TAYLOR'S RECORDS OF MY LIFE.

EVERYBODY knew JACK TAYLOR, mid everybody liked him. He was known by the familiar diminutive of' his Christian name on account " of his love of goodfellowship and wit"— to use Mr. MOORE'S phrase ; and was the associate of some of the brightest men of his time, when "brightness" was the great

Study and pursuit of the day. Everybody loved JACK TAYLOR: be was thoroughly harmless—a kind and affectionate creature, with all kinds of light pleasantry fluttering across his butterfly brain : "When you do an ill-natured thing," said SHERIDAN to him, chaos is come again." And it was true. Through a long life, JACK TAYLOR was always doing kind little offices, and saying plea- sant little speeches. His benefits were necessarily of the small kind, and his wit was not of a high cast; hut then, life is composed of small deeds, and filled up with small talk. JACK TAYLOR was a Tory, but of the very gentlest kind : his politics were rather an affair of feeling than opinion : loyalty seemed to him to imply peace and pleasantness—the reign of the social affections—the triumph of the intellectual enjoyments : the rude and boisterous temperament of a republic would have been fatal to his talents and his pleasures : a man of his calibre would have perished in a poli- tical storm. Inasmuch as the strong hand of absolute monarchy, while it quenches the more vigorous efforts of men, favours the exer- cise of the smaller and more social faculties, he leaned on the idea of a king as on a rock of security. This is the creed of a large mass of citizens, who would gladly purchase the pleasures of settled society by the abandonment of all political influence, which is ignorantly supposed not to affect the private condition of the citizen. As a proof that Mr. TAYLOR'S Toryism was altogether passive, he asso- ciated indiscriminately with men of all parties : and as the Oppo- sition of that day was composed of the most brilliant men of the age, he lived even more with them than their antagonists. But JACK TAYLOR was not a mere fair-weather companion—his good- .nature outlasted the storms and vicissitudes of his life : he had a pun always ready over the glass, but then he had a tear for the garret. He never deserted his friends till they were laid in the grave; and this last duty be seems to have taken a sort of melan- choly pleasure in performing. It would be curious to know how many funerals good-natured JACK TAYLOR had attended in the course of his long life. He saw nearly all his old friends out : we meet in these volumes with scarcely a name of living men, with the exception perhaps of a few such Nestorian youths as Lord ELDON and his brother Lord STOWELL : but TAYLOR recollected THURLOW, if not an attorney's clerk, at least a student in the Temple.

Mr. TAYLOR reminds us a good deal of a Frenchman : he had more mercurial qualities than commonly fall to the lot of our countrymen; he was not ambitious; he was more than ordinarily regardless of the outward circumstances of his friends ; he was a worshipper of intellectual superiority ; and above all, he was a tho- roughly social creature—he lived by constant contact with his like ; —and all this is French. He was altogether a citizen, a wanderer among bricks and mortar. He was born at Highgate ; and perhaps that was his first and last rural excursion. Soon after his birth, his father, a celebrated oculist, removed to Hatton Garden, where he lived and died : between Hatton Garden and Covent Garden, his son oscillated for upwards of three quarters of a century ; and they were probably the greenest places in his recollection, unless perhaps Vauxhall Gardens might put in a claim. We never heard JACK TAYLOR "babble o' green fields ;" though we believe he had re- peatedly been to Bagshot, was familiar with Kensington, and used frequently to dine at Bayswater. We say of residents in Paris, they are Parisians : JACK TAYLOR was not a Cockney, and yet he was a thorough Londonian. His pride was a rencontre of wits at the Turk's Head or elsewhere. At Covent Garden and Drury Lane he was also great, both before and behind the scenes : at the latter place, whenever SHAW, the leader of the band, ob- served his presence, be would always play a particular concerto between the acts, because he knew it was a favourite : here was distinction ! Then he was the great prologue and epilogue manu- facturer of the day : everybody came to him for the finishing_ stroke, and JACK TAYLOR never refused anybody any thing : impromptus and epigrams he had equally at the service of his

friends : no one in need of verse ever applied to JACK TAYLOR in vain. His Monsieur Tonson is his ground of immortality—a very

small spot of Pierian earth, but still large enough for a poet to

stand tiptoe on—stans pede in uno—making verse at the rate of a line a second. He was the editor and proprietor of the Sun for

many years ; and iu his bands it was seen how very harmless and inoffensive a daily paper might be. Somehow or other, he con- trived to get himself ousted by some anonymous scoundrel—so he considers him—a proprietor of one tenth, and editor by agreement. TAYLOR was obliged to sell his shares; and after the separation, we believe neither he nor the paper ever prospered.

Mr. TAYLOR had a kind of celebrity for witty sayings, smart re: plies, and a flow of gentle buffoonery, powerful at melting the re. serve of a party of wits sitting in mutual awe of each other's repute. tions. TAYLOR sprung in with a hop, skip, and jump, and pushed the punctilious from their stools of formality. Records of My Life

contain some of these sayings, but they are chiefly the sayings and

doings of those with whom he spent his life. Names and persons are naturally the ideas mostly occupying a brain of his description: it was, therefore, his most natural plan of writing his life, to put down the names of all the remarkable persons he had ever known, and under each head, ledgering all he recollected concerning them.

Thus, these Records are the index of JACK TAYLOR'S friends for threescore years and more. They form a pretty good picture ef the society of London wits, theatrical and political, during the latter

part of the last century and the beginning of this : and everybody interested in the time, or indeed those whose acquaintance with his heroes is but slight, cannot fail to be amused by the good stories be tells of them all.

Mr. TAYLOR was by profession an oculist, and enjoyed, along with his brother, the honorary appointment of oculist to the King : this had been the profession of the family for three if not four generations. Mr. TAYLOR'S grandfather was the famous Chevalier TAYLOR, OCtIliSt to every crowned head in Europe,—a beau, a scholar, a wit, and a quack, the horror of Dr. JOHNSON, and the delight of the ladies. His grandson forsook his profession for that of the press, thinking that opening the intellectual eyes of the public was more likely to lead to fortune than that of relieving their physical vision. - He proved in this matter, as in others, shortsighted : it was the blind leading the blind. These Records are in point of fact as near to a French collection of Ana as possible, and are as little like Records as they are much like gossip. As they are written without order, we must extract from them without it. The author runs from one century to the other with perfect indifference ; so that the last page of his work may or may not be the earliest in chronological order. The only excep- tion to this is, that the commencing chapters are, as in private duty bound, devoted to his own family. It originally sprung from Norwich—the land of TAYLORS. Here the author s great-grand- father. practised medicine, and with so much success as to be taken for a conjuror. He seems to have possessed the family hu- mour. This is the manner he followed to convince a countryman of his time that he was not so gifted as it had been imagined— Dr. Mon.sey related the following story as a proof of my great-grandfather's reputation for supernatural knowledge and wisdom. A countryman had lost a silver spoon ; and, excited by my venerable grandsire's reputed powers above the ordinary race of mankind, waited on hint, requesting to know whether or not the spoon had been stolen, and, if so, desiring that he would enable him to dis- cover the thief. The old gentleman took him into a garret which contained nothing but an old chest of drawers, telling the simple rustic, that in order to effect tile discovery, he must raise the Devil, and a:king him if he had resolution enough to face so formidable and terrific an appearance. The countryman as- sured him that he had, as his conscience was clear, and he could defy the Devil and all his works. The surgeon, after an awful warning, bade him open the first drawer, and tell what lie saw. The man did so, and answeled "Nothing." "Then," said the reputed seer, "lie is not there." The old gentleman, again exhorting the man, in the most solemn manner, to summon all his fortitude tor the next trial, directed him to open the second drawer. The man did so with unshaken firmness, mad in answer to the same question, repeated "Nothing." The venerable old gentleman simply said, " Then he is not there," but, with ii..

creased solemnity, endeavoured to impress the sturdy hind with such awe as to induce him to forbear from further inquiry, but in vain ; conscious integrity fortified his mind, and he determined to abide the event. My worthy ancestor

then' with an assumed expression of apprehension him m self, ordered lu to pre- pare for the certain appearance of the evil spirit on opening the third drawer. Thecountryman, undismayed, resolutely pulled open the drawer, and being- asked what he saw, said, "!see nothing but an empty purse."—" Well," said

the surgton, "and is not that the Devil ?" The honest countryman bad sense enough to perceive the drift of this ludicrous trial, and immediately proclaimed it over the city of Norwich. The result was, that my venerable and humorous

ancestor was never again troubled with an appeal to his divining faculty and magical power, but was still more respected for the good sense and whimsical manner in which he had annihilated his supernatural character, and descended into a mere mortal.

Mr. TAYLOR'S father was one of the first who carried the opera- tion of couching to the extent of restoring sight to the born blind: CHESELDEN'S famous case preceded one of his only a short time. Of this youth the following curious story is told— My father's patient was a native of Ightliam in Kent, and a young musician, who, though blind, used to perform during the seasons at Tunbridge and other places. My father published an account of this case, and it excited nearly as much attention in the medical world as that of Mr. Clieselden. A few of the effects of the case may be here properly mentioned. After the boy had obtained some power of distinguishing external objects, by feeling them for some time, and looking hard at them when presented to him, it was long before he had any notion of distances. If he wanted to take hold of any article that he saw on the table, he generally made a snatch at it, and on such occasions darted his hand beyond the object or before it, and seldom reached it till after many at- tempts. The success of the operation excited great attention in the neighbour- hood where my father resided. An alarming proof of the patient's ignorance of distances occurred one night, which was fortunately observed by the watchman. The boy was going, as lie stated afterwards, to step from the top of the house in Hatton Garden over to Bartlett's Buildings, to catch hold of the moon. The watchman, an intelligent man, who had heard of tha case, luckily saw him as he was On the point of stepping forward, and uttered a loud shout, bidding him get back into the house immediately. The boy obeyed, much terrified, and retreated into the garret' The watchman instantly apprized the family of what had happened, and care was taken to secure the boy from the recurrence of any such danger. The boy, after he became familiar with his own reflection in a mirror, was fond of look- ing at his image, which he used to call his man, and said, "I canmalre my man do every thing that I do but shut his eyes." This case excited so much curiosity and attention, that Worlidge, an eminent artist then in London, took a drawing of the patient, from which he made an etching and published it. Of Mr. OLDYS, the literary antiquary, who appears to have been

an early friend of his family, and almost an inmate of it, we have many curious and characteristic particulars, worthy of literary history. OLDYS was the author of the well-known verses, " Busy, curious, thirsty ily, Drink with me, and drink as I," &c.

lie often had in his mouth these ungallant lines, which may

serve on a saucy occasion to others—

If women were as little as they are good, A peasecod would make them a gown raid:a hood." - The various and frequent mention, it these volumes, of cele- brated women of light reputation, or, as he calls it, purchaseable virtue, though of course introduced with the utmost decorum, is an indication of the morals of the times. The KITTY FISHERS and LUCY COOPERS of the present day, if there be such As- pasias existent, will gain no niche in contemporary memoirs : is it that we are grown more virtuous, or more hypocritical ? We shall not quote any of the stories about this class of women, though they appear to have occupied so much public attention in their day ; but proceed to an anecdote of another class of character, which is really and truly extinct. The following story of MAC- LAINE implies a. state of manners we can hardly conceive. Mr. DONALDSON was a gentleman of taste and education, and the early friend .of Mr. TAYLOR.

Mr. Dr naldson was in real danger from another highwayman, who was cele- brated in his day, and known as a fashionable man by the name of Mac- laine. This man came front Ireland, and made a splendid figure for some time; but as his means of support were not known, lie was generally considered as a doubtful character. He was by all accounts a tall, showy, good-looking man, i and a frequent visitor at Button's Coffeehouse, founded, as s well known, by Addison in favour of an old servant of the Warwick family, but never visited by him, when driven from his home by the ill-humour of his wife : he then resorted to Will's, on the opposite side of the same street, that he might not be reminded of domestic anxieties. Button's was on the south side of Russell Street, Covent Garden; and Will's in the same street, at the corner of Bow Street. Button's became a private house, and Mrs. Inchbald lodged there. Mr. Donaldson, ob- serving that Maclaine paid particular attention to the bar-maid, the daughter of the landlord, gave a hint to the father of Maclaine's dubious character. The father cautioned his daughter against the addresses of Maclaine, and imprudently told her by whose advice he put her on her guard ; she as imprudently told Maclaine. The next time Donaldson visited the coffee-room, and was sitting in one of the boxes, Maclaine entered, and in a loud tone said, "Mr. Donaldson, I wish to spake to you in a private room." Mr. Donaldson being unarmed, and naturally afraid of being alone with such a man, said in answer, that, as nothing could pass between them that he did not wish the whole world to know, he begged leave to decline the invitation. " Very well," said Maclaine as he left the room, "we shall mate again." A day or two after, as Mr. Donaldson was walking near Richmond in the evening, he saw Maclaine on horseback, who on perceiving him spurred the animal and was rapidly approaching him : fortu- nately, at that moment a gentleman's carriage appeared in view, when Maclaine immediately turned his horse towards the carriage, and Donaldson hurried into the protection of Richmond as fast as possible. But for the appearance of the carnage, which presented better prey, it is probable that Maclaine would have shot Mr. Donaldson immediately. Afaclaine a short time after committed a highway robbery, was tried, found guilty, and hanged at Tyburn. The public prints at the time, I understand, were full of accounts of this gentleman high- wayman, and I remember the following two stanzas of a song that was current at the time-

" Ye Smarts and ye Jemmies, ye Ramillie beanx,

With golden cock'd hats and with silver-lae'd clothes.

Who by wit and invention your pockets maintain, Come pity the fate of poor Jemmy Maclaine. Derry down.

" He robb'd folks genteelly. he roblid with an air.

He robb'd them so well that he always took care

My lord was not hurt, anti my lady not frighted;

And instead of being liang'd he deserv'cl to be knighted. Derry down."

The anecdotes of JOHN KEMBLE, with whom the author was very intimate, are numerous and amusing : we select the following pleasant gossip.

I was in the habit of constantly visiting Mr. Kemble on a Sunday morning for many years, and if I saw him in the intermediate days, he always said, "Taylor, remember the hebdomadal." I found him generally with some book or manuscript before him relative to his art. Sometimes he was cold, negligent, and less courteous than at others ; and then feeling; disgusted, I resolved to forbear any visit the next week ; but the pleasure! always found in his company overcame any temporary spleen. He was fond of Dryden, and sometimes read to me passages from that admirable poet. I do not think he was a good reader, for he generally read in a tone either too low or too high. There is obviously but one tone in reading or acting that excites the sympathy of the hearer, and that is the tone which feeling suggests and expresses; and such was the charm of Garrick, which rendered his acting in tragedy or comedy impressive in the highest degree. There were many of acting visitors who made court to him by telling him of faults in Garrick's acting, or of the unsuitableness of his per- son for some of the characters which he represented : for instance, Sir Chailes Thompson, afterwards Hotham, a respectable old baronet, told Kemble that Garnck always gave him the idea of a little butler. Kemble generally told me What was said to him of this kind, not as appearing to believe such remarks, hut to know whether they received a confirmation from rue. On such occasions, I never abated my reverence for Garrick, but always discountenanced such in- sidious flattery, and to the best of my recollection and ability, asserted the won- derful powers of the departed actor. Kemble always listened to my panegyric on his great predecessor with apparent conviction ; but I cannot help believing that he would have liked me much better if I had never seen Garrick.

Kemble, with all Iris professional judgment, skill, and experience, like all other mortals, was sometimes induced to mistake the natural direction of his powers, and to suppose that he was as much patronized by the comic as by the tragic muse. When I called on him one morning, he was sitting in his great chair with his nightcap on, and, as he told me, cased in flannel. Imme- diately after the customary salutation, he said, "Taylor, I am studying a new part in a popular comedy, and I should like to know your opinion as to the manner in which I am likely to perform it." "As you tell me it is a comic Part," said I, "I presume it is what you style intellectual comedy, such as the '

chief characters in Congreve Wycherley, and Vanburgh." "'What do you think," said he, "of Charles, in "the School for Scandal?" "Why," said I,

Charles is a gay, free, spirited, convivial fellow." "Yes," said he, "but Charles is a gentleman." He tried the part, but his gayety did not seem to the town to be of "the right flavour." It was said by one of Mr. Kemble's favour- able critics in a public print, that his performance was " Charles's restoration," and by another, that it was rather " Charles's martyrdom." Another time he attempted a jovial rakish character in one of Mrs. Behn's licentious comedies, from which, however, he expunged all the offensive passages; but he was not successful.* I met him one day as I was hurrying home to dress for dinner abroad ; and he strongly pressed me to go and dine with him, alleging that as Pop (Mrs. Kemble) was out of town he should be lonely and dull. I

told him I was positively engaged, and should town, be in time. " Well, then," said he, " I'll go home and study a pantomime." It is hardly possible to con- ceive so grave a character contemplating new tricks and escapes for harlequin, and blunders for the clown.

He had determined to act Falstaff; and I was in the green-room at Covent Garden Theatre one Saturday, when, after his performance of some character which I do not recollect, three beards were brought to him, that he might choose one for Falstaff. We were invited to dine the next day with the late Dr. Charles Burney, Rector of Deptford. Kemble took me in his chariot, and we talked on the road of his intended Bristajf: Ile said that he had resolved to attempt the yart, but was afraid that is-lien " he came to the point, his heart NVOIlld fail 'inn." A ludirrous incident happened at this dinner. The Doctor, in helping limbic to ;pit of a pudding, gave him a very large portion ; which induced me to sav, " Burney, you do not observe Kemble's rule in your ample allotment to him.'" " What is that ?" said the Doctor. " Why," said I, " when I last dined with him, I Was as lavish as you in distributing a similar dish. Kemble said, Taylor, don't help so mueh to an individual, for if you do it vvill trot go round the tilde.' " Being somewhat in the habit of imitating Kemble. I„pnke these words in his manner, forgetting that he was before me. "Now,” said Kemble, " he thinks Ile is imitating me—I appeal to the lady ;" ted, that and these words he delivered so mueli the manlier which 1 Intl atin Mrs. Burney and the Doctor could not help laughing ; Kemble gave way to the same impulse, and I was relieved from embarrassment. I was one night in a box with him wIwn the theatre was illuininated prepa- ratory to the opening for the season, nil a Mr. Rees was employed to give um,. tations, in order to try the effect of the voice. Kemble was one of the persons imitated ; and while the man was delivering an imitation of him, Kemble, in a little above a whisper, knocking his stick on the ground, said, with perfect good humour, " Speak louder, von rascal, speak looder.'"The man diii not hear, nor did Kemble intend he should.

STEPHEN KEMBLE told the author the following incident in the life of a manager.

Mr. Kemble used to relate an incident of a more whimsical description. He said that while he was manager of a theatre at Portsmouth, which was only opened twice or thrice in the week, a sailor applied to him on one of the nights when there was no performance, and entreated hnn to open the theatre ; but was informed that, as the town had not been apprized on the occasion, the manager could not risk the expense. " What will it cost to open the house to-night, for to-morrow I leave the country, and God knows if I shall ever see a play again," said the sailor. Mr. Kemble told him that it would be five guineas. " said the careless tar, " I will give it upon this condition that you will let nobody into the house but myself and the actors." He was then asked what play he would choose. He fixed upon Richard the Third. The house was imme- diately lighted, the rest of the performers attended, and the tar took his station in the front row of the pit ; Mr. Kemble performed the part of Richard, the play happening to be what is styled one of the stock-pieces of the company. The play was performed throughout; the sailor was very attentive sometimes laughing and applauding, but frequently on the look-out lest some other auditor might intrude upon his enjoyment. He retired perfectly satiSfied; and cordially thanked the manager for his ready compliance. It may seem strange that a sailor, who in general is reputed to be a generous character,- should require so selfish an indulgence ; but it hardly need be observed, that whims and oddities

are to b i e found n all classes of so changeable a being as man.

HORNE TOOKE'S advice on the subject of committing matrimony, is a good specimen of that gentleman's grave facetiousness : it is conceived on the principle of the old and well-known recipe for dressing cucumber— I once called on him in Richmond Buildings, with Mr. Merry the poet, just as the latter was on the eve of being married to Miss Brunton the actress. In the course of conversation, Mr. Tooke adverted to this intended marriage, and directing his discourse to me said, "I told this gentleman that I was once as near the danger of matrimony as he is at present, but an old friend to whom I looked with reverence for his wisdom and experience, gave me the following advice. You must first, said he, consider the person of the lady, and endeavour to satisfy yourself that if she has excited, she is likely to secure, your admira- tion. You must deeply scrutinize her mild, reflect whether she possesses a rate of intellect that would be likely to render her an intelligent companion ; if you are satisfied she does, you are to examine her temper, and if you find it amiable, and not likely to irritate your own on any occasion, you must proceed to obtain all the information you can procure respecting her parents and other relatives, and if you have no reason to object to their being your relations and companions, you must then inquire who and what are her friends, for you must not expect her to sacrifice all her old connexions when she becomes your wife, and if yea find them agreeable people, and not likely to be burdensome or intrusive, and ate quite satisfied with the prospect, von may then order your wedding clothes, and fix the day for the marriage. When the bride is- dressed suitable to the occasion, the friends at church, and the priest ready to begin' you should get upon your horse and ride away from the place as fast and as far as your horse could carry you." "This counsel," added Mr. Tooke, "from one who was thoroughly acquainted with the world, made me investigate the nature of wed- lock ; and considering the difficulties attending the advice which he reconn. mended, made me resolve never to enter into the happy state."

The following is a curious anecdote of the life of THOMSON the poet, "if true "— The most extraordinary fact in the history of this excellent poet I derived from my late friend Mr. George Chalmers, whose industry, research, and learn- ing are well known. It was Mr. Chahners's intention to write the life of Thomson, but whether to introduce into his elaborate work, "Caledonia," or not, I do not recollect; he told me, however, the following remarkable fact, on • Kemble certainly believed that he possessed comic talents; and as far as a strong

sense of humour and a disposition to enjoy jocularity could tend to excite such a con- viction, he might naturally yielul to selt:deeeption. My lively friend George Colman, whose exuberant gayety span-s nobody. and to whose satirical turn I have often been a witness and a victim, being asked his opinion of Kemble's Don Felf. e , said that it dis- played too much of the Don and too little of the Felix. Kemble could bear jocular remarks on his acting with unaffected good-humour. I remember that after dtt became tolerably well acquainted, and were one day talking on the subject of his Hamlet, I, perhaps too freely, said," Come, limbic, Ill give an imitation of your Hamlet." •• be glad," said he, "to improve by the reflection." I then raised my right Landover my forehead, as connoisseurs do when looking at a picture ; and looking intently as if some object was actually before me, and referring to the platform scene, exclaimed, "My father i" and then bendint, my hand intone form of an opera-glass and peeping: through it, continued, " MethiuksI see my father." He took this freedom in good. part, and only said, "Why, Taylor, I never used such an action." "No," said I; "but froln'Yatti first action everybody -expected that the other would follow." Whenever • he spoke -et • his great predecessor, he never failed to say "Mn. Garrick.",2 Which he assured me I might confidently depend. Mr. Chalmers had Lewd that an old housekeeper of Thomson's was alive and still resided at Richmond. Having determined to writ q a life of the celebrated poet of his country, he went to Richmond, thinking it possible he might obtain some account of the domes- tic habits of the poet, and other anecdotes which might impart interest arta novelty to his narration. He found that the old housekeeper had a good me- mory, and was of a communicative turn. She informed him Thomson had been actually married in early life, but that his wife had been taken by him merely for her person, and was so little calculated to be introduced to his great friends, or indeed his friends in general, that he had kept her in a state of obscurity for many years; and when he at last, from some compunctious feelings, required her to come and live with him at Richmond, he still kept her in the same secluded state, so that she appeared to be only one of the old domestics of the family. At length his wife, experiencing little of the attention of a husband, though other- wise provided with every dung that could make her easy if not comfortable, asked his permission to go for a few weeks to visit her own relations in the North. Thomson gave his consent, exacting a promise that she would not re- 'veal her real situation to any of his or her own family. She agreed ; but when she had advanced no farther on her journey than to London, she was there taken ill, and in a short time died. The news of her death was immediately conveyed to Thomson, who ordered a decent funeral ; and she Jeas buried, as the old housekeeper said, in the churchyard of old Marylebone church.

Mr. Chalmers, who was indefatigable in his inquiries, was not satisfied with the old woman's information, but immediately went and examined the church register ; where he found the following entry—" Died, Mary Thomson, a stranger"--in confirmation of the housekeeper's testimony.

The extraordinary circumstance mentioned in the following pa- ragraph, is not to be found, we think, in any of the biographies of

PORSON.

When I first knew Mr. Perry, he lived at a house in the narrow past of Shire Lane, Temple Bar, opposite to the lane which leads to the stairs from Boswell

Court. He lodged with Mr. Lunen, a bookbinder, who had married his sister. I knew her very well. She was a mild, amiable, and agreeable woman. When her brother left Shire Lane, and took chambers in Clement's Inn, she went to apartments in George Street, York Buildings, where I occasionally called on her; and as she lived single, I concluded that Mr. Lunen was dead, or, not suc- ceeding in business, bad gone abroad ; but I did not inquire.

A few years after, I saw the newspapers announce the marriage of Professor Porson with this lady, who I therefore naturally concluded had become a widow. Not long after, as I was coming over Westminster Bridge, was saluted by Mr. Lunen, the former husband of this lady. After the usual courtesy, I said, "How is this, my friend ?—why I saw lately in the newspapers that your wife is married to Professor Porson ; and if I had met you at twelve at night instead of twelve at noon, I must have taken you for a ghost." It was true, he said, that Porson had married his wife - and that he had also been married again several years. I inquired no farther, but parted with him in Hungerffird Mar.. het, where he appeared to reside. I concluded that as they were both born in Scotland, some ceremony had passed between them in that country, which they did not think binding in this ; not that they had acted upon the principle of Archer in the play :—

Consent, if mutual, saves the lawyer's fee,

Consent is law enough to set you free.

I never saw Porson or the lady after this extraordinary marriage, but I remem- ber her with respect, and think she was thrown away, as she was a very amiable Woman, upon such a sybarite.

The author, who knew everybody, was an intimate friend and

counsellor of Mrs. INCHBALD,—a woman remarkable not only for her abilities, but for the purity and simplicity of her character : she was an original somewhat, and chose to live in a garret, for 'which she was maligned. Mr. TAYLOR considered it his duty to communicate to her the scandal her mode of life gave occasion to : she returned for answer the following admirable letter- 11Iv DEAR SIR—I read your letter with gratitude, because I have had so many proofs of your friendship for me, that I do not once doubt of your kind intentions.

You have taken the best method possible, on such an occasion, not to hurt my spirits ; for had you suspected me to be insane, or even nervous, you would have mentioned the subject with more caution, and by so doing, might have given me alarm.

That the world should say I have lost my senses, I can readily forgive, when I recollect that a few years ago it said the same of Mrs. Siddons.

I am now fifty-two years old, and yet if I were to dress, paint, and visit, no one would call my understanding in question ; or if I were to beg from all my acquaintance a guinea or two, as subscription for a foolish book, no one would accuse me of avarice. But because I choose that retirement suitable to my years, and think it any duty to support two sisters instead of one servant, I am accused of madness. I might plunge in debt, be confined in prison, a pensioner on "The Literary Fund,' or be gay as a girl of eighteen, and yet be considered as perfectly in my senses; but because I choose to live in independence, affluence to me, with a mind serene and prospects unclouded, I am supposed to be mad. In making use of the word affluence, I do not mean to exclude some incon- veniences annexed, but this is the case in every state. I wish for more suitable lodgings, but I am unfortunately averse to a street, after living so long in a square ; but with all my labour to find one, I cannot fix on a spot such as I wish to make my residence for life ; and till I do, and am confined to London, the beautiful view from my present apartment of the Surry hills and the Thames, invites me to remain here, for I believe that there is neither such fine air nor so fine a prospect in all the town. I am, besides, near my sisters here; and the time when they are not with me is so wholly engrossed in writing, that I want leisure for the convenience of walking out. Retirement in the country would, perhaps, have been more advisable than in London, but my sisters did not like to accompany me, and I did not like to leave them behind-. There is, besides, something animating in the reflection that I am in London, though partaking of none of its festivities.

In the midst of the serenity I have been boasting, I own that I have one sorrow that weighs heavy upon me. Much as it is supposed that I value money., I would gladly give up all I am at present earning, and something added to it, that I had never engaged in those unwieldy Prefaces. I have had my Memoirs, in four volumes, for years lying by me. A large sum has been offered for them, yet, though I am charged with loving money, I never hesitated when I con- ceived that my reputation was in the balance. I accepted the offer made to me to write these things as far the less evil of the two, indeed as no evil; but now I fear that I should not have encountered more odium had I published may life; and yet a great deal of difficulty might have been avoided in arranging the former for publication to my advantage' by a proper assortment of subjects. As it is, I must submit, for I am bound in honour to obey. E. Is CliEd Mr. TAYLOR adds these remarks on the letter— It may be thought that I WU officious in giving occasion for the foregoing letter ; but, as I have said, hearing her character arraigned for avarice and meanness among the theatrical community, I deemed it right to adopt an in- trepid sincerity, such as frienthiliiP demanded. I remember that any friend 11fr. Richardson, whom I have before mentioned, soon after we became acquainted; on his leavmg St. John's College:, Cambridge, exacted a promise from me that I would tell him whatever I might hear to his disadvantage, that he might reform if the charge was just, or defend himself if false. This rule I have always observed with those clear to me. Mrs. Inchbald lived at this time on the south side of the Strand, opposite the New Church, and her apartment was an attic ; and thus did she deny herself many of the comforts of life from motives of diction to relations who required pecu- niary assistance. Such a letter does hononr to her feelings, and I am proud of having tempted her to write it. The Prefaces which she mentions, were to accompany a new edition of "The British Drama," and they prove her puss taste and sound judgment in her critical remarks on the respective productions. Her novel's of "A Simple Story" and "Nature and Art," manifest a full know- ledge of the depth of the human heart, and of the changes of disposition to which it is so frequently subjected by the vicissitudes of fortune. These novels will live like those of Smollet and Fielding, though of a very different descri

' p- tion and with respect to profound knowledge and moral tendency, more us analogy with the works of Richardson. What are the boasted novels of the present, even the most celebrated, compared with the four greater writers above mentioned?—mere phantoms of an hour.

The value of these Ana is not merely that they are amusing, but when regarded as a successful attempt at recalling the me- mory of an age fast fading from the public mind, and as an excel- lent illustration of obsolete manners and characters,. they really asaume the importance of memoirs. Where, for instance, will you find such an admirable sketch as the account of BIBB, a character nq,lenger in natura rerunz One of the last original characters which Lewis performed was Jeremy Diddler, in the humorous farce of Raising the Wind. The farce was brought forward on a Saturday night, and on that very night died the person who was justly considered the hero of the piece : this was no other than Bibb, a well- known character at that time, who accompanied Shuter in his expedition to Paris to win a wager. Though the person in question was not a theatrical performer, yet he was an much connected with theatrical performers, and acted so singular a part in the drama of life, that I may not improperly introduce hint on the present occasion. He was the son of a respectable sword-cutler in Great Newport Street. The father was a grave and prudent man, who gave his son a good education, and afterwards articled him to an engraver. Bibb practised the art some years ; and I remember a print which he engraved, representing the interior of the Pantheon in Oxford Street.

Bibb's print was not a work of high professional skill, but, from the number of the figures and the large size of the plate, displayed more industry than could have been expected from a character that was aftei wards marked by idleness and dissipation. I knew him very early in life, and occasionally saw him until near his death. He was much inclined to gaming, and took me once to a hazard. table in Gerrard Street, Soho ; where I saw Dr. Luzzato, an Italian physician, who visited my father, and was a very agreeable and intelligent man. Baddeley the actor was also there. A dispute arose between Baddeley and the Doctor, which was likely to terminate seriously, but the rest of the assembly interposed, lest the character of the house should be called in question, and their nocturnal orgies suppressed. The house went under the name of the Royal Larder; which was merely a cover to conceal its real purpose, that of a place for the meeting of gamesters. I was very young at the time, and being ignorant of the game, I had not courage to engage at the hazard table. It was a meeting of a very inferior kind, for a shilling was admitted as a stake. I had a very few shillings in my pocket, which Bibb borrowed of me as the box came round to him, and lost every time. The house was kept by a man named Nelson, who afterwards was landlord of the George Inn, opposite to Wych Street, Drury Lane. I shall have occasion to mention this man again. How Bibb supported himself, having relinquished engraving, it would be diffi- cult to conceive, if he had not levied taxes upon all whom he knew, insomuch that, besides his title of Count, he acquired that of "Half-crown Bibb," by which appellation. he was generally distinguished ; and according to a rough, and perhaps fanciful estimate, he had borrowed at least 2,000/. in half-crowns. I remember to have met him on the day when the death of Dr. Johnson was announced in the newspapers, and, expressing my regret at the loss of so great a man, Bibb interrupted me, and spoke of him as a man of no genius, wleee mind contained nothing but the lumber of learning. I was modestly beginning a panegyric upon the Doctor, when he again interrupted me with " Oh ! never mind that old blockhead. Have you such a thing as ninepence about you?" Luckily for him I had a little more. There was something so whimsical in this incident, that I mentioned it to some friends ; and that and others of the same kind doubtless induced Mr. Kenny to make him the hero of his diverting farce, called Raising _the Wind, already mentioned. Another circumstance of a similar nature was told me by Mr. Morton, whose dramatic works are deservedly popular. He told me that Bibb met him one day after the successful performance of one of his plays, and, con- cluding that a prosperous author must have plenty of cash, commenced his soli- citation accordingly, and ventured to ask him for the loan of a whole crown. Morton assured him that he had no more silver than three shillings and six- pence. Bibb readily accepted them, of course, but said on parting, " Remem- ber I intended to borrow a crown, so you owe me eighteen-pence." This stroke of humour induced Morton to regret that Bibb had left him his debtor. Bibb, in his latter days, devised a good scheme to raise the supplies. He hired a large room for the reception of company once a week, which he paid for only for the day. He then, with the consent of his friends, provided a handsome dinner, for which the guests paid their due proportion. There can be little doubt that many extraordinary characters assembled on these occaaions. He told me his plan, and requested I would be one of the party. I promised I would attend, and regret that I was prevented, as so motley an assemblage must have afforded abundant amusement.

Bibb's father, knowing the disposition of his son, left him an annuity, which

was to be paid at the rate of two guineas a week, and which never WAS to be advanced beyond that sum. This was, however, probably dissipated. the next day ; and, when expended, he used to apply to his sister, a very amiable young lady, who was married to a respectable merchant. Having been tired by fre- quent applications, the husband would not let him enter the door:. Bibb then seated himself on the steps, and passengers seeing a man decently dressed in that situation, naturally stopped, and at length a crowd was collected:. The gente: man then, desirous of getting rid of a crowd, and probably in csrnpliance with the desire of his wife, found it necessary to submit to her brotherls.requisition.

Wheal first became acquainted with Bibb, he had the mamiersofagentlearia

with easy gayety, having recently returned from travelling, as. companion to a prerson ot fortune. His conversation was enlivened with humour, _and, perhaps, I might add with wit ; but as he gradually departed front genteel. society, and aSSOCIRted chiefly with gamblers, if not sharpers, his manners proportionatelY degenerated ; and once, sitting nearly opposite to him at aapuldiellinner, havi4 received a ticket' from one of my friends, I was sur riser& to observe. that all Bito.b- said, WSJ accompanied by nods, winks, and by thriintizig- his, torque into his- -cheek. I could hardly believe that I had remembered him with a pleasing vivacity and well-bred manners. Nothing could subdue the spirit of his character; for he would make a joke of those necessities under which others would repine, droop, and despair. His death was fortunate at the period when it happened ; for it not only relieved him in old age from probable infirmities, which, if they had confined him at home, would doubtless have deprived him of all resources of an eleemosynary nature, but would have reduced him to absolute starvation. It was also, as rhave be- fore observed, fortunate, for he escaped the mortification of seeinghis character brought ht upon the stage. The public journals of the Monday after his death were full of anecdotes of his extraordinary life. I may fairly add, that if he had been a man of fortune, with his talents, promptitude, and humour, he aught have made a very respectable figure in life, and have been a useful mem- ber of society.

There are doubtless many in this metropolis who lead a life of expediency, like Bibb, but few who can support their difficulties with such fortitude and cheer- fulness as he did ; or who, like him, can sport with fortune, and rather submit to live by degrading supplications, while cautiously avoiding to incur the seve- rities of law.

These volumes abound with entertaining matter ; and, if we had space to extend our extracts, we should find no difficulty in selecting amusing morsels of an old man's gossip of bygone days and departed celebrities. But having given a number of fair and but average specimens of these Records, we refer the reader to the original ; premising, that those who love anecdote and relish lite- rary history, cannot fail of reaping considerable enjoyment from their perusal.