custom of stopping at the gate (which I cannot
pronounce), halted there, and that suddenly, on
a supposition, maybe, that the king's duty was
necessary to be loyally paid, to which he was
possibly daily accustomed, and to my astonishment
in the midst of horrors he pleasingly
surprised me by so doing, for he seemed equal to
any mad exploit whatever."

From the turnpike-man he got a glass of
water, and set off again " on the irregular paths
of Portsdown;" and here he naturally reckoned
the animal had " settled to reason," but on the
up hill, down dale, once more he began more
swift than ever. " For me to expatiate on the
wonders I this day performed in the noble art
of vaulting horsemanship might make young
Astley fearful of a rival, and dare me to a trial
of skill." It ended by horse and rider tumbling
down an uneven hill, and rolling over to the
bottom. A more humorous description, in
which there is quaintness, and naïveté, and
perfect candour, cannot be conceived. It makes
a very fair specimen of this curious actor's
memoir.

O'Keefe's recollections appeared in the year
1826, yet they struck back a marvellous
distance. He, too, only cares to tell what he saw,
and writes without that pomp of words and
affectation which is the blemish of the modern
personal memoir. He gives a series of little glimpses
of life a hundred years ago, which show us the
colours and dresses, as if painted pictures. He
saw the days of the old Dublin Theatre, when
old Lord Trimlestown was driving about in a
superb chariot painted over with " boys in the
Flamingo style," the gift of Marshal Saxe.
"Drapier's heads" were still the popular sign,
swinging over his head as he walked, and an
old Captain Debrisay walked about the street
"unremarked" in the dress of Charles the
Second's day. In London he saw the mob
attack the Moorish ambassador's house on
suspicion of his having put to death one of his
slaves, and beat him and his people all down the
Haymarket. He saw Churchill walking about,
"a large man of athletic make, dressed in
black, with a large black scratch-wig." He was
in a coffee-house in St. Martin's-lane one morning
when the newsman came in and laid No. 45
of Wilkes's North Briton on the table. Later,
standing at Charing-cross, he noted a tall slender
figure in a scarlet coat, large bag, and fierce
three-cornered hat, carefully picking his way
across the street through the mud. That was
"Jack Wilkes." But his picture of Ireland in
those days makes us sigh and look back wistfully.
There were no gipsies, no poor-rates, and no
pawnbrokers. The great pride of a countryman
on a Sunday was to have three or four
waistcoats. The milkmaid sang as she milked;
and if the song stopped, the cow began to kick
the pail. They all cut each other's turf, and
dug each other's potatoes, lending the car or
horse. The grand object was to have the
halfpenny of a Saturday night, the piper's fee, who
played for the jig. In Dublin, so eager were
the authorities to encourage the linen
manufacture, that the fees for the yearly carriage
licenses were set apart to buy spinning-wheels ;
and once a year these were set out at the top of
St. James's-street, and distributed gratis to
every one who came. These were charming
times, when " my lord's" or " the squire's" was
known as " the big house," and had its fool and
running footmen ; and O'Keefe often saw these
latter skimming along the road in a white
jacket, blue silk sash round the waist, black
velvet cap and silver tassel, a frill round the
neck, and a seven-foot staff, tipped with
silver, through whose aid they leaped the
ditches. Will those days ever come again for
ould Ireland ?

Curious in their own way are the strange,
rambling, vain, and vulgar recollections of Miss
George Anne Bellamy, daughter of Lord
Tyrawly. The centre of all is, of course, the
writer; but this becomes an end and aim to
which everything is distorted. Histrionic
vanity is a special department in the collection
of human weaknesses; yet, with this
disadvantage, her story is valuable and characteristic
from its sheer outspoken vanity, which overcomes
every inducement to affectation. We see
Garrick in his Dublin town playing at Smock
Alley Theatre, and the recherché of all
recherchés; we see " Peg" Woffington in the green-
room, and Miss Bellamy and that famous actress
"having it out" in a battle royal behind the
scenes about their dresses as the Rival Queens.
We see how, on benefit nights, the stage was
"built up" with an amphitheatre that reached
to the flies, so that when the curtain rose there
were nearly as many before the foot-lights as
behind. Thus the actor, to " come on," had to
force his way through a crowd at the wings;
and the charming Cibber, dying as Juliet, had a
whole crowd of admirers seated on chairs quite
close round the tomb. Did an actor drop his
hat or glove, a friendly spectator was seen to go
forward gravely and hand it to him. There was
no end to the conventional absurdities of the
stage in the last century. When the hero was
near his end, two of the stage servants appeared
with a small strip of carpet, which they solemnly
laid in the centre so that he might die in
comfort. But in the case of an inferior actor,
writhing and working in agonies, clawing and
tearing at the grand, as was then fashionable, it
was found that he had quite wrapped himself
up in his strip of carpet. " Gold tickets"—
happy days for actors! — were then in vogue,
every man of fashion who patronised the stage
sending his ten and twenty guineas on benefit
night. We see Doctor Young, Mr. Foote
(whom we see best of all in Mr. Forster's essay),
Sheridan the actor, Quin, " Counsellor Murphy",
Doctor Johnson, and a host more. The
King of Denmark came to see Jane Shore, and—
not so very unnaturally fell fast asleep. Then
the lively Miss Bellamy, putting extra energy
into her part, drew up close to his box, and
called out, " O thou false lord!" which roused
him, and amused the house. She passed
through the strangest vicissitudes; now, being