INTERROGATIVE SYSTEM OF STUDYING HISTORY.

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THE publishers of Dr. Goldsmith's Abridgments of the Histories of Greece, Rome, and England, and Simpson's History of Scotland,* with the addition of the latter gentleman's Interrogatories, have submitted a copy of each of these works for our inspection; and they are entitled to our approbation of the style in which these excellent books are got up. It has been said, and from very high authority, that a better knowledge of history cannot be obtained than through the simple and engaging abridgments of Goldsmith, which, while they are as entertaining as story-books, are almost as faithful as proofs of holy writ." The editions of Oliver and Boyd differ from preceding ones, by the text being divided into sections, and by a series of questions at the close of each section. Of this latter department, which appears to be Mr. Simpson's share of the works, and which he has performed with considerable acuteness and judgment, we shall only remark, that the system is rapidly rising into notice; and our readers, we are sure, will estimate it with that regard it deserves, when they are informed that it met with the approbation of the celebrated Priestley, and was the favourite medium of instruction pursued by the late Mrs. Barbauld.

THE DRAMA.

"
CRITIQUE ON THE NEW OPERA OF TARRARE,'

At the English Opera House.

THIS is an attempt, and, if we may except Artaxerxes, the only one this country ever made of introducing on a stage dedicated to the legitimate drama, a recitative opera. Our readers are, by this time, most likely aware of the favourable impression it has made on the public; for our own part, we confess, we do not think it so deserving of the popularity which it has obtained. Operas have been too long considered as merely vehicles for the introduction of music; and as such, most mercifully excluded from the pale of dramatic censorship, and never was this indulgence more needed than on the present occasion. The drama, or that portion of the piece which serves to connect the music, is a reduction from the five acts of Beaumarchais; and is, without exception, the most insipid dose the lover of music was ever compelled to swallow. We have, as usual, a tyrant, with a bass voice, and a still baser disposition; a hero, who bravuras when he ought to fight; captive heroines, who sing like canary-birds in gilded cages; and seemingly interminable trains of processions, priests, and choristers; with the agreeable variety of an occasional explosion, a treasonable plot, or a hair-breadth escape. So much for the drama-Now for the music: and, we must confess, we feel inclined to despatch that in an equally irreverent style. It resembles too much the general character of the

* Edinburgh Oliver and Boyd, Tweeddale House.

piece, more showy than magnificent-more dazzling than effective. There appeared a painful straining after effect throughout the whole; and, although a fortunate situation occasionally occurred, no strongly marked impression was visible amongst the audience. Perhaps the sight, dazzled with the continual glittering of the scenery and dresses, might have communicated a sensation of weariness to the rest of the faculties. If an indubitable touch of beauty vibrated, (and we candidly admit there were not a few,) it saluted the ear, more like the remembrance of a favourite sound, than a new and unfelt impulse. No trouble or expense appeared to have been spared, in rendering the opera attractive. The generality of the scenery was extremely splendid, and the costume discovered unusual liberality and fidelity. Nor was the eye to be gratified alone, the ear had its proportionate claims fulfilled. Most of the songs were given by the performers on their knees, one or two on their backs; and in order, either to heighten the effect, or to convey the pious minstrel nearer to the sphere she was addressing, Miss Goward, as priestess of the oracle, was actually lifted up by four lusty fellows, on a large four-legged stool, to pour forth an invocation to heaven! The following is part of an address she previously sang on her knees, which affords a favourable specimen of the words, we cannot say poetry of the songs, throughout the piece :

Beneficent Power,
Oh, graciously shower

On this mighty empire, thy mercy divine ;
Its armies protecting,
Their leaders directing,

Her deliv'rance effecting,

Let victory's radiance on Atar still shine.

It would be injustice to close our remarks, without acknowledging the eminent style in which the performers acquitted their tasks.-Braham seemed fully determined to convince his hearers, that if they felt inclined to believe that his powers were on the decline, he was as ready to prove that they were as ripe as ever. We never remember more enthusiasm produced by his unrivalled voice, than in the song, "When peace has spread, with lib'ral hand;" the transition from the soft hushing notes of the commencement, to the glowing and energetic call to the battle field, was exquisitely fine. The audience were so thoroughly electrified, that not a breath appeared drawn but his, and scarcely waited the conclusion, before they gave vent to their clamorous delight. The song was called for three times, and the call was obeyed with alacrity. A young lady made a successful début, as the heroine of the piece; her voice is more shrill than powerful, and yet has considerable sweetness : practice will give her command; and we have no doubt that she will prove an effective acquisition.

Miss Paton's mellow notes and varied intonations, joined to her lively acting, considerably relieved the occasional tameness of the piece; while a new candidate for public fame, of the name of Thorne, went through his share of the songs with considerable approbation. The piece was given out for repetition, without, what the newspapers call, a "dissentient voice." We presume, from the circumstance of the audience having yawned so much, that their jaws would not permit them to hiss.

A TALE OF MYSTERY.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Hamlet.

A

Ir was on a gloomy evening in the latter end of October, 1810, that I happened to be left, about an hour before midnight, almost alone, in one of the public rooms of the principal hotel in Mantua. The apartment was spacious, and its emptiness made it appear still more so. man, seemingly of abstemious habits, whose garments were somewhat the worse for wear, and whose general appearance was much below that of the company by whom the house was usually frequented, was my only companion. The fire was expiring, and the candles cast a dim and uncertain light around the room. I had been turning over the gazettes which lay scattered on the table, and began to think of retiring; I made an attempt to look out of the window, but the night was pitchy dark, and no object was discernible, save the lamps attached to the public buildings in the street, whose faint glimmer only served to render the "darkness visible." I sank back on my seat by the dying embers, and perplexed myself with weighing in my mind the comparative advantages of departing to my lodgings, or remaining at the hotel for the night. The clock struck, and I found that it wanted only a quarter of an hour to "the witching time." The stranger had not yet spoken, nor did I feel any inclination to break the silence. At length he ejaculated somewhat abruptly—

"I think, sir, that in the debate which took place this evening, you inclined to the opinion of Signor Ripari ?" There was something in his manner, and the tone of his voice, betokening a superiority of character which could scarcely have been looked for in a person of his external appearance.-I answered him in the affirmative.

"You cannot, then," pursued he, "be induced to believe, that departed spirits have the power of returning to earth, and rendering their presence perceptible to human beings like ourselves." I certainly do not presume to assert," rejoined I, "that such a revisitation is beyond the limits of possibility, however improbable I may deem it."

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"True—argument is against the hypothesis."

“I know of but one in favour of it," I observed, "and that is the general belief of all ages and all nations in the re-appearance of the dead."

"I do think," rejoined he, "that the position acquires much strength from such an argument, considering the uninformed state of the early inhabitants of the world-their confined powers of reasoning, and superstitious ignorance;-their astonishment at many operations of Nature, which, in these days, excite no surprize, may account, in some degree, for a notion which, when once conceived, would be eagerly embraced and widely disseminated; argument therefore, I repeat, is entirely at variance with the credibility of the opinion."

"In that case," said I, "the question must be considered as settled; MAGNET, VOL. IV. PART XXV.

U

for by what means, except by argument, can such inquiries be prosecuted ?"

"You do not, of course, consider arguments, or the conviction arising from them, as the only sources of belief?"

Certainly not belief may originate in numerous causes-moral conviction may result from one's own personal experience."

"It is upon that very cause that I ground my belief in the reappearance of departed spirits."

"Then you are a believer? But do you think that the testimony of another's experience can overcome the improbability of the alleged circumstances--the more especially as the pretended beholders of apparitions are generally weak and ignorant persons, who are likely to be the victims of delusion and imposture?"

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Passing over the incorrectness (rejoined my opponent) and the sophism of the argument, you would insinuate that your remark is founded on an assumption unauthorized by any expression of mine.""But where ?-how ?"

"When I spoke of experience, I meant to say nothing of the experience of others; the kind of testimony to which you allude is therefore entirely out of the question.'

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"You do not surely speak from your own experience?”

A faint smile played on my companion's features as he repliedWhy not?"

I started with unfeigned surprize." You have been favoured then with a communication with the world of spirits?

"I have."

"When-where-how?"

"The narrative would be tedious," rejoined he, "but, if you feel disposed, you shall yourself know as much as I do."

"That is to say, you possess the power of calling these mysterious phantoms into your own presence and that of others."

"Follow me, and convince yourself," added he, rising from his chair as though about to depart. He lingered, as if in expectation that I should accompany him.

I feigned a laugh, protesting that my faith in his power was not sufficiently firm to induce me to leave the house at so late an hour.

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True," answered the stranger, "it is late-past midnight. You doubtless intend to pass the night here, and I will therefore bid you farewell;" and bowing with great politeness, he was gone before I could add a word in reply.

A singular and spleenful feeling of discontent annoyed me at this moment; I was vexed that I had suffered him to depart without having first prevailed upon him to satisfy my curiosity, and I lamented that I had lost such an opportunity of extending my knowledge beyond the limits of the visible world. It may appear singular to my readers, as it has done to me since, that I entertained no doubt of the truth of what my companion had asserted; I did not think of it as a statement, the reality of which remained to be established, but received it and acted upon it as an undisputed fact. Yet I had only his bare word for so wonderful, and, apparently, incredible a tale. He was a perfect stranger to me, and our connexion with each other had arisen from one of the

most common-place casualties of human life-a mere accidental meeting in a coffee-house. So it was, however, I believed implicitly in what I had heard. I retired to bed-sleep I had none, unless a disturbed and feverish dozing can be so entitled. The image of my new acquaintance was continually before my eyes, and grisly phantoms seemed to dance around me. I tossed from one side of my bed to the other, unrefreshed, and full of excitement and anxiety. I strained my eyes to catch the first gleam of the returning light of day, and when, after a lapse of many tedious hours, it at length broke into my room, I sprang from my restless couch, dressed myself, and rousing the servants to let me out, rushed into the street. Why I did so I can scarcely tell; for I had, of course, but small chance of discovering an individual of whose name, situation in life, and place of residence, I was equally ignorant, by traversing the streets before day-light, and when scarce a soul was abroad, save those with whom it would be neither safe nor agreeable to meet. The sun arose, and cast a pale and sickly glare through the dank vapours which covered the city, and hung in dim masses around the buildings. The air was raw and cold, the pavement was wet, and covered with filth of every description. The houses all shut up, looked dismal and repelling, and I experienced forcibly those painful sensations arising from but my readers can doubtless imagine the feeling, it is therefore unnecessary for me to enter into any minute description of it. I counted the dull moments as they passed, until I was at length relieved by the hum of artisans and labourers preparing for their daily occupation, and the approach of hucksters from the adjoining suburbs, with their asses laden with fruit and vegetables for the market. The unaccountable depression of my spirits subsided as the stir and bustle of the awakening day increased. I traversed the streets with eager and impatient steps, examining every countenance I met, in the hope of recognizing my companion of the preceding evening.

I internally reproached myself for my carelessness in having neglected to make myself acquainted with his name and place of residence, and hastened back to the hotel to remedy the omission, by making inquiries concerning him of the waiters. They, however, knew as little about him as I did myself. They remembered having seen him; but of his name or place of abode, they knew nothing whatever. I hastily dispatched my breakfast, and again set out upon my wanderings. At length, when the eagerness of my researches had wearied and irritated me, I was crossing, in great haste, one of the squares of the city, when I suddenly encountered the mysterious stranger. I felt, I knew not why, half ashamed of acknowledging the motive which had induced me to seek him. I recounted to him the manner in which I had passed my time since we parted, and we then talked upon indifferent subjects.

"And so," said he, at length, after a pause of some duration in our conversation, "you have risen before day, and have walked about till noon, to meet with a man, with whom, when you have found him, you have no further business than to inform him how diligently you have sought him!"

I blushed and hesitated he smiled as he spoke, and this circum