crew, never assumed the garb and used the language of honest men. Mr. Macaulay, as he in the course of his narrative encounters each act of baseness, speaks of it as it deserves, and is not sparing of indignant and scornful epithets to mark his sense of the meanness he is compelled to describe; but it appears to us strange that his general estimate of the characters of the great drama bears no marks of the contemptuous undervaluing which is, in the individual instances, exhibited. Epithets of respect and admiration are employed, when he speaks generally of the men by whom the Revolution was effected. The result is, a feeling of incongruity. It is like hearing a verdict of not guilty, after listening to an uninterrupted evidence of guilt.

Running, then, through the catalogue of the names of the leaders on this occasion, we feel within ourselves no peculiar desire to extenuate their misdeeds, no wish to believe them in the right; and we frankly own, that we find it difficult to make ourselves believe that it was wise to maintain and enforce, immediately after the Revolution of 1688, acts which, in 1829, it was wise to repeal. We cannot assent to the doctrine that both proceedings were equally wise and necessary. We do not find any difficulty in ascertaining why these acts were maintained after 1688. Fear and hate on the part of the Protestant party induced the leaders to uphold the exclusion of the Roman Catholics; fear and hate induced the leaders of the Church to maintain the exclusion of the Nonconformists. In no country had the experiment of perfect toleration been tried; and no sect, whether Protestant or Catholic, was prepared when in power to make the members of all religions equal before the law. All sects, while under persecution, held a language different from that which they employed when in the ascendant; but none pretended practically to apply their liberal maxims when they were able to persecute. The fact is, that in this respect the opinions of statesmen havegreatly changed. The experiment of toleration has been tried, and the precautions which were, in the seventeenth century, deemed indispensable, have been, in the nineteenth, set aside as unnecessary and mischievous.

But while statesmen have been thus convinced, the people in our country, at least, still in a great degree retain the feelings of their ancestors. Had England, in 1829, been polled, the vote, we sincerely believe, would have been against Catholic Emancipation. If the Catholics of Ireland could at this moment do as they desire, Protestants would be excluded from power, and not improbably be subjected to persecution. In England, at the present time, the No-popery feeling is strong; and not insignificantly manifested by the language held, the questions asked, and the cries raised at the late elections. The great distinction between our own times and those of the Revolution of 1688 is, that the leaders and the people do not sympathise in their opinions. Statesmen have now an exoteric and esoteric doctrine, and their conduct results from a compromise between the two. The more unscrupulous a politician is, the more easy is it for him to shape his course and please his party. If he thinks for himself and will not stoop to falsehood, his power as a politician will be small; he may be esteemed, but he will not govern.

The merely political considerations of this work, however, form but a part of its attractions. At the outset, Mr. Macaulay gives a description of what he deems the duties of an historian. He says,―

I should very imperfectly execute the task which I have undertaken, if I were merely to treat of battles and sieges, of the rise and fall of administrations, of intrigues in the palace, and of debates in the parliament. It will be my endeavour to relate the history of the people as well as the history of the Government; to trace the progress of useful and ornamental arts, to describe the rise of religious sects and the changes of literary taste, to pourtray the manners of successive generations, and not to pass by with neglect even the revolutions which have taken place in dress, furniture, repasts, pasts, and public amusements. I shall cheerfully bear the reproach of having descended below the dignity of history, if I can succeed in placing before the English of the nineteenth century a true picture of the lives of their ancestors.Vol. i. 3.

p.

The extensive and multifarious reading of Mr. Macaulay, his marvellous memory, his sensitive nature

1

and disquisitive spirit, have enabled him to perform this part of his task with singular skill and effect. He has made himself so completely familiar with every part of the literature belonging to the times of which he speaks, that he describes like an eye-witness, and judges like a contemporary. In the margin of the page there is no ostentation of reference, no pretensive display of reading. But yet every page proves by its own intrinsic evidence that the author is perfectly at home in his subject; that he has not, as is now too often the practice, crammed for the purpose in hand, and, with a false show of great research and careful consideration, contented himself with a superficial inquiry, and delivered himself of hasty and almost chance judgments. Mr. Macaulay has really lived again, by means of its literature, through the time of our great Revolution. His opinions are emphatically his own, the result of evidence attained by his own industry, and thus, whether correct or erroneous, deserve all the respect which is due, and so justly due, to an honest and independent judgment. The work has besides one other, and, in our eyes, no trifling source of interest. In its style and form it may be received as the best illustration which its author can give of his own conception of the mode in which history should be written. With the historians of every country, of every age, Mr. Macaulay is familiar; composition, in many branches, more especially history, has been to him a subject of constant and profound meditation. A scholar to whom the great historians of Greece and Rome, of Italy, France, and Germany, are as familiar as those of his own country, he comes before us rather as their rival in the art of composition, than as the mere chronicler of events which he desires to leave on record. In the way of evidence, he adds nothing to our former acquired knowledge; still, from the manner in which the various facts are combined, the mode in which they are illustrated and commented on, a new picture is produced; a more vivid, as well as more accurate conception of the events themselves, is acquired by the reader, simply because the artist is skilful, not because he is a witness. Viewed

in this light, as a contribution to our literature, the work is worthy of a far more elaborate consideration than we can now bestow on it. Our first decision is entirely in its favour. But of such a book, regarded as a work of art, no off-hand judgment is of much value. The only sure test is the decies repetita; and the extraordinary fascination which has been the effect of a single perusal, makes us more than commonly doubtful of our present capacity for the forming of a correct decision. The rapid style swept us onward with the force of a torrent from the commencement to the end of two stout volumes there was no halt. As we turned the last page we were surprised and grieved to find ourselves at the journey's end. Borne onward by the rushing stream of narrative, we gave ourselves up to the pleasure of indulging in unhesitating admiration of the many brilliant scenes past which we were hurried. Picture after picture came and went in quick succession, all brilliant, all attractive. From the beginning to the end there was no repose; and we begin to suspect that when we are able, in a calmer mood, to view the whole picture together, the constant and dazzling light will appear excessive; and we shall need, what a more perfect art would have supplied, intervals of rest,-rest which a more sedate and quiet narrative would, from time to time, have afforded. The illustration here taken from the sister art of painting we believe accurate, and, for the moment, useful, because it gives our criticism a sort of palpable existence, and will enable others at once to decide whether their feelings have been the same as our

own.

The epigrammatic style employed throughout the work appears to great advantage, and is, indeed, then perfectly appropriate, when individuals are to be described, and their habits of thought and feeling, their moral and mental character, have to be brought vividly before the reader. In his delineation of the numerous actors in this vast drama, Mr. Macaulay shines with a steady, clear, and almost unequalled lustre. His spirit is, however, well under control, and he is never unjust for the sake of his epigram.

I

AM an old song now, and have been often sung. Mine has been a long and brilliant career; and though now put on the shelf amid the dust of departed forefathers, let me, ere I sink into annihilation, retrace the early years of my glorious being, when I flew triumphant from throat to throat, roused the heart, and filled the eyes of men with tears of gladness, sympathy,

and love.

I am by birth an Italian. I was created by the maestro in his twentyfifth year. It was while rocking lazily on the moonlit lagunes of Venice that I first became conscious of existence in the magic hall of the brain I first bestirred my wings, but found the quarters too confined for my ambitious and expanding energies. I was, however, allowed to move, as the Scotch say, 'butt and ben,' between the head and the heart, for from both I sprang. Ay, thy life-blood, poor Stefano, ran in my veins, with the wild fire of its burning passion, and the pathos of its sombre melancholy, indelibly impressed on the wild earnestness of my adagio and the marvellous rapture of my allegro! The author of my being had been a poet and a musician from his earliest years. In the poverty-stricken home of his father there were few opportunities for the improvement of any but such a one as Stefano. His was the heart to which all Nature speaks in her fondest and deepest tones; the airy tongue that addressed the spirit of Stefano whispered ceaselessly in the ear willing to hear, of all that was beautiful, poetic, and ennobling.

Now to return to myself. Shall I tell the secrets of the brain? Shall. I reveal to Mr. Faraday the electric flashes which accompanied my gradual formation in the thoughts and will of my creator? Shall I trace my being back to its first dawn, through its gradual perfecting, to the full splendour of its perfect organisation, when, consigned to the throat of a

VOL. XXXIX. NO. CCXXIX.

RAS?

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great prima donna, I first spread my wings and sailed forth triumphant, conquering and to conquer ?

It was fully two years from the time that the first bars of my being were laid down in the brain to that when, in an hour of despair, agony, and insanity, I was put down upon paper and brought out into the world. Talk of Minerva, all ready armed, leaping, bucklered and helmeted, from the brain of Jove! what was her start into life compared to mine? In me were centred a thousand perfections, for I came adorned and crowned with Love's idolatry,-an offering, a dying offering, to the only woman Stefano ever loved in his life. Of course, I was in all his secrets. Giulia was a young actress -you do not need a description of her, she is in all the London printshops; but yet she is not now as she was then. Ah! era stella del mattin. Originally a flower-girl at Florence, she had a voice of three octaves and two notes, a head of glorious form, and a face of enchanting loveliness. At sixteen, she had the grace of a nymph and the ease of a child. She was taken in hand by old Giorgio, and taught to sing, some time before she learnt to write or read. She was the strangest girl,a mixture of vanity, vice, fascination, and good-nature, with some superstitions, that made her very diverting when she took a fit of fright about a new character. I know that she vowed fifteen pounds to St. Mark if she got through the Casta Diva, with an encore to the quick part. By the way, I have a spite at Casta Diva ever since she was preferred to me at the San Carlo. But to return. This Giulia was the very girl to drive Stefano crazy. He imagined he saw her enacting the part of Zara in his Montezuma. He followed her everywhere. He besieged her with bouquets, letters, and songs. One night he set forth,

and stood in a severe shower beneath her window.

с

Giovinetto cavalier! sung out Giulia from an attic window. This was enough for Stefano. He thought he was in high favour, and the next idea was to sing with her on the stage. This was a hope, however, too brilliant to be fulfilled. 'Oh, how blessed an existence,' he thought, 'to sing, to act, to feel that idealised brief life of the stage, true to one's own heart!' He went to the impresario. Pisani was a courteous and kind Italian. He would do his possibile to get him a place in the chorus; the opera in preparation was the Barbiere. Well, he might stand beneath Rosina's window, and sing among the tenors.

Oh, obbligato, mille grazie! cried Stefano. And he went off as happy as if he had just found fifty pounds in his empty pockets.

For those who like it, it is a charming thing singing in a chorus: to the real lover of the stage, to the real denizen of the green room, this will be easily explained. To feel that one forms one billow of that tide of music,-to feel that one is joining in the ruling passion of a multitude, and making one's own noise besides, all this combines to create an elevated feeling of enjoyment and delicious excitement. The eventful rehearsal came. Into the dim, dark, nasty theatre, walked Stefano, very triumphant. There stood the pale, ill-washed chorus; the dirty scenes; the disenchanted gardens of the Spaniard's home; and Ïolling on a chair, sipping eau sucrée, in a filthy white shawl, with an old handkerchief over her head, sat the Giulia, very tarnished and shabby, certainly. People who know nothing about these things are fond of saying and believing, that all the falsehood of the stage, all the vain trickery of the performers, cure the too-ardent admirer in the morning of the passion that he felt at night in an illuminated theatre. This is far from being altogether true. On the contrary, to some minds the slovenliness of a great performer becomes a superb mystery, when from that cloud of physical drawbacks emerge in power the grandeur, the unique talents, the charms of genius and beauty. Thus felt Stefano, when, after contemplating in silence the baggy outline of the great signora's

head, the orchestra struck up the air she was to introduce as the famous music lesson. It was ill-played: the fury started up. She threw off her head-dress and dashed it to the ground; tore open her shawl to give her arms fair play; then, with a roll of music as a wand of witchery and command, she came forward, and there stood revealed la dea di tutti cor. Subtle as quicksilver, her voice twisted through the intricate fioriture of her song. The air seemed illuminated in Stefano's eyes by the delight that he felt. How he envied the tenor! Even the Barber's part would have been something. Well, he would be patient, and sing his best. That very Thursday he finished my adagio. He wrote me down on paper, but I was voiceless as yet almost. He could only sob me out, poor Stefano! at intervals. He was unfortunately situated. Ah, Stefano, you and I should have existed in the golden days of the song-loving Past, -in Greece, when the lyre gave life, love, and livelihood! Stefano was poor to misery, very much in love, and only in the chorus at a very low engagement. These were depressing circumstances.

A fortnight after, Stefano received an intimation from the impresario that Don Basilio was sick, and that he might take his part for that night. Stefano was half-crazed with delight: he was getting on in the world. That evening he wrote down the brilliant passage in my third page; he polished my new cadenza, and added a chromatic flourish to my recitative. I was daily improving

now.

That evening Stefano was in good voice. He had risen to the dignity of an actor, and Giulia spoke to him; and he stood at the side of the stage, listening enraptured to the mellow tones of love-making on the stage. He was not jealous of the tenor, for he had a squint and a large family. And then it was so charming the way that Giulia came forth, to curtsey with enchanting coquetry, and sing, in round, crisp tones, her Buona sera, buona sera, as he retreated, bowing truly in spirit to her. Then he was asked to supper, and he went. It was an extremely lively and amusing meal; light wines, and light laughing, and light talking: very

pleasant for Stefano, who had never before felt so great a man. When he came home, I lay sulking in a drawer. I was pitched too high for him that night.

The next day Stefano twanged away at the guitar songs of successful love: foolish things, how I hated them! silly addresses to Nice, mio ben, and idol mio. In my silent, tragic greatness, I lay, and could have gnashed my notes for fury. Well, well, my time was coming. Stefano scraped together all his money to purchase a pearl ring, and he sent it to Giulia. She put it on her lovely little finger, and she acted Ninetta that night. Stefano sang the part of Pippo faute de mieux, in the way of a contralto. It was at a small Italian theatre, and Giulia was only rising into fame. He got through it wonderfully well, and acted the part in the most impassioned manner.

That evening he told Giulia that he would die for her. She thought the compliment well chosen, and returned it with stating that she meant to live for him. Oh, those light stage vows and green-room promises! Well, this was the state of affairs for one fortnight; they acted together, and never better than one evening, the last but two of their engagement. The walls of the town were chalked all over with homage to Giulia : Eterno onore all' immortale sirene! Divina Giulia! and a few other such truisms.

Two idle young Englishmen came to Ferrara. What was to be seen? 'Oh, horrid place!-ducal palaceParisina-wicked woman-poem by Byron, and all that sort of thing.'

There's an opera,' said Lord Vane; 'let's go.'

6 Ah! what is it?'

'Semiramide-Giulia.'

with an ill-conditioned turban on her head, for Arsace; but regal was the love-making of Giulia. And how grandly did she summon the Assyrian courtiers to do their homage to her! Giuri, a sommi dei. There was a superb trannyy in her cadences and imperial embellishments. Stefano gloried in her every note; there was not a brighter face than his in the theatre. It was a sight of rapture and triumph to him, that rapture in the triumph of another that has not even the restlessness of vanity to irritate and mar its enjoyment.

Giulia yet stood in her crimson robes and diadem when Lord Vane addressed her. He spoke French and Italian beautifully. The Italian, subtle from the time that she had cut her first tooth, soon saw and enjoyed the admiration of one man and the frantic jealousy of another. Next evening a diamond ring effaced the pale pearl one on her hand; the engagement at the theatre was prolonged for an additional week. The English milor and his admiration of the prima donna was no secret subject of conversation; cruel vanity and heartlessness shone in the fiery glances of Giulia. It was

one evening, the last of the stay of the opera troupe, that Stefano made his way alone into the presence of Giulia. It was after the performance. She had gone home to her lodgings, and it was late when Stefano rushed up the stairs that led to her apartment. He knocked hurriedly.

Chi c'è? said the sweet treble voice.

Son io! shrieked Stefano, as he burst in. He laid hold of her, and shook her till her teeth chattered, then fell down on his knees, and rolling himself on the ground, made abject protestations of despair and devotion.

Prendi l'anel ti dono, said Giulia, retreating with a scornful grin, and tossing his ring in his poor face. He seized it, and bit the slight gold circlet in two.

Mangi pure, said the malicious

woman.

With a scream he seized hold of her, and clasped her in his arms,— Eh m' ami ancora, dimmi che m' ami.