sincere recommendation-that they should yet present their volume to the world in the usual manner. A few verbal corrections and improvements in the style, without altering the simple and unaffected form of their narrative, are alone wanting to befit the book for general publication; and the greater part of its matter is abundantly attractive. The concluding letter of the volume, however, which details their movements after arriving at Acre, on their departure from Palestine, might, perhaps, be curtailed without injury. Having passed by sea from Acre to Constantinople, they crossed over to Scutari, and made the traverse of Asia Minor to Chelindreh, where a dangerous fit of illness, by which Captain Mangles was attacked, obliged them to embark, first for Cyprus, and from thence to return to Europe. This itinerary of Asia Minor has afforded us not a single point for observation; and we are of opinion that its omission would advantageously reduce the bulk of the volume. ART. II. Recollections of the Life of John O'Keeffe, written by himself. 2 vols. 8vo. 17. 8s. London. Colburn. 1826. It is by no means a pleasant task to pronounce in the spirit of justice upon these memoirs. They are the recollections of an old man, and of a writer who for many years furnished the town with farce, comedy, opera, and pantomime, one of the best retailers of small jests, in his day; and withal, a mild, and, as far as we know, a benevolent and very worthy private individual. He has, moreover, during the greater part of his lengthened years, been subject to that most pitiable of all human diseases, blindness; and if to this it be added, that he belongs to a school of literature somewhat less fastidious than that which now prevails, and that his leading foible is to speak of himself, or rather of his works, and to hear them praised, we, perhaps, shall be accused, if we abstain from saying at present all that we think of the production before us. At the same time, it is but proper to confess, that these recollections have greatly disappointed us. We had fully expected to find in them, an equal companion to the Memoirs of Kelly, and of Reynolds, anecdotes of theatrical persons and occurrences, and a peep now and then behind the curtain of the great stage of life, which might afford some degree of entertainment, if not of instruction. Two volumes more perfectly innocent of either one or the other, have never, perhaps, been displayed to the world. There is hardly one anecdote in the whole collection that will bear repetition. The details which the author has thought proper to give us of his early life, of his dramatic career, and of his latter years, are really the most trivial, not to say silly that ever appeared in print. He tells us not only of his boyish studies and exercises, but describes his school-room, and even the forms on which the pupils sat in it, with the nicest minuteness. He thinks the mere circumstance of his walking down one of the streets, and meeting a friend, of so much importance, that he mentions it at full length, together with the conversation that may have been carried on upon the occasion, And then, when the whole is told, we find that we have been held, as it were, by the button-hole, to listen to a person whom nobody cares one farthing about, and whose talk is an absolute bore. So multitudinous and petty are the paragraphic items with which the author has filled up his volumes, that we were quite surprised, on arriving at the last page, at not finding copies of his accounts with his washerwoman and milkman, for they would have occupied at least some dozen pages, and would most assuredly have furnished matter quite as amusing as any other twelve pages of the work. Yet, perhaps, it may appear strange enough, that with all his prolixity, Mr. O'Keeffe has given us few materials, by which we might be enabled to form our estimate of his personal character. We do not at all blame him for passing as lightly as possible over certain circumstances of his domestic history, as we think that the public have no right whatever to be admitted, even to a dramatist's fireside, unless he chooses to throw it open to them. Yet, when a man sits down to be his own biographer, he ought at least to give something like a semblance of himself in his composition. We do not mean to say, that it is absolutely incumbent on him to draw his own character in set phrase, and to particularize his daily habits. But he should disclose those features of his life which chiefly served to characterize it; and he should enable the reader on closing the sketch to say, that it afforded him some idea of the dispositions of the writer. These are the real links by which our sympathies answer to one another. We are generally more interested in knowing how a man feels, than how he thinks. We may admire his wisdom, and respect his talents and acquirements, but it is only when his heart pours out its emotions, that our own becomes engaged in listening to him. Mr. O'Keeffe has studiously avoided letting us into any part of his personal history, which could interest his readers at all in this respect. His 'Recollections' are for the greater part less connected with his own life, than with the lives of others. His topics are thrown together without the least regard to chronological order, or even to arrangement of the subject matter. After relating an incident that occurred late in the present century, he thinks nothing of going back without the least notice, to the year 1760 or 1770, or of setting down something that occurred in 1800. It is, perhaps, natural enough, that recollections' should be desultory, as the memory itself, which holds them, is a strange and fitful faculty. But assuredly, after being secured from its power by the aid of an amanuensis, they might have been put together without exhibiting the appearance of a mere fantastic medley. Although our author has been known to the public only as a dramatist, yet it appears that in his early youth he was destined, both by his own inclination and that of his parents, to be a painter. He was born in Dublin, (24th of June, 1747), and when little more than six years of age, he was placed at the best drawing academy in that city. Greek, Latin, and French, he acquired at the school of a master, whom he calls Father Austin.' He does not mention the religion in which he was educated; but from the circumstance of his being taught by Father Austin, from his family connections, as well as from his having his own children educated in France, at Roman Catholic institutions, we presume that he was of that persuasion. We do not mention this circumstance as one into which we or any other person can have any right to inquire, but it will be seen that the author had a motive in suppressing it, and that it is one amongst the numerous instances of want of candour, for which these memoirs are distinguished. He seems to have imbibed an early turn for the drama, from reading the plays of Shakspeare, Old Ben, Congreve, and others. He flatters himself too, that he had also an original propensity to poetry, and thus boasts of his first tribute to the muses. 'The first time that a youthful poet sees himself in print, is assuredly an epoch unparalleled. When I was very young, there was a favourite song written by Cunningham, the pastoral poet, called "Winter." I took a fancy to write about "Summer," and sent it with my initials to a Dublin newspaper. The next day, calling on an acquaintance of mine, William Stuart, who was articled to an attorney in Bolton-street, Dublin, I knocked at the door instantly the parlour or office window was flung up, and my friend thrusting his head out with the most perfect expression of joy and congratulation, exclaimed, " Jack, your song is in the paper!" he then opened the door and shewed it to me. I remember only eight lines of it: "When wanton the cattle bound over the lawn, Or luxuriantly roll on the grass, Madam's dickey*, as white as the plumes of the swan, When the sweet country maiden, as blithe as the morn, And the farmer with pleasure surveys his green corn, Whilst the promising crop makes him smile," &c. 'The song of Winter had a pretty tune, and we used to sing it in our convivial parties; but when my "Summer" appeared, the boys in preference sung that often asking me-" Jack, didn't you write the answer to Winter ?" “To be sure I did," was my consequential reply: I was then *A lady's white dimity petticoat. surveyed from head to foot with admiration; every youth was proud of my acquaintance; and many of them, with a hornpipe shuffle of the foot, would turn from me, singing, "When wanton the cattle, &c."-vol. i. pp. 64, 66. These lines certainly do not exhibit the most favourable example of the inspired strains of a writer, who frequently speaks of himself with the greatest complacency as a poet.' Yet we think that they would bear a comparison with most of the songs and poems, which he wrote at the most mature period of his life; for whatever may be his merit as a dramatist, his verses, whether married to music, or consigned to a state of single blessedness, appear to us generally to be exceedingly meagre particularly his birthday odes, which we are rather surprised he did not permit to slumber amongst his suppressions. He seems to have thought it incumbent on him to be particularly loyal-at least in versebecause, as he relates with great exultation, his first sight of London was from Highgate Hill, on the 12th of August, 1762, the day the Prince of Wales, his present Majesty George IV., was born.' He was not, of course, insensible to the great theatrical attraction of that day. During my two years' residence in London, I often saw Garrick; the delight his acting gave me was one of the silken cords that drew me towards a theatre. I liked him best in Lear. His saying, in the bitterness of his anger, "I will do such things-what they are, I know not," and his sudden recollection of his own want of power, were so pitiable as to touch the heart of every spectator. The simplicity of his saying, "Be these tears wet?—yes, faith," putting his finger to the cheek of Cordelia, and then looking at his finger, was exquisite. Indeed he did not get his fame for nothing. I saw him do Abel Drugger the same night; and his look of terror, where he drops the glass globe, drew as much applause from the audience as his Lear had done. Some years after, hearing Lord Mansfield on the bench, his voice and manner brought Garrick forcibly to my recollection.'—vol. i. pp. 81, 82. During this period, he also saw Jean Jacques Rousseau, in one of the upper boxes in Covent Garden. The philosopher, as is well known, wore an Armenian dress, a dark gown furred, and fur cap, and attracted, by his singularity of appearance, the eyes of every body in the house-a distinction which he dearly loved. Among the "lions" of the day, was Coan, the Norfolk dwarf, at Chelsea. 'He did not shew himself for hire, but kept a little tea-house, in what was then called, the Five Fields. He used to walk about on the tea-tables, among the cups and saucers, and so converse with the company, as they were sitting round sipping their tea, his face being on a level with theirs. He was sometimes dressed as a yeoman of the guard; at others, as a fine gentleman; was facetious and witty; his countenance pleasant and animated, and he was neatly formed. A sign of him was up at the house -on one side, he was in his yeoman's dress, on the other as the fine gentleman.'-vol. i, pp. 87, 88. "The Monument" would no doubt have perished had it not been visited by our young rambler. Strange to say, when he got to the top of it he had the courage to look down, and the Thames seemed like a small stream under him, the streets like saw-pits, and the people little things moving at the bottom of them! But an adventure much more wonderful than this still remains to be told. He went to see St. Paul's cathedral, and after encountering all the perils of the ascent, he enjoyed a sort of triumph, when he reached the golden gallery and looked round.' This, however, was not all. He continues- I had a parcel of walnuts in my pocket, and pelted them all off with my utmost strength, waiting the slow descent of each, thinking they would fall far off, into some of the adjoining streets; they actually fell within side of the railing of the church, which-proved to me the vast bulk of the building!!!' We now arrive at the top of the climax. In the whispering-gallery, the man used one of the tools of his trade, and told me had a hole in my stocking!!! How fortunate it is for posterity that Mr. O'Keeffe has so good a memory! Had he been defective in this faculty, the loss of the important information which he has preserved in these pages would have been irreparable. There are a few other facts related by our author equally worthy of living for ever. I recollect witnessing the blessed and heart-delighting ceremony of peace proclaimed at Temple Bar. I was close by the gate when the he ralds knocked at the outside!' At which side? This the author unhappily leaves to conjecture. 'I was in a coffee-house in St. Martin's-lane, on the very morning when No. 45 came out. The unconscious newsman came in, and, as a matter of course, laid it on the table before me.' Remarkable it is, that the newsmen of that day, like those of our own, happened to be no great judges of libels. About this time, (1764), I was a good deal at a house near Dublin, the residence of a gentleman, who had been an officer in the Austrian service.' Indeed! Well, this is wonderful! This is the sort of information which deserves to be classed among the most valuable recollections of ancient days. But, to his dramatic career. His first attempt was made at the early age of sixteen. It was a comedy, called "The Generous Lovers." He was, of course, ambitious to have it performed in London, and as he was at the other side of the water, he consigned the grand production to his brother, a miniature painter, then residing here. The limner, proud of the comedy, and imagining it to be vastly superior to anything of the kind that had ever before appeared, instead of presenting it to any of the theatres, went at once to "a tip-top" bookseller, and |