it on the part of Mr. Hume, and doubt whether he has ever had readers simple enough to believe that the controversial discussions carried on in his history, took place in the form and manner there related. Like the speeches in Livy, we have always regarded them as political disquisitions, applicable to all times and places; and believing it to be the object of history to store the mind with knowledge, and not merely to load the memory_with events, we have studied them, we confess, with attention, and, we flatter ourselves, with profit. Mr. Hume, to be sure, did not extract them from the Monkish Chronicles, where Dr. Lingard has probably sought for them in vain, but drew them from the recesses of his own mind : and so true and just are his reflections, and yet so natural and obvious do they appear, when presented to us in his admirable sketches, that though no authority may be found for them in contemporary annals, we cannot help believing that they contain the sentiments and views, not only of the statesmen and parties to whom he ascribes them, but of politicians and nations at all times, and on all occasions, when similar questions have arisen, since men were first united in society and governed by their reason and reflection."

Need we ask whether this is a practice that ought to be endured in history? It is very well for the critic to tell us that he doubts whether Hume ever had readers simple enough to believe that these imaginary discussions ever took place. If that were really his opinion, why should he have said that Dr. Lingard probably sought in vain for them in the Monkish Chronicles? Be it observed, this is not said in irony, for the critic has bestowed abundant praise upon Dr. Lingard, and pays a tribute to his acuteness and sagacity.

We see no earthly use in endeavouring to bolster up the fame of

Hume as an historian at this time of day. His authority on many of the most important and disputed matters is irretrievably gone.

Let us now hear Dr. Lingard. He says:

"It is long since I disclaimed any pretensions to that which has been called the philosophy of history, but might with more propriety be termed the philosophy of romance. Novelists, speculatists, and philosophists, always assume the privilege of being acquainted with the secret motives of those whose conduct and characters they describe; but writers of history know nothing more respecting motives than the little which their authorities have disclosed, or the facts necessarily suggest. If they indulge in fanciful conjectures, if they profess to detect the hidden springs of every action, the origin and consequences of every event, they may display acuteness of investigation, profound knowledge of the human heart, and great ingenuity of invention; but no reliance can be placed on the fidelity of their statements. In their eagerness they are apt to measure fact and theory by the same visionary standard; they dispute or overlook every adverse or troublesome authority, and then borrow from imagination whatever may be wanting for the support or embellishment of their new doctrine. They come before us as philosophers who undertake to teach from the records of history; they are in reality literary empirics, who disfigure history to make it accord with their philosophy. Nor do I hesitate to proclaim my belief that no writers have proved more successful in the perversion of historic truth than speculative and philosophical historians."

We cannot do better than close this short paper with a passage of such masterly sense and manly eloquence.

A CATHEDRAL REVERIE.

WHEN, by the sounds well-matched and firmly-braced
Of some great harmony, wherewith the word
Of Scripture keepeth march, my soul is stirred,
Like a lake's bosom by the winds o'er-paced;
And when those sounds, out-measured with no haste,
Beneath the vaulted coverture are heard
Of some vast temple to Jehovah reared,
Where beauty clings to awe, in union chaste;-
Transported with that sense, I inly cry

"What, if this solemn tributary strain
(The same, but sublimated, and by Him
Approved, whose praise is its intendment high)
Shall, when this Earth is gone, with all her train,
Be, to the choirs of Heav'n itself, a theme?"

G. D.

THE OPERA IN PARIS DURING THE LAST

THIRTY YEARS.*

ALTHOUGH we find, on examination, that the plastic-and, indeed, all the arts-were in a very unsatisfactory condition in Paris during the commencement of the present century, this reproach is especially applicable to music; and this is the more remarkable when we remember that French operatic music had, some fifty years before, gained the highest and most merited renown. But at the time we are now alluding to, all that was good was thrust on one side to favour other very moderately gifted composers. Music, in its higher tendency of working on the feelings through characteristic melodies arranged with a perfect knowledge of the requirements and lessons of harmony, seemed, to the youthful generation of that day, something quite novel. The few compositions of the good old masters of the former century, which had been saved from oblivion, were only listened to and valued by the elder portion of the public, while the younger rejected all that had not appeared in the latest period, and was not ornamented with the sparkling tinsel of the theatre, under the contemptuous title of "Pont-neuf," and as only worthy of being admired by the few old-fashioned fellows who still adhered to the custom of wearing perukes.

The taste for change was evidently all-powerful, and bad music, if new, was preferred to the best old careful compositions. Nor can this be considered a mere matter of opinion, for we need only quote a number of names in order to prove the age abundantly rich in genial operatic music, which was, however, fast disappearing in spite of its originality and excellence.

Monsigny, born in 1729, died at the very advanced age of eightyeight years. It must have created a strange sensation, to see a man, who, in his active youth, had known Rameau; who had lived contemporaneously with Philidor, who was reckoned among the ancients in the epoch when the heavenly Glück bloomed; a man who was esteemed the true founder of the spirituelle French operatic music, still wandering on the earth. Who, that in his youth had heard "Le Déserteur," "La Belle Arséne," "Rosa et Colas," did not remember them with pleasure-who was not affected by a desire to hear more of such naïve and true music? Through the strange length of Monsigny's life, his pieces had maintained their ground on the stage; his name had been longer remembered by those who had known him or seen his operas in their youth. Philidor, however, though born about the same time as Monsigny, had, through his early retirement from the musical world, entirely escaped the memory of the living. This probably arose from his extraordinary knowledge of chess; and if his name were mentioned, it only served to introduce the anecdote of his being able to play three games at once, though blindfolded, and win them all.

Delayrac, Della Maria, and Grétry, had, like these two, been laid on the shelf, spite of their having done so much to improve the French operatic style; for their best compositions were but seldom, and then badly, produced at the Grand Opera, where everything was in a lamentable condition. The building itself was old, dirty, badly lighted, and

• Erinnerungen.

inconvenient of access, through its situation in the Rue Richelieu. The whole collection of singers-almost as old and decayed as the house itself-sang, or rather screamed, without voice or teeth, while their faces were wrinkled, and their costumes in a most dilapidated condition. Madame Branchu, Lais, Nourrit, père, and a few others, were tolerated through compassion; for it was known that these singers, who had formerly been so much admired, would ultimately receive pensions. Nor was the orchestra a bit better; and, in truth, the whole opera, with all its accessories, was in a most pitiable condition. In the expectation of its regeneration, it had been consigned to oblivion, and could only attract an audience now and then by ballets. Mozart, who had in his youth been personally honoured in Paris, and sustained his reputation by his glorious compositions, was, at the time we now write of, wholly ignored.

Glück's masterly productions alone firmly maintained their ground on the stage in the Rue Richelieu; but it was clearly seen that this happened more for the convenience of the public company, than for the gratification of the public, for the latter found no pleasure in them in the most extended sense of the term, for when they were given, the audience might easily be counted. It only consisted of those in whom these representations summoned up agreeable reminiscences of a long past youth. The veteran Gossic might be seen to take his seat regularly in the front row of the balcon, when Glück's operas were performed. His genius was held in high estimation by connoisseurs, and when eighty-three years of age, he experienced the joy of seeing the deserted opera visited by all the notabilities of the musical world, when the tragedians of the Théatre Français gave Racine's "Athalie," with his music and choruses. But even if Glück might be held in high renown, the affected style in which "Armide," "Alceste," "Les deux Iphigénies," were performed by the company, was truly painful it was enjoyment and suffering at the same moment. Ugly figurantes, with dirty white tunics, rose-crowned heads, with red, rough, bearded faces, clumsy hands extending from the staring chamois bricol, made an impression as disgusting as it was ridiculous; and when the spectator reflected that the lovely enchantress had set all this in motion to ensnare the noble knight, and then looked at Madame Branchu, who was at least sixty years of age, every illusion vanished.

Spontini's services in the Grand French Opera had been long satisfactory, and "La Vestale," as well as "Cortes," embellished with all the necessary splendour of the age they represented, had met with well-deserved approbation-but engulfed in the universal wretchedness of the declining opera-they so far faded that, after an existence of ten years, they were considered antiquated. Besides, too, as cabals existed averywhere in Paris, and most of all in the theatres, this talented maestro, after his departure from France, was wholly placed on the shelf, although great gratitude was due to him for temporarily arousing the expiring flame, which was for so long a time extinguished in the

opera.

Paer, who also lived in Paris, and, like Spontini and Cherubini, was an Italian, had equally with them gained his reputation on the French stage. Though it must be allowed that the last two were far superior to Paer, still at this time, when Rossini had not yet appeared on the horizon, nor his fade Italian and Italianizing imitators deluged the world,