appear to have been written from higher motives
than to please playgoers. They were evidently
written to please himself.

THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN.

II. IN THE OLDEN TIME.

PLEASANT as are the "high jinks" of the
modern Dublin Court, they pale before its older
glories. Ireland a hundred and twenty years
ago was like a separate kingdom, and was
always spoken of as "this kingdom." Dublin
was some four days' journey from where there
were no accidents; but accidents were the
rule, and delays at sea and on the road made a
leisurely journey reach to a week. The fact of
there being a parliament, a House of Lords and
Commons, with a prime minister, a handsome
revenue, a Chancellor of the Exchequer to
regulate it, a set of brilliant debaters, the fame of
whose eloquence became almost European, and,
besides this, an "Irish establishment," that
is, a regular Irish army, raised and paid in
that kingdom—these were elements enough to
render the nation of an importance to which it
is pardonable its sons should look back to with
regret and pride. There was yet another
feature not quite so admirable, another sense for
what was called the "Irish Establishment,"
which bore lightly and cheerfully a load of
English pensions for German princes and German
mistresses, a "pension on Ireland" being the
favourite "job." It was only when this degrading
burden reached to between sixty and seventy
thousand a year, that the Irish Parliament
modestly but gently began to remonstrate.

To the readers of the old memoirs of those
days, what brilliant flashes come back! There
was plenty of money in the country, though the
peasantry was a miserable unenfranchised horde
of serfs; but the gentry and the nobility were in
their turn the unenfranchised serfs of pleasure,
building palaces worthy of Venice (and which
are now to be seen standing), dancing, fiddling,
gambling, drinking, and fighting, as a gallant
gentleman of those days should.

The grand cynosure of the Dublin Court was
the stage. Those were the happy days for both
theatres and actors, and with what happy effects
their patronage was attended may be conceived
from the splendid list of dramatic artists that
Ireland has produced. The names of Barry,
Macklin, Sheridan, Mossop, Ryan, Delane,
among the men, and of Woffington, Kitty
Clive, Mrs. Fitzhenry, Mrs. Bellamy, can
scarcely be matched in any country. One
hundred and thirty years ago there were four
theatres in that city, all handsome and elegant, one
of which now actually exists, and a portion of
the wall of another where Garrick played, but
helps to support a chapel, still stands.

We look back very far to the days of Lord
Chesterfield, the hollow polished nobleman—
yet not so false in Ireland—winning favour
in that country, making epigrams on the Irish
beauties, and "cultivating" Alderman Falkener.
It was in his reign that the great Mr. Garrick
paid his second visit to Dublin, and appeared
at the "Smock-alley" Theatre. The Viceroy
and his court were there every night, and his
excellency, the Dublin papers said, was pleased
to compliment Mr. Garrick rather extravagantly
as the greatest actor that had ever appeared on
any stage. Then was the Garrick fever brought
on by overcrowding in the boxes and
galleries, and the Dublin barrister, walking down to
court by a short cut, may thread his way
through the "Blind Quay," and the old, mean,
and wretched houses, then houses of persons of
quality, who must have been disturbed by the
block of carriages, and the flashing of torches,
and the shouts of footmen attendant on the
ovation to the great actor.

There was a pleasant gaiety, even an elegance,
in the relations of the noblemen and gentlemen
of this court. Amateur theatricals were all the
rage—a taste that has always prevailed in
Ireland. Each play was sure to be ushered in by
some elegantly turned verses from "an
eminent hand." Indeed, every gentleman was
trained to versify, and every compliment to
a beauty assumed the unsubstantial shape of
rhyme.

The professional poet, Churchill, took a savage
view of the most seductive place in the world;
as some cynic did in the following halting lines:

Masshouses, churches, mixed together,
Streets unpleasant in all weather,
The church, the Four Courts, and hell contiguous,
Castle, College-green, and custom-house gibbous.
Few things here are to tempt ye,
Tawdry outsides, pockets empty.
Five theatres, little trade, and jobbing arts,
Brandy and snuff-shops, post-chaises and carts;
Warrants, bailiffs, bills unpaid,
Masters of their servants afraid;
Rogues that daily rob and cut men,
Patriots, gamesters, and footmen;
Women lazy, drunken, loose,
Men in labour slow, of wit profuse,
Many a scheme that the public must rue it,
This is Dublin, if ye knew it.

A pleasant subject, of a gossiping sort,
would be the history of private theatricals, into
which the annals of the Irish private stage would
enter very largely. Every one has heard of the
Kilkenny theatricals, whose records are already
set out in a book of their own; but it is impossible
to peep into any social corner of Irish life
without getting a glimpse of the amateur stage
with lamps lit, and the noble ladies and noble
gentlemen in rich dresses, playing their parts.
Every old faded newspaper is full of complimentary
notices. One short specimen will show in
what "style" these things were done before the
Union. In 1793, a number of noblemen and
gentlemen took Malachy's Theatre, set Italian
artists to work, to paint and decorate. The
ceiling was gorgeous with Apollo, and
Tragedy and Comedy; mirrors were let in to
the pilasters of the boxes; the seats were all
upholstered in scarlet and fringe; the decorations
were all white and gold figures, with festoonings
of gold and crimson tassels; servants in gorgeous