Gentle tales and observations by John O'Keefe.

**

John O’Keefe**

(1747-1833.)

John O’Keefe was born in Dublin, June 24, 1747. He was educated by Father Austin, and became a good classical and French scholar. He was at first intended for an artist and studied under Mr. West of the Dublin Royal Academy, but his study of the antique soon gave place to a love of modern comedy and the acting of private theatricals. In the summer of 1762 he went to London for two years, frequenting the playhouses and greatly admiring Garrick. In 1764 he returned to Dublin and shortly after began his career as a player and a dramatic writer.

He was engaged by Mossop, the Dublin manager, and continued acting for a dozen years, first in tragedy and afterward in comedy. In 1767 his farce of ‘The She-gallant,’ afterward called ‘The Positive Man,’ was produced by Mossop with success. Some years later he married, and in 1777 removed with his young family to London. Before this time he had written a kind of sequel to Goldsmith’s ‘She Stoops to Conquer,’ which he named ‘Tony Lumpkin in Town,’ and sent it anonymously to Mr. Colman, of the Haymarket Theater. In 1778 the play was produced there with considerable success.

O’Keeffe returned to Dublin in the spring of 1779, finished his comic opera of ‘The Son-in-Law,’ and sent it to Colman. It was produced at the Haymarket in August, 1779, and took the town by storm. It was as successful in Dublin. O’Keeffe soon after moved again to London, and devoted himself entirely to writing plays and farces, which flowed from his pen in quick succession; in 1798 he published a collection containing over fifty pieces.

His ‘Dead Alive ‘appeared in June, 1781, and was closely followed by ’ The Agreeable Surprise,’ the last written by his own hand, for he shortly after lost his sight and had to employ an amanuensis. In November, 1781, ‘The Banditti, a Comic Opera,’ was given at Covent Garden, and turned out a failure.

In March, 1782, ‘The She-gallant,’ under the title of ‘The Positive Man,’ was played at the same house, and in November of the same year ‘The Banditti’ was successfully revived under the title of ‘The Castle of Andalusia.’ In the same month ‘The Lord Mayor’s Day’ saw the light, and in February, 1783,’ The Maid is the Mistress’ was performed.

Plays followed each other in quick succession, O’Keeffe continuing to write for the stage until 1799. In 1792 he published ‘Wild Oats,’ which is considered one of his best plays. During the remaining years of his life several poems, fables, etc., of his appeared in different magazines, and in 1826 he published ‘Recollections of the Life of John O’Keeffe,’ in two volumes. In this year he was given an annual pension of one hundred guineas from the King’s private purse.

After more than forty years of blindness, borne cheerfully and uncomplainingly, he died at Southampton, Feb. 4, 1833. ‘O’Keeffe’s Legacy to his Daughters,’ a volume of poems and recollections, was published in the next year. **

A Budget Of Stories**

From ‘The Recollections of John O’Keeffe.’

No Snakes In Ireland

So perfectly unknown, even by *name, *are all venomous reptiles throughout our blessed Erin, that in one of Woodward’s pantomimes at Crow Street Theater, amongst the tricks was introduced an enormous serpent, which, in the business of the scene, was to move round the stage. This was effected by grooves, and the machinery gave the carpenters and scenemen a great deal of labor and vexation, for the serpent often stuck by the way. Three or four of these men practicing, but with little success, the best manner of making it glide about, one of them at length vociferated, “I wish the devil would eat this fish once out of this house! we have trouble enough with it, and all to get our good master, Mr. Woodward, plenty of hisses; and he will give us plenty of ‘boobies,’ and ‘blundering idiots,’ and ‘stupid fools!’ The devil burn or drown this great fish, I say.”

Auld Ireland

In my early times, all the great outlets from Dublin had, inside the hedges, parallel footpaths with the road; and the stiles, where the hedges divided the fields, were models for stiles all over the civilized world: they were formed thus: three steps, a small flat, and then a perpendicular narrow stone, about a foot high, which you stepped over on the other flat, and then three more steps on the other side, so that the milkmaid might poise her pail upon her head, and cross over the stile without fear of spilling her milk; and the old weary Boccaugh (beggar-man), and the poor woman bringing fruits and vegetables to market, might sit down and rest themselves. All through Ireland, whenever they see a good-looking cow, they say, “A fine cow, God bless it!” - except to the human, this is the only animal to which they say “God bless it.”

In my time there was not one wagon all over Ireland, and no cart above four foot long; the only carriage for goods, etc., was the little car and the one horse: there were no gypsies - no poor-rates-no pawn-brokers; the word village was not known; but every group of cabins had a piper and a schoolmaster; and before every cabin door, in fine weather, there was the Norah, or Kathleen, at her spinningwheel (no woman ever worked out of doors, or in the fields).

The yearly payment for the figure on the coach, the noddy, and the sedan, in Dublin, was applied to the purchase of spinning-wheels; which, on a certain day, were set out in a large square, before the Foundling Hospital, at the top of St. James’s Street, and distributed gratis to the females who came to ask for them.

This was one cheering look forward towards the staple manufacture of Ireland-its linen. The great pride of a countryman on a Sunday, was to have three or four waistcoats on him; and of a country woman, a large square silk handkerchief of Irish manufacture pinned on the top of her head, and the corners hanging down her shoulders. The countryman’s boots were pieces of an old felt hat, tied about his ankles.

The milk-maid always sung her melodious Irish tunes while milking: if she stopped, the cow’s mode was to kick the pail about. The different families dug the potato, and cut the turf, and brought them home mutually for each other; lending in turn, themselves, their horse, and their car, so that the want of money was not felt: the great object was the half-penny on a Sunday evening for the piper, who was the orchestra for their jig.

The peasant himself built his mud tenement, and then clapped its *straw hat *upon it, and this was the only slate, tile, and thatch. Cricket was not known; the game was football, and hurling; the latter striking the ball with a wooden bat, the ball as large as a man’s head, but so soft it could not hurt, being leather stuffed with straw.

My Lord’s” or ” the Squire’s,” was called the big House, and had its privileged fool or satirist, its piper, and its running footman: the latter I have often seen skimming or flying across the road; one of them I particularly remember, his dress a white-jacket, blue silk sash round his waist, light black velvet cap, with a silver tassel on the crown, round his neck a frill with a ribbon, and in his hand a staff about seven feet high, with a silver top. He looked so agile, and seemed all air like a Mercury: he never minded roads, but took the short cut, and, by the help of his pole, absolutely seemed to fly over hedge, ditch, and small river.

His use was to carry a message, letter or dispatch; or, on a journey, to run before and prepare the inn or baiting-place, for his family or master; who came the regular road in coach and two, or coach and four, or coach and six; his quaifications were fidelity, strength, and agility.

It was the general rule of every man, in the character of a gentleman, never to gallop or even trot hard upon a road, except emergency required haste.

Quarrelsome Irishmen.

A certain tavern at the corner of Temple Lane and Essex Street, being so near the theater, was a convivial and frequent resort, as well for performers as persons who had been at the play. Ben Lord, the landlord, had a most happy and inviting flourish in drawing a cork. It was our mode to ask each other, “Do you sup at Commons to-night?” “Oh, no! I sup at the house of Lord’s.”

I was there one night with Dawson the actor, and some others; amongst the company was a Mr. Brady, once a school-fellow of mine at Father Austin’s, but at this time a considerable merchant; a trifling altercation took place between him and Dawson, and some words of taunt and retort, when Brady made use of the expression, “You ‘re *beneath *me.” This was a cut at the profession, and might have been spared, particularly as many of the performers were present. Dawson instantly took a leap, jumped upon the table, and, with an exulting smile of triumphant superiority, shuffled a horn-pipe step among the bottles and glasses, and exclaimed, “Now, I ‘m above you, Brady; Brady, now I ‘m above you.”

This comic and sudden practical truism stopped the approaching quarrel, and turned the whole room, Brady and all, into social mirth and good fellowship, which was kept up until the watchman’s “Past two o’clock” warned us to separate, and go home to pillow.

Another instance of an alert laugh turning bully frown out of doors, occurred in a coffee-house near the Exchange at Cork, where I was sitting quietly taking my dish of coffee. Hero Jackson and John MacMahon, at that time quite a youth, were walking up and down the room, arm in arm, - the one above six feet high, and athletic as Alcides-the other thin and delicate, indeed remarkably slim and slender.

Words arose, I know not how, between Jackson and one of the company, and continued for some time with great acrimony on both sides; at length the hero, making a full stop, and looking with determined aspect at the other gentleman, said in a firm, decisive tone, at the same time turning upon young MacMahon, and grasping him with his right hand by the middle of the waistcoat, “Sir, if you repeat such language to me again, I’ll *rattan *you out of the room.” The word *rattan *and the action which accompanied it (for Jackson had no stick of any kind in his hand), produced a loud and universal laugh, in which the gentleman himself, who was thus addressed, could not help joining heartily.

Thomas Sheridan

The plan of Thomas Sheridan’s dictionary was to bring the spelling of English words nearer to the established modes of pronunciation; yet still to keep in view the several languages from which each word is derived. In a letter of his to Mr. Heaphy, which I saw, he had to speak of the Parliament winter in Dublin, and spelt the word *parlement. *I heard Sheridan recite on Smock Alley stage, and show, by illustration, that in a verse of eight syllables, the sense mlight be changed five times by removing the accent from one syllable to another thus:- *

None *but the brave deserve the fair!

None *but *the brave deserve the fair,

None but the *brave *deserve the fair,

None but the brave *deserve *the fair,

None but the brave deserve the *fair.” *

Thomas Sheridan wrote a piece called ‘The Brave Irishman’ (the plot from the French), in which he worked up a very high character for Isaac Sparkes; it had a powerful effect, and was played very often. There were many signs of Sparkes in this same Captain O’Blunder. One day he was walking under one of these, when a chairman looking first at him with great admiration, and then up at the sign, vociferated, “Oh, there you are, above and below!”

O’Keefe On His Blindness

On my return to town I applied to Baron Wenzel the oculist about my sight; and sent him his demand of twenty-five guineas: he was to have twenty-five more had he succeeded, but asked his additional fee of two guineas as physician: this my brother, who took him the money, would not pay.

My most excellent and truly zealous friend, Mr. Brande, of Soho Square, thinking that electricity might help my sight, brought me to John Hunter for his opinion; he did not object to the trial being made, but gave no hopes of success; and some time after, I seated myself in the chair at Mr. Brande’s house, and held in my hand the electrical chain. At his hospitable table I have at different times met Macklin, Counselor Mac Nally, my good friend Mr. O’Bryen, Captain (and Counselor, for he was both) Robinson (who, being a Dublin man, sung very good Irish songs), Dr. Kennedy, of Great Queen Street, and many other literary characters.

I went also to Mr. Percival Pott, who had then the first name as surgeon, but he instantly pronounced that neither medical aid nor art could help me, and since that I tried none. The first cause of this injury to my sight was from a cold I got by a fall off the south wall of the Liffey, Dublin, in a dark December, by going out to sup at Ringsend, when the play was over; thus drenched, I sat up with my party for some hours in my wet clothes, and in about a fortnight the effects appeared in a violent inflammation of my eyelids. I then tried many remedies, each crossing the other, which increased the malady, and my persisting to use the pen myself impaired my sight beyond all hope.

Although, from the opinion of the first medical people, my complete recovery of sight was quite hopeless, yet I never had an ambition to be pitied; and, indeed, effort to be envied, rather than pitied, often proves a successful stimulus to the greatest actions of human life. It is true, that since the decay of my sight I never made a boast that I could see as well as other people; yet to avoid exciting compassion, my show of better vision than I really possessed was, about thirty years back, often attended with most ridiculous and whimsical effects, at which, on reflection no one laughed more heartily than myself.

Being with my brother at Margate, in Austin’s reading room, at a great table covered with newspapers, magazines, and such like, I wished Daniel to give me some news by the help of his optics, and having just sight enough to see the white papers on the green cloth, I hastily caught up a news-paper that lay spread on my right hand, and with my left stretched it out to my brother, saying, “Read that for* *m.” A loud and surly voice the same instant came to my right ear’ from lips not two feet from me. “What the devil, sir, do you mean by snatching the newspaper out of my hands; I haven’t done with it” I was too confounded to attempt an apology, but rising, walked off; leaving my brother to calm him by explaining the state of my sight which led me into the mistake of my only seeing the newspaper, and not the gentleman who was reading it; his anger instantly changed to politeness.

When I lived at Acton I sometimes walked to Oxford Street to buy my working tools-a quire of paper, some pens, a bottle of ink, or any other stationery I might want. Being one day on the foot-path, pushing on before my servant, who always attended me in my walks to town, a figure came up full against me with a stamping kind of rough noise: I stopped, and looking up far above his head, said, “I think the road might do for you and not come upon the foot-path.” An angry voice from a face level with my own, replied, “But I believe I have as good a right to walk on the foot-path as you - who the plague are you! indeed!” I endeavored to explain by saying, what was fact, “I beg pardon, but I thought you were on horseback;” - an unlucky error caused by my having been greatly annoyed and endangered the day before, by a man riding on the foot-path close upon me. This mistake did not wind up so agreeably as the first, for he stumped on muttering.

And yet I used to make my way, and safely and nimbly too, by my servant John walking rapidly before me, through the most crowded streets of London. His method was, if a handle of a barrow came across him, to move it aside; if anything on a person’s head, whether hamper, trunk, furniture, etc., to put up his hand and turn it away, still keeping on without saying a word, or turning his own head about, and I posting after him through a *gantlet *of people of all kinds who stopped to abuse and call him fifty names, such as, “Impudent scoundrel! rascal!” etc., all which my *walking *harbinger never seemed to hear or notice, and on we clearly went. This was from apple-women, fish-women, porters with knots on their heads, etc.; thus, in the throng of a London street, he cleared a lane for inc.

According to the privilege of an author franking a friend to the theater now and then, my brother, one morning, asked me for an order; but having already written and given away to my acquaintances and *their *acquaintances, more than was strictly proper, I refused. The same evening I unexpectedly went to the play myself; I was alone, and being in the lower boxes, towards the close of the third act, a gentleman coming in, and standing near me, I looked up, half turning round, and said, “How the deuce did you get in?” A strange voice answered, “How did I get in, sir! why, with my money. How did yourself get in?” I unfortunately mistook him for my brother; and this last mistake might have led me into a more dangerous dilemma than either of the former, had not another gentle-man, in the adjoining box, who knew who I was, and, consequently, the imperfect state of my sight, kindly explained; thus saving me from pistol work, either on the strand of Clontarf, or behind Montague House, or in a little tavern room across a table, or any other field of battle, west of Mother Red-cap’s.

Sir Joshua Reynolds.

Coming into my parlor in Stafford Row, Buckingham late, one day, tired with my walk, and my spirits wearied by a long rehearsal, I found a gentleman looking very close at a picture which hung up; he bowed, and then went again to the picture, looked at me, and said something, I don’t know what. We were completely at cross purposes; my eyes could not distinguish his features, and his ears could not bear my voice; he was deaf, and I could not see.

In the midst of our embarrassment, my landlord came into the room, and addressing him very respectfully, yet loud, said, “Mr. —, the picture-dealer, lodges up stairs.” The stranger then turned to me, made an apology, and went out of my parlor. When he had left the house, I asked my landlord who the gentleman was. He answered, that it was ” Sir Joshua Reynolds.” I then too late regretted my not having known this before, that I might have enjoyed a ‘little of his company, as I greatly admired the works of his pencil. Fortunate, thought I at that moment, that my infirmity is not on *his *side of the question!

One day walking with Mr. Colman, and admiring his beautiful garden at Richmond, he told me Sir Joshua Reynolds bad been with him the day before, and also liked his parterres and hot-houses extremely (“and by the way, O’Keeffe, my gardener is a capital one, and your countryman; he brings out pine-apples and melons for me at very little expense”). Mr. Colman added, that he had been a good deal annoyed by a timber-yard to the left; besides the noise, it was a disagreeable object, so, continued he, “I raised up that fine screen of trees to hide it. I was pointingout this exploit of mine yesterday to Sir Joshua. ‘Aye,’ said he, ‘very well, Colman, now you cannot see the wood for trees.’”

General Contents. .