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, "G. COLMAN, jun."

"21st March, 1791, St. Alban's Street."

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. received from Mr. Harris for my author's nights and copyright of "Wild Oats," 450 guineas.

I

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,
Hic 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

happy style; he ran on sprightly and with nearly a laughing face, like a friend who enters hastily to impart to you some good news. Nor did he disappoint his audience: he sung and accompanied himself on an instrument, which was a concert in itself he was, in fact, himself his own band. A few lines of speaking happily introduced his admirable songs full of wit and character, and his peculiar mode of singing them surpassed all I had ever heard. Dibdin's music to the Padlock, the Jubilee, the Waterman, the Quaker, &c. was most successfully productive.

My first sight of Dibdin was in 1762, when he acted a conjurer in a pantomime at Covent-Garden. And in 1781, Dr. Arnold introduced one of his airs in my "Dead Alive." My words are, "See the blossom of Spring," and it is sung by Edward. The original was in Garrick's "Jubilee," the words "Flow on, silver Avon."

On the English army going to the Continent in 1793, under the command of the Duke of York, I wrote a musical afterpiece, called "Sprigs of Laurel," founded on the circumstance of a sentinel in St. James's Park quitting his post, and running over Westminster Bridge, to join the detachment ordered to embark for Holland. Mr. Harris, being out of town, had not seen the dialogue at this time; but on my mentioning the subject in a letter to him, he desired me to write the songs and send them without delay to Shield, and that he would bring out the piece immediately. He did so. Johnstone and Incledon, as my Rival Soldiers, were most capital, and sung their favourite dialogue duet of "Sally in our Alley;" to which I wrote new words "I like each girl that I come near." Mrs. Mountain was very well in Mary; Mrs. Martyr spirited in George Streamer, the little midshipman; and Munden highly diverting in the most impudent, bold, audacious character that I think ever appeared before any audience-hight Nipperkin. Mr. Harris gave me fifty guineas for this piece; and I knew nothing of its having been published until I saw a printed book of it lying on his table at Knightsbridge. Even in this step my kind friend had my future interest warmly in view, and made every enquiry how it could be presented by myself to the Queen, to whom I had dedicated it; but, such a measure being found contrary to etiquette, I invented an etiquette of my own. I had a book of the "Sprigs of Laurel" royally bound; and having sealed it up in due form, directed it to Her Majesty the Queen, and booked it at the White Horse Cellar, to go by the Windsor coach. I comforted myself with the thought, through the whole of this business, that I had done what was consistent with the duty of a good and faithful Irish subject, who could write an opera in compliment to her son, the royal commander-in-chief, and had twopence in his pocket to pay for the booking.

I had another copy bound in blue and gold, in honour of the Navy, designed for the Duke of Clarence, which I sent to him by another sort of vehicle-the little hand of his Royal Highness's eldest son. In 1798 Lieut.-col. George Fitz-Clarence was a fine, promising little boy, and to him I gave my "Sprigs of Laurel," (no inauspicious gift to the future_soldier,) when running round and about my parlour at Teddington Common.

About this time my old friend Quick brought me to see Gainsborough Dupont, the portrait-painter, at his house in London-street, Maryle

bone. Mr. Harris had employed him to paint, for himself, the principal performers of Covent Garden theatre, in their most distinguished characters. In the front room were many portraits in different states of forwardness. The Right Hon. William Pitt was on the easel; Governor Hastings standing on the floor; and against the wall Quick, in Spado, with his little pistol, which he calls his barrel-organ, in his hand. On the door of the back drawing-room opening, I was surprised, and a little shocked, to see the room darkened, (day-light shut out,) and lighted by a large lamp hanging from the centre of the ceiling; there stood a man half naked, a ghastly figure, with a blanket round him, staring wildly, holding a pole in his stretched-out hand. This was Holman, in the character of Edgar, mad Tom; Gainsborough Dupont painting him. I heard it was the custom of the latter to paint much by lamp-light.

The coast of Dorsetshire, which I had visited in the summer of 1791, (and of which visit of seven weeks I kept a regular written journal) furnished me, in character and incidents, with some new ideas towards a comedy for the Haymarket. I sent it to Mr. Colman, who accepted it. His letter to me on the occasion was cordial and friendly:

"Mountains, May 30, 1793.

"My dear O'Keeffe,-Many thanks for your very pleasant last act, which you have concluded with wondrous expedition. You have given me so good an example of speed, that I have this morning sent the whole comedy to the transcriber, and I will read it in the Green Room as soon as I get my company together.

"Yours hastily and truly,

"GEORGE COLMAN, Jun."

This comedy was my "London Hermit, or Rambles in Dorsetshire." Parsons, at the last rehearsal, clapped me on the shoulder, and said,— "Take my word for it, my boy, this will be as great a favourite as any that ever came from your comical pate." And in Toby Thatch he did his best to verify his prophecy. I had the pleasure of dining that day at the house of Mr. Michael Kelly, at the top of Suffolk-street on the right hand; and after a cheering day of good humour, crossed over to the theatre to be present at my Hermit's reception in London. I was in the front of the house, but not in view of the audience, and it began so tame and civil, though I thought I had wound it up to the full stretch of a laughable pin, that I was frightened, and made my way down to get behind the scenes. But before I reached the wings, my gladdened ears were stunned by loud bursts of laughter from every part of the house. Tully was on; and in that character my friend Johnstone was quite at home. Mr. Colman came to me behind the scenes, and in a friendly, cordial manner said," O'Keeffe, you bear your blushing honours thick upon you." His words were true enough, and no frost since came to nip them; for the play was acted twenty nights, which for a short summer-season is a great run.

Lewis went to see it, and remarked to some of his friends in the box with him," Of all the characters I ever witnessed, I should like to act that of John Grum." It is to be observed, that the said John Grum has not a line to say in the whole comedy. My Orator Mum in "The Son-in-law," was thought to be an ingenious kind of a monosyllable