again. I hope you mean to stay on the spot for some time, Sir Charles?

Sir Cha. A very tedious time. Three days, Mr

Warner.

Warner. Ah, good sir! things would prosper better if you honoured us with your presence a little more. I wish you lived entirely upon the estate, Sir Charles.

Sir Cha. Thank you, Warner; but modern men of fashion find it difficult to live upon their estates.

Warner. The country about you so charming! Sir Cha. Look ye, Warner-I must hunt in Leicestershire for that's the thing. In the frosts and the spring months, I must be in town at the clubs-for that's the thing. In summer I must be at the watering places-for that's the thing. Now, Warner, under these circumstances, how is it possible for me to reside upon my estate? For my estate being in

Kent

Warner. The most beautiful part of the county. Sir Cha. Psha, beauty! we don't mind that in Leicestershire. My estate, I say, being in KentWarner. A land of milk and honey!

Sir Cha. I hate milk and honey.

Warner. A land of fat!

of delight, love and campaigning! Hope you come to sojourn, Sir Charles. Shouldn't be always on the wing-that's being too flighty. He, he, he! Do you take, good sir-do you take?

Sir Cha. Oh yes, I take. But, by the cockade in your hat, Ollapod, you have added lately, it seems, to your avocations.

Olla. He! he! yes, Sir Charles. I have now the honour to be cornet in the Volunteer Association corps of our town. It fell out unexpected-pop, on a sudden; like the going off of a field-piece, or an alderman in an apoplexy.

Sir Cha. Explain.

Olla. Happening to be at home-rainy day-no going out to sport, blister, shoot, nor bleed-was busy behind the counter. You know my shop, Sir Charles -Galen's head over the door-new gilt him last week, by the by-looks as fresh as a pill.

Sir Cha. Well, no more on that head now. Proceed.

Olla. On that head! he, he, he! That's very wellvery well, indeed! Thank you, good sir; I owe you one. Churchwarden Posh, of our town, being ill of an indigestion from eating three pounds of measly pork at a vestry dinner, I was making up a cathartic

Warner. So woody!

Sir Cha. Curse the wood! No-that's wrong; for it's convenient. I am come on purpose to cut it.

Warner. Ah! I was afraid so! Dice on the table, and then the axe to the root! Money lost at play, and then, good lack! the forest groans for it.

Sir Cha. But you are not the forest, and why do you groan for it?"

Warner. I heartily wish, Sir Charles, you may not encumber the goodly estate. Your worthy ancestors had views for their posterity.

Sir Cha. And I shall have views for my posterityI shall take special care the trees shan't intercept their prospect.

Enter SERVANT.

Servant. Mr Ollapod, the apothecary, is in the hall, Sir Charles, to inquire after your health.

Sir Cha. Show him in. [Exit servant.] The fellow's a character, and treats time as he does his patients. He shall kill a quarter of an hour for me this morning. In short, Mr Warner, I must have three thousand pounds in three days. Fell timber to that amount immediately. 'Tis my peremptory order, sir.

Warner. I shall obey you, Sir Charles; but 'tis with a heavy heart! Forgive an old servant of the family if he grieves to see you forget some of the duties for which society has a claim upon you.

Sir Cha. What do you mean by duties? Warner. Duties, Sir Charles, which the extravagant man of property can never fulfil-such as to support the dignity of an English landholder for the honour of old England; to promote the welfare of his honest tenants; and to succour the industrious poor, who naturally look up to him for assistance. But I shall obey you, Sir Charles. [Exit. Sir Cha. A tiresome old blockhead! But where is this Ollapod? His jumble of physic and shooting may enliven me; and, to a man of gallantry in the country, his intelligence is by no means uninteresting, nor his services inconvenient. Ha, Ollapod!

Enter OLLAPOD.

Ollapod. Sir Charles, I have the honour to be your slave. Hope your health is good. Been a hard winter here. Sore throats were plenty; so were woodcocks. Flushed four couple one morning in a halfmile walk from our town to cure Mrs Quarles of a quinsey. May coming on soon, Sir Charles-season

but Lieutenant Grains, the brewer-sleek as a drayhorse-in a smart scarlet jacket, tastily turned up with a rhubarb-coloured lapelle. I confess his figure struck me. I looked at him as I was thumping the mortar, and felt instantly inoculated with a military ardour.

Sir Cha. Inoculated! I hope your ardour was of a favourable sort?

Olla. Ha! ha! That's very well-very well, indeed! Thank you, good sir; owe you one. We first talked of shooting. He knew my celebrity that way, Sir Charles. I told him the day before I had killed six brace of birds. I thumpt on at the mortar. We then talked of physic. I told him the day before I had killed-lost, I mean-six brace of patients. I thumpt on at the mortar, eyeing him all the while; for he looked very flashy, to be sure; and I felt an itching to belong to the corps. The medical and military both deal in death, you know; so 'twas natural. He! he! Do you take, good sir-do you take?

Sir Cha. Take? Oh, nobody can miss.

Olla. He then talked of the corps itself; said it was sickly; and if a professional person would administer to the health of the Association-dose the men and drench the horse-he could perhaps procure him a cornetcy.

Sir Cha. Well, you jumped at the offer?

Olla. Jumped! I jumped over the counter, kicked | down Churchwarden Posh's cathartic into the pocket of Lieutenant Grains' small scarlet jacket, tastily turned up with a rhubarb-coloured lapelle; embraced him and his offer; and I am now Cornet Ollapod, apothecary at the Galen's Head, of the Association Corps of Cavalry, at your service.

Sir Cha. I wish you joy of your appointment. You may now distil water for the shop from the laurels you gather in the field.

Olla. Water for-oh! laurel water-he! he! Come, that's very well-very well indeed! Thank you, good sir; I owe you one. Why, I fancy fame will follow when the poison of a small mistake I made has ceased to operate.

Sir Cha. A mistake?

Olla. Having to attend Lady Kitty Carbuncle on a grand field-day, I clapt a pint bottle of her ladyship's diet-drink into one of my holsters, intending to proceed to the patient after the exercise was over. I reached the martial ground, and jalloped-gallopped, I mean-wheeled, and flourished, with great eclat; but when the word 'Fire' was given, meaning

to pull out my pistol in a terrible hurry, I presented, neck foremost, the hanged diet-drink of Lady Kitty Carbuncle; and the medicine being unfortunately fermented by the jolting of my horse, it forced out the cork with a prodigious pop full in the face of my gallant commander.

[OLLAPOD visits MISS LUCRETIA MACTAB, a 'stiff maiden aunt,' sister of one of the oldest barons in Scotland.]

Enter Foss.

Foss. There is one Mr Ollapod at the gate, an' please your ladyship's honour, come to pay a visit to the family.

Lucretia. Ollapod? What is the gentleman? Foss. He says he's a cornet in the Galen's Head. "Tis the first time I ever heard of the corps.

Luc. Ha! some new raised regiment. Show the gentleman in. [Exit Foss.] The country, then, has heard of my arrival at last. A woman of condition, in a family, can never long conceal her retreat. Ollapod! that sounds like an ancient name. If I

am not mistaken, he is nobly descended.

Luc. I beg, sir, you will be seated.

Olla. Oh, dear madam! [Sitting down.] A charming chair to bleed in! [Aside. Luc. I am sorry Mr Worthington is not at home to receive you, sir.

Olla. You are a relation of the lieutenant, madam? Luc. I only by his marriage, I assure you, sir. Aunt to his deceased wife: but I am not surprised

very well indeed! Thank you, good madam ; I owe you one. Galenicals, madam, are medicines. Luc. Medicines !

Olla. Yes, physic: buckthorn, senna, and so forth. Luc. [Rising.] Why, then, you are an apothecary? Olla. [Rising too, and bowing.] And man-midwife at your service, madam.

Luc. At my service, indeed!

Olla. Yes, madam! Cornet Ollapod at the gilt Galen's Head, of the Volunteer Association Corps of Cavalry-as ready for the foe as a customer; always willing to charge them both. Do you take, good madam-do you take?

Luc. And has the Honourable Miss Lucretia

MacTab been talking all this while to a petty dealer in drugs?

Olla. Drugs! Why, she turns up her honourable nose as if she was going to swallow them! [Aside.] No man more respected than myself, madam. Courted by the corps, idolised by invalids; and for a shot-ask my friend Sir Charles Cropland.

Luc. Is Sir Charles Cropland a friend of yours, sir?

Olla. Intimate. He doesn't make wry faces at physic, whatever others may do, madam. This village flanks the intrenchments of his park-full of fine fat venison; which is as light a food for digestion

as

Luc. But he is never on his estate here, I am told. Olla. He quarters there at this moment. Luc. Bless me! has Sir Charles thenOlla. Told me all-your accidental meeting in the metropolis, and his visits when the lieutenant

was out.

Luc. Oh, shocking! I declare I shall faint.

Olla. Faint! never mind that, with a medical man in the room. I can bring you about in a twinkling. Luc. And what has Sir Charles Cropland presumed to advance about me?

Olla. [Aside.] The honourable! humph! a bit of quality tumbled into decay. The sister of a dead peer in a pig-stye!

Luc. You are of the military, I am informed, sir? Olla. He he! Yes, madam. Cornet Ollapod, of our volunteers-a fine healthy troop-ready to give the enemy a dose whenever they dare to attack us.

Luc. I was always prodigiously partial to the military. My great grandfather, Marmaduke Baron Lofty, commanded a troop of horse under the Duke of Marlborough, that famous general of his age.

Olla. Marlborough was a hero of a man, madam ; and lived at Woodstock-a sweet sporting country; where Rosamond perished by poison-arsenic as likely as anything.

Luc. And have you served much, Mr Ollapod? Olla. He, he! Yes, madam; served all the nobility and gentry for five miles round.

Luc. Sir!

Olla. And shall be happy to serve the good lieutenant and his family. [Bowing. Luc. We shall be proud of your acquaintance, sir. A gentleman of the army is always an acquisition among the Goths and Vandals of the country, where every sheepish squire has the air of an apothecary.

Olla. Madam! An apothe-Zounds!— hum!— He! he! I-You must know, I-1 deal a little in Galenicals myself [Sheepishly].

Luc. Galenicals! Oh, they are for operations, I suppose, among the military?

Olla. Operations! he! he! Come, that's very well

Luc. I have only proceeded in this affair from the purest motives, and in a mode becoming a MacTab. Olla. None dare to doubt it.

Luc. And if Sir Charles has dropt in to a dish of tea with myself and Emily in London, when the lieutenant was out, I see no harm in it.

Olla. Nor I neither: except that tea shakes the nervous system to shatters. But to the point: the baronet's my bosom friend. Having heard you were here, Ollapod,' says he, squeezing my hand in his own, which had strong symptoms of fever-' Ollapod,' says he, you are a military man, and may be trusted." 'I'm a cornet,' says I, and close as a pill-box.' Fly, then, to Miss Lucretia MacTab, that honourable picture of prudence

6

Luc. He! he! Did Sir Charles say that?

Olla. [Aside.] How these tabbies love to be toaded! Luc. In short, Sir Charles, I perceive, has appointed you his emissary, to consult with me when he may have an interview.

Olla. Madam, you are the sharpest shot at the truth I ever met in my life. And now we are in consultation, what think you of a walk with Miss Emily by the old elms at the back of the village this evening?

Luc. Why, I am willing to take any steps which may promote Emily's future welfare.

Olla. Take steps! what, in a walk? He! he! Come, that's very well-very well indeed! Thank you, good madam; I owe you one. I shall communicate to my friend with due despatch. Command Cornet Ollapod on all occasions; and whatever the gilt Galen's Head can produce

Luc. [Curtsying.] Oh, sir!

Olla. By the by, I have some double-distilled

ناة

Luc. Nay, I insist

Olla. Then I must follow in the rear-the physician always before the apothecary.

Luc. Apothecary! Sir, in this business I look you as a general officer.

upon

Olla. Do you? Thank you, good ma'am; I owe [Exeunt. you one.

The humorous poetry of Colman has been as popular as his plays. Of his Broad Grins,' the eighth edition (London, 1839) is now before us. Some of the pieces are tinged with indelicacy, but others display his lively sparkling powers of wit and observation in a very agreeable light. We subjoin two of these pleasant levities.

The Newcastle Apothecary.

A man in many a country town, we know,
Professes openly with death to wrestle;
Entering the field against the grimly foe,
Armed with a mortar and a pestle.
Yet some affirm, no enemies they are;
But meet just like prize-fighters in a fair,
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother:
So (many a suffering patient saith)
Though the apothecary fights with Death,
Still they're sworn friends to one another.
A member of this Æsculapian line,
Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne:
No man could better gild a pill,

Or make a bill;

Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head;
Or chatter scandal by your bed;
Or give a clyster.

Of occupations these were quantum suff.:
Yet still he thought the list not long enough;
And therefore midwifery he chose to pin to't.
This balanced things; for if he hurled

A few score mortals from the world,

He made amends by bringing others into't. His fame full six miles round the country ran; In short, in reputation he was solus: All the old women called him a fine man!' His name was Bolus.

·

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade

(Which oftentimes will genius fetter), Read works of fancy, it is said,

And cultivated the belles lettres.

And why should this be thought so odd?
Can't men have taste who cure a phthisic?
Of poetry, though patron god,

Apollo patronises physic.

Bolus loved verse, and took so much delight in't, That his prescriptions he resolved to write in't.

No opportunity he e'er let pass

Of writing the directions on his labels In dapper couplets, like Gay's Fables, Or rather like the lines in Hudibras. Apothecary's verse! and where's the treason? 'Tis simply honest dealing; not a crime; When patients swallow physic without reason, It is but fair to give a little rhyme.

Some three miles from the town, it might be four;
To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article
In pharmacy that's called cathartical.
And on the label of the stuff

He wrote this verse,

Which one would think was clear enough, And terse:

"When taken,

To be well shaken."
Next morning early, Bolus rose,
And to the patient's house he goes
Upon his pad,

Who a vile trick of stumbling had:
It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;
But that's of course;

For what's expected from a horse,
With an apothecary on his back?
Bolus arrived, and gave a doubtful tap,
Between a single and a double rap.

Knocks of this kind

Are given by gentlemen who teach to dance;
By fiddlers, and by opera-singers;
One loud, and then a little one behind,
As if the knocker fell by chance
Out of their fingers.

The servant lets him in with dismal face,
Long as a courtier's out of place-

Portending some disaster;
John's countenance as rueful looked and grim,
As if the apothecary had physiced him,
And not his master.

'Well, how's the patient?" Bolus said; John shook his head.

"Indeed!-hum! ha!-that's very odd! He took the draught?' John gave a nod. 'Well, how? what then? speak out, you dunce! 'Why, then,' says John, we shook him once.' "Shook him!-how?' Bolus stammered out.

known,

Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.
Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely,
Hired lodgings that took single gentlemen only;
But Will was so fat, he appeared like a ton,
Or like two single gentlemen rolled into one.
He entered his rooms, and to bed he retreated,
But all the night long he felt fevered and heated;
And though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,
He was not by any means heavy to sleep.

Next night 'twas the same; and the next, and the next;

He perspired like an ox; he was nervous and vexed;
Week passed after week, till, by weekly succession,
His weakly condition was past all expression.
In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt

him;

For his skin, 'like a lady's loose gown,' hung about him. He sent for a doctor, and cried like a ninny; 'I have lost many pounds-make me well-there's a guinea.'

The doctor looked wise; A slow fever,' he said:
Prescribed sudorifics and going to bed.
'Sudorifics in bed,' exclaimed Will, are humbugs!
I've enough of them there without paying for drugs!'
Will kicked out the doctor; but when ill indeed,
E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed;
So, calling his host, he said, 'Sir, do you know,
I'm the fat single gentleman six months ago?
Look'e, landlord, I think,' argued Will with a grin,
"That with honest intentions you first took me in:
But from the first night-and to say it I'm bold-
I've been so hanged hot, that I'm sure I caught cold.'
Quoth the landlord, Till now, I ne'er had a dispute;
I've let lodgings ten years; I'm a baker to boot;
In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven;
And your bed is immediately over my oven.'
'The oven!' says Will. Says the host, Why this
passion?

In that excellent bed died three people of fashion. Why so crusty, good sir? Zounds!' cries Will, in a taking,

'Who wouldn't be crusty with half a year's baking? Will paid for his rooms; cried the host, with a sneer, 'Well, I see you've been going away half a year.' "Friend, we can't well agree; yet no quarrel,' Will said;

'But I'd rather not perish while you make your bread.'

MRS ELIZABETH INCHBALD.

MRS ELIZABETH INCHBALD, an actress, dramatist, and novelist, produced a number of popular plays. Her two tales, The Simple Story, and Nature and Art, are the principal sources of her fame; but her light dramatic pieces are marked by various talent. Her first production was a farce entitled The Mogul Tale, brought out in 1784, and from this time, down to 1805, she wrote nine other plays and farces. By some of these pieces (as appears from her memoirs) she received considerable sums of money. Her first production realised £100; her comedy of Such Things Are (her greatest dramatic performance) brought her in £410, 12s.; The Married Man, £100; The Wedding Day, £200; The Midnight Hour, £130; Every One Has His Fault, £700; Wives as they Were, and Maids as they Are, £427, 10s.; Lovers' Vows, £150; &c. The personal history of this lady is as singular as any of her dramatic plots. She was born of Roman Catholic parents residing at Standy field, near Bury St Edmunds, in the year 1753. At the age of sixteen, full of giddy romance, she ran off to London, having with her a small sum of money, and some wearing apparel in a bandbox. After various adventures, she obtained an engagement for a country theatre, but suffering some personal indignities in her unprotected state, she applied to Mr Inchbald, an actor whom she had previously known. The gentleman counselled marriage. But who would marry me?' cried the lady. I would,' replied her friend, if you would have me.' 'Yes, sir, and would for ever be grateful'—and married they were in a few days. The union thus singularly brought about seems to have been happy enough; but Mr Inchbald died a few years afterwards. Mrs Inchbald performed the first parts in the Edinburgh theatre for four years, and continued on the stage, acting in London, Dublin, &c. till 1789, when she quitted it for ever. Her exemplary prudence, and the profits of her works, enabled her not only to live, but to save money. The applause and distinction with which she was greeted never led her to deviate from her simple and somewhat parsimonious habits. 'Last Thursday,' she writes, "I finished scouring my bed-room, while a coach with a coronet and two

footmen waited at my door to take me an airing.' She allowed a sister who was in ill health £100 ayear. Many a time this winter,' she records in her diary,' when I cried for cold, I said to myself, "but, thank God! my sister has not to stir from her room; she has her fire lighted every morning; all her provisions bought and brought ready cooked; she is now the less able to bear what I bear; and how much more should I suffer but for this reflection."' This was noble and generous self-denial. The income of Mrs Inchbald was now £172 per annum, and, after the death of her sister, she went to reside in a boarding house, where she enjoyed more of the comforts of life. Traces of female weakness break out in her private memoranda amidst the sterner records of her struggle for independence. The following entry is amusing: 1798. London. Rehearsing "Lovers' Vows;" happy, but for a suspicion, amounting to a certainty, of a rapid appearance of age in my face.' Her last literary labour was writing biographical and critical prefaces to a collection of plays, in twenty-five volumes; a collection of farces, in seven volumes; and the Modern Theatre, in ten volumes. Phillips, the publisher, offered her a thousand pounds for her memoirs, but she declined the tempting offer. This autobiography was, by her own orders, destroyed after her decease; but in 1833, her Memoirs were published by Mr Boaden, compiled from an autograph journal which she kept for above fifty years, and from her letters written to her friends. Mrs Inchbald died in a boarding-house at Kensington on the 1st of August 1821. By her will, dated four months before her decease, she left about £6000, judiciously divided amongst her relatives. One of her legacies marks the eccentricity of thought and conduct which was mingled with the talents and virtues of this originalminded woman: she left £20 each to her late laundress and hair-dresser, provided they should inquire of her executors concerning her decease.

THOMAS HOLCROFT.

THOMAS HOLCROFT, author of the admired comedy, The Road to Ruin, and the first to introduce the melo-drama into England, was born in London on the 10th of December 1745. Till I was six years old,' says Holcroft, my father kept a shoemaker's shop in Orange Court; and I have a faint recollection that my mother dealt in greens and oysters.' Humble as this condition was, it seems to have been succeeded by greater poverty, and the future dramatist and comedian was employed in the country by his parents to hawk goods as a pedlar. He was afterwards engaged as a stable-boy at Newmarket, and was proud of his new livery. A charitable person, who kept a school at Newmarket, taught him to read. He was afterwards a rider on the turf; and when sixteen years of age, he worked for some time with his father as a shoemaker. A passion for books was at this time predominant, and the confinement of the shoemaker's stall not agreeing with him, he attempted to raise a school in the country. He afterwards became a provincial actor, and spent seven years in strolling about England, in every variety of wretchedness, with different companies. In 1780 Holcroft appeared as an author, his first work being a novel, entitled Alwyn, or the Gentleman Comedian. In the following year his comedy of Duplicity was acted with great success at Covent Garden. Another comedy, The Deserted Daughter, experienced a very favourable reception; but The Road to Ruin is universally acknowledged to be the best of his dramatic works. This comedy,' says Mrs Inchbald, ranks among the most successful of

modern plays. There is merit in the writing, but much more in that dramatic science which disposes character, scenes, and dialogue with minute attention to theatric exhibition.' Holcroft wrote a great number of dramatic pieces-more than thirty between the years 1778 and 1806; three other novels (Anna St Ives, Hugh Trevor, and Bryan Perdue); besides a Tour in Germany and France, and numerous translations from the German, and French, and Italian. During the period of the French Revolution he was a zealous reformer, and on hearing that his name was included in the same bill of indictment with Tooke and Hardy, he surrendered himself in open court, but no proof of guilt was ever adduced against him. His busy and remarkable life was terminated on the 23d of March 1809.

JOHN TOBIN.

JOHN TOBIN was a sad example, as Mrs Inchbald has remarked, of the fallacious hopes by which half mankind are allured to vexatious enterprise. He passed many years in the anxious labour of writing plays, which were rejected by the managers; and no sooner had they accepted The Honey-Moon, than he died, and never enjoyed the recompense of seeing it performed.' Tobin was born at Salisbury in the year 1770, and educated for the law. In 1785 he was articled to an eminent solicitor of Lincoln's Inn, and afterwards entered into business himself. Such, however, was his devotion to the drama, that before the age of twenty-four he had written several plays. His attachment to literary composition did not withdraw him from his legal engagements; but his time was incessantly occupied, and symptoms of consumption began to appear. A change of climate was recommended, and Tobin went first to Cornwall,

and thence to Bristol, where he embarked for the West Indies. The vessel arriving at Cork, was detained there for some days; but on the 7th of December 1804, it sailed from that port, on which day-without any apparent change in his disorder to indicate the approach of death-the invalid expired. Before quitting London, Tobin had left the Honey-Moon' with his brother, the manager having given a promise that it should be performed. Its success was instant and decisive, and it is still a favourite acting play. Two other pieces by the same author (The Curfew, and The School for Authors) were subsequently brought forward, but they are of inferior merit. The Honey-Moon' is a romantic drama, partly in blank verse, and written somewhat in the style of Beaumont and Fletcher. The scene is laid in Spain, and the plot taken from Catherine and Petruchio, though the reform of the haughty lady is accomplished less roughly. The Duke of Aranza conducts his bride to a cottage in the country, pretending that he is a peasant, and that he has obtained her hand by deception. The proud Juliana, after a struggle, submits, and the duke having accomplished his purpose of rebuking the domineering spirit of her sex,' asserts his true rank, and places Juliana in his palace

This truth to manifest-A gentle wife Is still the sterling comfort of man's life; To fools a torment, but a lasting boon To those who-wisely keep their honey-moon. The following passage, where the duke gives his directions to Juliana respecting her attire, is pointed out by Mrs Inchbald as peculiarly worthy of admiration, from the truths which it contains. The fair critic, like the hero of the play, was not ambitious of

dress:

Jul. The blue one, sir?

Duke. No, love-the white. Thus modestly attired, A half-blown rose stuck in thy braided hair, With no more diamonds than those eyes are made of, No deeper rubies than compose thy lips, Nor pearls more precious than inhabit them; With the pure red and white, which that same hand Which blends the rainbow mingles in thy cheeks; This well-proportioned form (think not I flatter) In graceful motion to harmonious sounds, And thy free tresses dancing in the wind; Thou'lt fix as much observance, as chaste dames Can meet, without a blush.

JOHN O'KEEFE-FREDERICK REYNOLDS-THOMAS

MORTON.

JOHN O'KEEFE, a prolific farce writer, was born While studying the art of in Dublin in 1746. drawing to fit him for an artist, he imbibed a passion for the stage, and commenced the career of an actor in his native city. He produced generally some dramatic piece every year for his benefit, and one of these, entitled Tony Lumpkin, was played with success at the Haymarket theatre, London, in 1778. He continued supplying the theatres with new pieces, and up to the year 1809, had written, in Most of these all, about fifty plays and farces. and some of them enjoyed great success. The Agreewere denominated comic operas or musical farces, able Surprise, Wild Oats, Modern Antiques, Fontain bleau, The Highland Reel, Love in a Camp, The Poor Soldier, and Sprigs of Laurel, are still favourites, especially the first, in which the character of Lingo, the schoolmaster, is a laughable piece of broad intended to make people laugh, and they have fully humour. O'Keefe's writings, it is said, were merely answered that intent. The lively dramatist was in his latter years afflicted with blindness, and in 1800 he obtained a benefit at Covent Garden theatre, on which occasion he was led forward by Mr Lewis, the actor, and delivered a poetical address. died at Southampton on the 4th of February 1833, having reached the advanced age of 86.

He

FREDERICK REYNOLDS (1765-1841) was one of the most voluminous of dramatists, author of seventeen popular comedies, and, altogether, of about a for forty years in the capacity of what he called hundred dramatic pieces. He served Covent Garden thinker'—that is, performer of every kind of literary labour required in the establishment. Among his best productions are, The Dramatist, Laugh when you Can, The Delinquent, The Will, Folly as it Flies, Life, Management, Notoriety, How to Grow Rich, The Rage, Speculation, The Blind Bargain, Fortune's Fool, &c. &c. Of these, the Dramatist' is the best. The hero Vapid, the dramatic author, who goes to Bath to pick up characters,' is a laughable caricature, in which it is said the author drew a likeness of himself; for, like Vapid, he had 'the ardor scribendi upon him so strong, that he would rather you'd ask him to write an epilogue or a scene than offer him your whole estate-the theatre was his world, in