demanded something enormous for the manuscript, which was of course refused, and the "Generous Lover" was never either acted or printed. This ill success at starting sent the young dramatist back again to his pencil for a season, but still he was always about the stage, and if he could not as yet write a farce, he could paint a scene, and that seems to have satisfied him quite as well. He has accordingly collected many anecdotes connected with the Irish theatricals of that period. There seems to be a fate over the treasury of the green room. The following seems

to be a good receipt for making it solvent at times:

At a period when the payments were not very ready at the Smock-alley treasury, one night Mossop, in Lear, was supported in the arms of an actor who played Kent, and who whispered him," If you don't give me your honour, sir, that you'll pay me my arrears this night, before I go home, I'll let you drop about the boards." Mossop, alarmed, said, "Don't talk to me now." "I will," said Kent, "I will; I'll let you drop." Mossop was obliged to give the promise, and the actor thus got his money, though a few of the others went home without theirs. Such the effect of a welltimed hint, though desperate.—vol. i. pp. 158, 159.

Yet no very extravagant consumption of the "ways and means," it seems, could have been charged at least to the property-man of the theatre. What would the actors of our day say to a

painted supper?

The author of "High Life below Stairs" was Mr. James Townley, a clergyman. I knew his son, a celebrated miniature painter, and an acquaintance of my brother's. When this piece was played in Dublin, Knipe, remarkable for saying smart things, and who also liked "the joys of the table," feasted by anticipation on the good roast fowl, and bottle of wine, at the supper in the last scene; but the property-man who provided it, was of the saving cast; Knipe stuck his fork into the fowl to dissect it with carving skill, it was a piece of painted timber! He filled his glass, as he thought, with wine, it was mere coloured element! "Ha!" said he, "instead of our bottle and our bird, here is a fine subject for a landscapepainter, wood and water."—vol. i. p. 160.

By the way, this "High Life below Stairs," is said to have been the operator of a very considerable change in the highest life above

stairs.

< Previous to the coming out of "High Life below Stairs," in London, the upper gallery was free for the servants of those who had places in the boxes. The whole race of the domestic gentry, on the first night of this excellent little piece, were in a ferment of rage at what they conceived would be their ruin; and from the upper gallery, to which they were admitted gratis, came hisses and groans, and even many a handful of halfpence was flung on the stage at Philip and my Lord Duke, and Sir Harry, This tumult went on for a few nights, but ultimately was a good thing for all theatres, as it gave Garrick, then manager, a fair occasion to shut the galleries from the servants, and ever after make it a pay place, which to this day it has continued.'-vol. i. pp. 161, 162.

&c.

The following incident, though trivial enough, is characteristic of all the parties. The debtor was the well-known Bob Mahon, a singer and dancer.

'One evening, a young Irish gentleman (the eldest son of a peer) and I had proposed to take our glass at Billy Donnelly's, the Three Nags' Heads, in Essex-street; but neither of us being much stocked with cash, he recollected that last week Mahon had bought a horse from him, and never paid him for it: "And there he is now," said Frederick, "at Ryan's, in Fownesstreet, with Lord Muskerry and Lord Clanwilliam, and Lord Kildare. Come, Jack: oh, I'll go and talk to him about that." We went to Ryan's; stood in the hall, and had Mahon called out to us by the waiter, when my companion said to him, " Bob, why don't you pay me for my horse?" 66 Oh," said the other, " you know very well I will pay you; but I have not the money now.” "Pon my word, this is fine! You owe me twenty guineas for such a capital brute, and here I'm not able to get the money from you. You've some cash about you now, surely." Mahon put his hand in his pocket, and took out some silver: " Why, yes, I've eight and eightpence." "Give me that," said Frederick; he took it: Mahon returned to his gay party, and the young nobleman and I had our cheerful bottle at The Nags' Heads.'-vol. i. pp. 174-176.

Mr. O'Keefe omits to inform his readers, in what capacity he became so intimate with almost all the theatrical people in Ireland, at this period of his life. He does not tell us whether he was manager, actor, or scene painter; and yet we find him traversing the country in the train of various itinerant companies, and doing the offices of a factotum. We are glad to find that, even in that situation, he was not without the means of ornamenting his supper with a bottle of claret.

'I got to Belfast on Christmas night, and at Adrian Van Brackley's, the Donnegal Arms, I ordered the waiter to bring me a quarter of a hundred of oysters, having heard that those of Carrickfergus were remarkably fine; the waiter answered-" I'll bring you half a dozen, Sir, if you please." I thought this an impertinent observation to limit my supper, and told him to do as he was desired. "Well, Sir," said he, with a bow, and a smile, "I'll bring you half a dozen, and then if you want any more, you may have them." He brought in a large dish, and on it six oysters, each shell above nine inches diameter; the oyster lying on it, looked like a little boiled chicken. Here was good claret, and excellent quarters for the night: the glass of claret was to be had at that period, (and perhaps at this), at every thatched ale-house all over the kingdom.'-vol. i. pp. 200, 201.

It is worth observing, that a traveller in Ireland, even to this day, will get a bottle of wine at any country inn there, where it can be had at all, infinitely superior to any that he will encounter at the rural hotels of this country. The Irish rustic innkeepers are not yet versed in the process of adulteration. And yet such was their profit upon wine formerly, that, as our reminiscent relates, they seldom charged for dinner when claret was ordered. Tempora mutantur.

We had a superb dinner, and our landlord brought into us, in each hand, a magnum bonum of prime Latôre in the bill no dinner was charged, and, on our insisting on paying it, the jolly host exclaimed, in compliment of me his namesake, "O hone! nothing for eating."

The following instance of Irish politeness is irresistible. We must suppose the party on the Limerick road.

To perform our journey, Brereton and I had a handsome post-chaise, our driver a smart, clever, intelligent youth. When we arrived at the inn at —, our landlady coming through the passage to receive us, with curtseying formalities, our post-boy walking on before us; she looked at him, exclaiming "Why, Tim, you devil, and do I at last see you sober!" He, with his hat in his hand, made her a low bow, and said, “ Madam, do, and I wish I could return the compliment." But such jokes are common among all ranks of Ireland.'-vol. i. p. 226.

you

"The

Our author appears to have finally taken up his residence in England in 1781: seven years before that period he had married a Limerick lady, who died in 1813. They had two sons and one daughter, of whom the latter alone at present survives. His only dependence for support was on his pen; and one of his first essays was his "Tony Lumpkin in Town," as a sequel to Goldsmith's comedy of " She Stoops to Conquer." William Lewis told him it was not worth two-pence; but George Colman (not the younger) then manager of the Haymarket, produced it at his theatre, with some degree of success. O'Keefe's next production was "The Son in Law," a two act opera, which was also prosperous. Dead Alive," "The Agreeable Surprise," "The Castle of Andalusia," and a whole catalogue of operas, comedies, farces, and pantomimes, too numerous to be mentioned, followed, of which some are popular even at this hour, many were consigned to a premature end, and a few were never permitted to see the room. They form in all a list of sixty-eight pieces. Of the whole, "The Castle of Andalusia," and "Wild Oats," are unquestionably the best. Yet it would be absurd to place the former high in the rank of operas, or to assign to the latter any considerable station among our comedies. O'Keefe was lucky in the period at which he wrote a period during which, with the exception of "The School for Scandal," "The Rivals," and "The Duenna," nothing was produced that posterity will think worth remembering.

green

About the year 1781, our author's sight began to fail him, and after resorting to the usual remedies, he found them of no avail. He attributes this misfortune to his remaining in damp clothes on one occasion for three or four hours together. If we understand him rightly, he has never been wholly deprived of light; but his orbs are so dim, that he cannot read, or distinguish even large objects that are quite near him. Since that period, his compositions have been written by an amanuensis to his dictation, and no doubt it is to the comparatively solitary mode of life which he was com

pelled to lead, after suffering this great privation, that we are to ascribe the scantiness and dullness of the materials, which he has here collected together, particularly in the second volume. One or two anecdotes are all that we can select from it. The first he relates as an instance of the inconvenience to which his notoriety as a dramatist sometimes exposed him.

'In the Autumn of 1785 I was asked to a venison feast, to meet a large company of convivial, pleasant, and distinguished persons. It was at a house near the corner of Gerard-street, almost opposite Newportalley. My brother brought me there, and with him came a Reverend acquaintance, a young Prussian clergyman: from my dramatic successes the whole party were inclined to think me an acquisition to their society: there were some of the first performers present, and some small wits, and large wits and literati. The joke and glass and song went round, and many wished to speak to me, and I to speak to them; but, through the wonder and high admiration of the Prussian clergyman, I was made a complete nullity, and almost sent to Coventry; for, when I attempted to speak, he placed himself in an attitude of vast attention, and called out in an audible voice and foreign dialect;-" Mind, all be silent!" This produced much mirth: and if any of them made an attempt to speak to me, he winked and grimaced, and in a half-whisper said, "Let him alone, let him alone! he has a tought-let him alone!" This was one of my grand vexations of celebrity. King was of this party, also Charles Bannister and his son, Edwin, Moody, Baddeley, &c. John Bannister, that excellent actor and worthy man, enlivened the company with giving his imitations, but my busy, wonder-struck Prussian clerical, with his great delight in my high reputation, deprived me of the pleasures of the day.'-pp. 104 -106.

The following account of Macklin's last appearance on the stage, excites a painful interest.

k

'Macklin's last attempt on the stage was Shylock: he came ready dressed for the character into the green-room, where all the performers were assembled and prepared: looking round, he said, "What, is there a play to-night?"-All were astonished, and no one answered. He repeated, "Is there a play to-night?" Portia remarked; “ Why, Sir, what is the matter? The Merchant of Venice,' you know." "And who is the Shylock?" asked Macklin.-" Why you, Sir, you are the Shylock.""Ah!" said he, am I?" and sat down in silence. Every one was much concerned and alarmed; however, the curtain went up, the play began, and he got through the part with every now and then going to the side of the stage, lifting up his hairs with one hand, and putting his ear down to the prompter, who gave him the word; he then walked to the centre of the stage and repeated the words tolerably well: this occurred often through the play, but sometimes he said to the prompter--" Eh, what is it? what do you say?" The play was got through, and from that night Macklin's great talents were lost to the public. For some time before his death, he never went into a bed, but slept in an elbow-chair. He died at his house in Covent-Garden, the right-hand corner of Tavistock-court.' -pp. 321, 322.

VOL. III.

2 A

We have already alluded to the education of the author's children. One of his sons died young. The other, Tottenham, was sent to the college du Plessis, belonging to the University of Paris, and his daughter to the convent of St. Anstreberte, at Montreuilsur-mer. This happened, he says, in consequence of affairs entirely private, and strictly domestic.' The children were of course necessarily educated in the religion of France, yet no explanation is given of the fact, that Tottenham, after returning from that country, took his degrees at Exeter College, Oxford, and was ordained priest by the bishop of Chichester. He was appointed chaplain to the Duke of Clarence, and went to Jamaica to obtain a very excellent living,' where he died in 1804, three weeks after his arrival, and in the twenty-eighth year of his age. The obscurity in which the author has left this subject gives room to the inference, that in the case of this youth, religion was made a matter of mere traffic. Mr. O'Keeffe appears to have spent the latter part of his life at Chichester. Two small annuities which he purchased, one from Covent-Garden, and another from an insurance office, together with a royal pension granted him in 1808, which in the present year was augmented by a grant of one hundred guineas a year from his Majesty's privy purse, have, we are happy to say, placed our dramatist in a situation of comfort as to pecuniary matters. His daughter still continues to cheer his declining day, and though we have been unable to praise his 'Recollections,' yet it is with the most perfect good will that we wish him a long continuance of his present health and happiness. Of the bounteous consideration of the King towards him, there can be no second opinion. It was an act every way worthy of his Majesty's benignant heart.

ART. III.

Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany. By the Author of "Recollections in the Peninsula," &c. 8vo. pp. 400. 12s. London. Longman and Co. 1826.

ON opening this volume we immediately recognized the fascinating pen, to which we are indebted for several delightful evenings. "The Story of a Life," would have been of itself a sufficient passport to our approbation, but when to this we added our own recollections of the author's "Recollections in the Peninsula," of his "Sketches in India," and of his "Scenes and Impressions in Egypt and Italy," we were fully prepared to expect a treat from his Ramble in Germany, and found in it every thing that we had a right to look for. No new cities, no strange productions, no extraordinary landscapes indeed remained in Germany to be described. All that was engaging in its genius and literature, had been rendered familiar to us by Madame de Stael, and every thing which an intelligent and acute mind could think concerning its political condition and civil constitutions, had been fully and ele