the torment of rude children, and the folly of "sparing the birch and spoiling the child." Nor are such pettish snarling attacks confined to the children; all her acquaintance come in for their share. She is the censor-general of fashions and of morals, of caps and carriages, of bonnets and behaviour: not that she always ventures to be directly personal; a diatribe on an abstract proposition will equally serve her turn. If a lady's stays happen to be cut low, she wonders how modest women can bring themselves to the fashion of showing their bosoms to every jackanapes. If the vicar rides a good horse, she falls upon the category of sporting parsons; or if he preaches morality, she hints that a little dogma in the pulpit will sometimes do no harm.

Among better-bred persons, ill-humour of course does not wear this extreme shape of impertinent selfishness; it is softened down and subdued by an acquaintance with good company. But where it exists, it finds a no less effective vent in that morgue, which is equally annoying, whether it arise from an affectation of unbending dignity, or of threepiled sanctity. The assumption of state-airs in the bosom of the domestic circle is a remain of feudal barbarity. In no country was it more rigid, or more durable than in England. Formerly children were not suffered to eat at the same table, or to sit in the presence of their parents; and much of the spirit of such institutions is preserved in our modern habits, through the incurable ill-humour of the heads of families. The father sits in the midst of his little ones, wrapped up in a silent abstraction, and represses by a frown or a rebuke every approach to affectionate familiarity; while the mother incessantly reminds her daughters that "when she was a girl, she was not permitted to do" this and the other. This carriage towards the objects of affection is utterly incompatible with cheerfulness; and where the feeling exists, cannot be maintained. But by far the most frequent refuge of genuine ill-temper is found in a pretence to a sanctimonious rigour of exterior, in a scrupulosity of piety, which looks down on music, abhors dancing, and holds every idle word or unquestioned thought as a sin of the blackest die. A watchful look-out after the soul's health of others, is the most plausible pretext imaginable for tormenting and harassing; and a zeal for religion affords a decent excuse for every peevish inroad upon the cheerfulness of society. Que ferons-nous de nos domestiques ce carême ?" said a French female pietest to her friend; and the answer was, "Nous les ferons jeuner.' Too much of this spirit, it is to be feared, lurks at the bottom, not only of the domestic dullness of the over-righteous, but of our public invasions of the Sunday cheerfulness of the lower orders and if we are indeed, as we pretend, the most religious people of Europe, it will be well if our piety does not in some degree proceed from our being the most ill-humoured. Certain it is, that whether we look into the parlour, the nursery, or the saloon, whether we examine the dinner-party or the family-circle, whether we follow the people into their domestic interior, or accompany them in their public amusements, there is in England infinitely less cheerfulness, good humour, and ease in the social intercourse of the people, than are to be found in the society of any other of the European nations. M.

Lady Morgan's "France."

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LIFE OF JOHN O'KEEFFE.

ABOUT this time I was invited by Lord Barrymore to partake of merry meetings at his house at Weybridge, where was a great assemblage of title, fashion, and beauty; but my unfortunate pair of eyes, even at that period, made me so awkward with strangers, both to them and myself, particularly since I had lost my brother Daniel,-(he died in 1787 of a consumption)-that, with thanks to Lord Barrymore, I declined going, and left them to their private theatricals, in which I heard afterwards they succeeded admirably. Indeed, many years before, when I was young, and my sight perfect, I did not accept a similar invitation to Shane's Castle, county Antrim, about one hundred miles from Dublin, given me by John O'Neil (afterwards Lord O'Neil, killed in 1798, in the national ferment); for I ever thought that playing before a private audience is more terrific than starting out on the public stage.

The world was now full of the political changes in France, of which, before they rose to such horrors, persons of good sense, humane intentions, and perfect friends to monarchy, did not think much amiss; and I was induced to compose a drama which I worked up on the subject of the Man in the Iron Mask, and a regular story with correspondent incidents, local customs, characters, dialogue, and song. I was enabled to do this well from original materials, and genuine anecdotes, supplied me by my son and his French tutor, L'Abbé Halma, who had at this time (1789), by my desire, brought him over from Paris; my daughter having the year before been fetched over to me from France, and its horrors, by her governess. My son Tottenham had seen the cannon go by to batter the Bastile, and heard the terrific explosions, and the appalling shouts of the people. He and the Abbé were ear and eye-witnesses of many of the circumstances, which I brought into this piece of mine, and called "The Grenadier." I gave it this name from a grenadier of the National Guard having been the first to mount the wall and enter the Bastille; but when the flame of liberty in Paris seemed to be converted into hell-fire, and patriotic men into demons, Mr. Harris very prudently thought it advisable not to touch upon the subject; and though the scenes were painted, the music composed by Shield, and the piece rehearsed several times, we went no further with it. I printed it, however, in my four volumes, as a curiosity replete with authenticated information.

Among other English friends who called on my son when at the college du Plessis, Paris, was Mr. Palmer, of Bath, who gave him a guinea, with sterling gold advice. When he had recovered his English, and exchanged his high-fashion Paris costume for sober dress, I placed him at Westminster School, under Dr. Vincent, who the same day put him into the upper fifth form. When the boys at Westminster School played "King John," he performed Constance. He afterwards took his degree of A. B. at Exeter College, Oxford, was ordained deacon by Dr. Pretyman, Bishop of Lincoln, priest by Dr. Buckner, Bishop of Chichester, appointed chaplain to His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence, went to Jamaica to obtain a very excellent living, and died

* Continued from vol. xvi. page 572.

July--VOL. XVII. NO. LXVII.

с

*

there of the fever, three weeks after his arrival, in the 28th year of his age. Such was the rapid career in life of my son, whom from his own bias to a military life and early French education, I had designed for the Austrian service: this intention was frustrated by the French Revolution.

I take this occasion to thank Heaven for many many happy moments during the course of a long life; but I can say with sincerity that some of the happiest were, when I heard my son preach his first sermon in Teddington Church, Middlesex, the pulpit lent him for the occasion by the Rev. Philip Mackenzie; and when my daughter Adelaide read to me for the first time (and I was the only person who ever heard the MS. read), her "Patriarchal Times," and her "Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra."

But to return to my own career. I went hard to work upon a fiveact comedy, which, when completed, I called "Wild Oats." Having sent the MS. to George Colman the younger, I received from him the following letter:

"Dear O'Keeffe,-There is no resisting your unmerciful mercy. You may depend upon the epilogue. I have read your Wild Oats,' which I think very, very pleasant: I have no doubt of its success, and may venture to wish you joy beforehand. Your's truly,

"21st March, 1791, }

St. Alban's Street."

"G. COLMAN, jun."

It was brought out for Lewis's benefit-night, and his Rover and Mrs. Pope's Lady Amaranth met the full approbation of the sanguine author. Wilson's John Dory, and Munden's Ephraim Smooth were a capital treat, and all the rest of the performers did their very best. I received from Mr. Harris for my author's nights and copyright of "Wild Oats," 450 guineas.

In 1770 I first saw Miss Young (afterwards Mrs. Pope); she came over with Macklin to Dublin, and played both in tragedy and comedy: she was universally admired and respected. Her Lady Amaranth, in my Wild Oats," was excellent: her invariable method was to read over to me the parts I purposely wrote for her, before she acted them. Edwin and William Lewis pursued the same plan, and I think it a very good one for audience, actor, and poet.

The same season I brought out at Covent Garden, "Modern Antiques, or the Merry Mourners ;" and by the golden coin this favourite piece turned into the treasury, I did not regret that I had made Quick the fiddle of it: though I had screwed up the pegs higher than usual, not a string snapped to the end of the jig.

I next formed the plan of a grand piece in two parts, instructive and entertaining, which I called "A Pageant; or the Rise and Progress of the English Stage," (even anterior to the Mysteries and Moralities) down to the time of Garrick, capable of every display in music, splendour, machinery, &c.; and consisting of incidents founded on facts of the drama, with dialogue and song, and a magnificent show of kings, princes, cardinals, poets, with clowns and jesters. It cost me the labour of many months, and Mr. Harris approved of it, but was afraid of the expense, besides the great number of supernumeraries it would require. (This is one of the nine pieces sold to Mr. Harris for my annuity of twenty guineas on Covent-Garden Theatre.)

I was at Esher when Captain Wathen was playing my "Agreeable Surprise," and "Son in Law," at his Theatre at Richmond; and the younger Mr. Colman, to prevent this, brought a cause into the court of King's Bench. Mr. Erskine was counsel for Colman, and Mr. Law for Wathen. Lord Kenyon was on the bench. I was on the floor, as witness. Mr. Law, whose face was close to mine, had the music-book in his hand, and read in a full kind of burlesque style the ridiculous burden of one of Lingo's songs,

"Tag rag merry derry perriwig and hatband,
Hie hoc horum genitivo."

"Mr. O'Keeffe, did you write these words?"—I suppose I looked rather grave and foolish at this instance the learned gentleman's selecting nonsense in preference to Eugene's song of "My Laura, will you trust the seas," or Laura's words of

“The tuneful lark, as soaring high

Upon its downy wings,

With wonder views the vaulted sky,
And mounting sweetly sings.
Ambition swells its little breast
Suspended high in air;

But gently dropping to its nest,
Finds real pleasure there."

It would not have been amiss if the learned counsel on the other side the question had read this latter song from the same music-book. Lord Kenyon, however, immediately relieved my embarrassment by observing, "Oh, that is nothing, Shakspeare, for his clowns, had recourse to the same humourous expedient." The row of barristers close behind where I stood, took the hint from the bench, and in my hearing, in conversation with each other, were very liberal in their compliments to me. Mr. Erskine read letters between Messrs. Colman and Wathen, the captain saying, that "Lingo was a hobby of his,”—and the manager in reply "But you should not take a hobby out of my stable."

Such legal preventatives often produce whimsical circumstances. A country manager, many years ago, took upon himself to bring out Macklin's "Love A-la-mode," at his theatre; upon which Macklin wrote him word that, if he attempted to do so, he would send him sheets of parchment that would reach from Chancery-lane to the next gooseberry bush the nearest verge of Yorkshire, to John O'Groat's house. The manager's answer to Macklin ran thus-" Your Love A-la-mode,* Sir! I'm not going to play your Love A-la-mode; I'll play my own Love A-la-mode: I have twenty Love A-la-modes. I could write a Love A-la-mode every day in the week, I could write three hundred and sixty-six Love A-la-modes in a year."

The reason of Macklin's tenacity with respect to his play was, his never having sold the copyright to any one, and he never had it printed: therefore, whenever it was acted in England, Scotland, and Ireland, his terms were, half the profits over the nightly charges, and he always played in it himself. When he came to rehearsal, his method was to take his MS. from the breast of his great coat, where he had buttoned it up, put it into the hands of the prompter, and, rehearsal done, walk quietly over to him, saying, "Give me that,"-take it from

the prompter's hand, button it up close again in the breast of his coat, and walk out of the house, to his own lodgings.

Macklin was tenacious, and very properly so, of the performers throwing in words of their own. Lee Lewis one morning at CoventGarden, at the rehearsal of "Love A-la-mode," in which he played Squire Groom, said something which he thought very smart. "Hoy, hoy!" said Macklin, "what's that?"-"Oh, replied Lee Lewis, "'tis only a little of my nonsense."-" Ay,” replied Macklin, "but I think my nonsense is rather better than yours; so keep to that if you please, Sir." Though so particular in drilling the performers at rehearsals, aware of the consequence of irritability, he kept his temper down; an instance of this happened one morning at rehearsal,-one of the performers got tired with over-particularity as he called it, and said to Macklin "Why, this is worse than the Prussian exercise!" Macklin, after a pause, looked at the refractory actor, and said, "Suppose we all go and sit down a little in the green-room?"--He walked in, and they followed; he sat down, and they seated themselves; he then took out his watch, looked at it, and laid it on the table, "Now," said he, "we 'll just sit here an hour." The performers, knowing his great money-drawing importance, acquiesced, and kept rather an awful silence. The hour being expired, he took up his watch, "Now," he said, “we are all in good humour, and we'll go upon the stage and begin our rehearsal." This circumstance took place in Capel-street theatre. Dawson was manager, and was heartily glad that Macklin could be induced to continue on his boards, as all the boxes were then taken for twelve nights of Macklin's performance. When the evil effects of hasty anger approach, the consequences of which may be irretrievable, it would be no harm, if people could suppress their own feelings, even for Macklin's green-room hour.

Before I dismiss my old friend, I must give an immortal record of his opinion of the good people of the sod. He and I were walking through the Little Green, in Dublin, (at that time the market for fruits and vegetables). He seemed much pleased with the good humour of the sellers: "Ay," said he, "they 're comical and goodnatured, and readywitted, and obliging-that is, I mean, what we call the lower order; but you never can get a direct answer from them." “Oh,” I said, "that's not fair, put your question first."-" Well," said Macklin, coming up to an old woman who had a basket of vegetables before her, "what's the price of that cauliflower?"-" That cauliflower!" said she, taking it up in her hand, "Sir, that's as fine a cauliflower as ever was seen, either in a garden, or out of a garden."-" Well, but what's the price of it?"-"The price! the devil a prettier cauliflower could you see of a long summer's day."-" Well, it's pretty enough, but what's the price of it?"-"What's the price of it! arrah Sir, you may talk of tulips, and roses, and pinks, and wallflowers, and gilliflowers, but the flower of flowers is a cauliflower."- "But why not tell me the price of it?"—"Ah, you'll not get such a cauliflower as this, Sir, all over. the market-here feel the weight of it, Sir." "There O'Keeffe," said Macklin, "if you had laid a wager with me that I could get a direct answer when I put a question to them, you'd have lost it."

In 1792, I saw Charles Dibdin's (Sen.) entertainment in the Strand. It was most excellent: his manner of coming upon the stage was in a