lighted up with the glowing rays of genius;-it is as impossible to describe it, as it would be to paint sunbeams. I called on him one evening, he said to me, "I have just finished a little duet for my opera, you shall hear it." He sat down to the piano, and we sang it. I was delighted with it, and the musical world will give me credit for being so, when I mention the duet, sung by Count Almaviva and Susan, “Crudel perchè finora farmi languire così." A more delicious morceau never was penned by man, and it has often been a source of pleasure to me, to have been the first who heard it, and to have sung it with its greatly gifted composer. I remember, at the first rehearsal of the full band, Mozart was on the stage with his crimson pelisse and gold-laced cocked hat, giving the time of the music to the orchestra. Figaro's song, "Non più andrai, farfallone amoroso," Bennuci gave with the greatest animation and power of voice. I was standing close to Mozart, who, soto voce, was repeating, Bravo! Bravo! Bennuci; and when Bennuci came to the fine passage, “Cherubino, alla vittoria, alla gloria militar," which he gave out with Stentorian lungs, the effect was electricity itself, for the whole of the performers on the stage, and those in the orchestra, as if actuated by one feeling of delight, vociferated, Bravo! Bravo! Maestro. Viva, viva, grande Mozart. Those in the orchestra I thought would never have ceased applauding, by beating the bows of their violins against the music-desks. The little man acknowledged, by repeated obeisances, his thanks for the distinguished mark of enthusiastic applause bestowed upon him." On mentioning Father O'Leary, Kelly records a whimsical anecdote or two. "I had the pleasure also to be introduced to my worthy countryman, the Reverend Father O'Leary, the well-known Roman Catholic Priest; he was a man of infinite wit, of instructive and amusing conversation. I felt highly honoured by the notice of this pillar of the Roman Church; our tastes were congenial, for his reverence was mighty fond of whiskey punch, and so was I; and many a jug of St. Patrick's eye-water, night after night, did his reverence and myself enjoy, chatting over that exhilarating and national beverage. He sometimes favoured me with his company at dinner; when he did, I always had a corned shoulder of mutton for him, for he, like some others of his countrymen, who shall be nameless, was ravenously fond of that dish. One day, the facetious John Philpot Curran, who was also very partial to the said corned mutton, did me the honour to meet him. To enjoy the society of such men was an intellectual treat. They were great friends, and seemed to have a mutual respect for each other's talents, and, as it may easily be imagined, O'Leary versus Curran was no bad match. One day, after dinner, Curran said to him, "Reverend Father, I wish you were Saint Peter." "And why, Counsellor, would you wish that I were Saint Peter?" asked O'Leary. "Because, Reverend Father, in that case," said Curran, "you would have the keys of Heaven, and you could let me in." "By my honour and conscience, Counsellor," replied the divine, “it would be better for you that I had the keys of the other place, for then I could let you out.” Curran enjoyed the joke, which he admitted had a good deal of justice in it. O'Leary told us of the whimsical triumph which he once enjoyed over Dr. Johnson. O'Leary was very anxious to be introduced to that learned man, and Mr. Murphy took him one morning to the Doctor's lodgings. On his entering the room, the Doctor viewed him from top to toe, without taking any notice of him, at length darting one of his sourest looks at him, he spoke to him in the Hebrew language; to which O'Leary made no reply. Úpon which the Doctor said to him, "Why do you not answer me, Sir ?" "Faith, Sir," said O'Leary, "I cannot reply to you, because I do not understand the language in which you are addressing me.' Upon this the Doctor, with a contemptuous sneer, said to Murphy, "Why, Sir, this is a pretty fellow you have brought hither ;—Sir, he does not comprehend the primitive language." O'Leary immediately bowed very low, and complimented the Doctor with a long speech in Irish, of which the Doctor, not understanding a word, made no reply, but looked at Murphy. O'Leary, seeing that the Doctor was puzzled at hearing a language of which he was ignorant, said to Murphy, pointing to the Doctor, "This is a pretty fellow to whom you have brought me ;-Sir, he does not understand the language of the sister kingdom."-The Reverend Padre then made the Doctor a low bow, and quitted the room." Of a more mournful interest is the pathetic tale of the Duc D'Aguillon, whom Kelly knew in his emigration. "One morning he called on me, and said he had a favour to beg of me. I requested him to command my services: he said, "My dear Kelly, I am under many obligations for your repeated acts of kindness and hospitality to me and my friends; but still, though under a cloud, and labouring under misfortunes, I cannot forget that I am the Duke D'Aguillon, and cannot stoop to borrow or beg from mortal ; but I confess I am nearly reduced to my last shilling, yet still I retain my health and spirits; formerly, when I was a great amateur, I was particularly partial to copying music,-it was then a source of amusement to me. Now, my good friend, the favour I am about to ask is, that, sub rosa, you will get me music to copy for your theatres, upon the same terms as you would give to any common copyist, who was a stranger to you. I am now used to privations, my wants are few; though accustomed to palaces, I can content myself with a single bed-room up two pair of stairs; and if you will grant my request, you will enable me to possess the high gratification of earning my morsel by the work of my hands." I was moved almost to tears by the application, and was at a loss what to answer, but thought of what Lear says, "Take physic, pomp!" and "to what man may be reduced." I told him I thought I could procure him as much copying as he could do, and he appeared quite delighted; and the next day I procured plenty for him. He rose by daylight to accomplish his task--was at work all day-and at night, full dressed, in the Opera House in the pit. While there, he felt himself Duke D'Aguillon; and no one ever suspected him to be a drudge in the morning, copying music for a shilling per sheet; and strange to say, that his spirits never drooped; nine Englishmen out of ten under such circumstances would have destroyed themselves; but the transitory peace of mind he enjoyed was not of long duration; an order came from the Alien Office for him and his friends to leave England in two days; they took an affectionate leave of me: the Duke went to Hamburgh, and there was condemned to be shot. They told me that he died like a hero. He had a favourite Danish dog, a beautiful animal, which he consigned to my protection, until, as he told me, he had an opportunity to send for him with safety. I pledged myself to take every care of him, and never shall I forget his parting with this faithful animal: it seemed as if the last link which held him to society was breaking; the dog had been the faithful companion of his prosperity-his adversity he caressed, and shed a flood of tears on quitting it-the scene was grievous; but I did not then think that I should never see the Duke more. I took every care of his poor dog-who, missing his kind master, after a little, refused all nourishment, and actually pined, and died. Yet he survived the being who had fed and cherished him." The following story of Sheridan's Pizarro is scarcely credible. "Expectation was on tip-toe; and strange as it may appear, "Pizarro" was advertised, and every box in the house taken, before the fourth act of the play was begun; nor had I one single word of the poetry for which I was to compose the music. Day after day, was I attending on Mr. Sheridan, representing that time was flying; and that nothing was done for me. His answer uniformly was, "Depend upon it, my dear Mic, you shall have plenty of matter to go on with to-morrow;"-but day after day, that morrow came not, which, as my name was advertised as the composer of the music, drove me half crazy. One day I was giving a dinner to the Earl of Guilford, the Marquis of Ormond (then Lord Ormond), my valued friend Sir Charles Bamfylde, Sir Francis Burdett, George Colman, J. Richardson, M. Lewis, and John Kemble; and, about ten o'clock, when I was in the full enjoyment of this charming society, Mr. Sheridan appeared before us, and informed my friends, that he must carry me off with him, that moment, to Drury Lane; begged they would excuse my absence for one hour, and he would return with me. I saw it would be useless to contradict him, so I went to the theatre, and found the stage and house lighted up, as it would have been for a public performance; not a human being there, except ourselves, the painters, and carpenters; and all this preparation was merely that he might see two scenes, those of Pizarro's tent, and the Temple of the Sun. The great author established himself in the centre of the pit, with a large bowl of negus on the bench before him; nor would he move until it was finished. I expostulated with him upon the cruelty of not letting me have the words which I had to compose, not to speak of his having taken me away from my friends, to see scenery and machinery, with which, as I was neither painter, nor carpenter, nor machinist, I could have nothing to do: his answer was, that he wished me to see the Temple of the Sun, in which the chorusses and marches were to come over the platform.— "To-morrow," said he, "I promise I will come and take a cutlet with you, and tell you all you have to do. My dear Mic, you know you can depend upon me; and I know that I can depend upon you; but these bunglers of carpenters require looking after." After this promise, we returned to my house; I found my party waiting; nor did we separate until five o'clock in the morning." "But if this were a puzzling situation for a composer, what will my readers think of that, in which the actors were left, when I state the fact, that, at the time the house was overflowing on the first night's performance, all that was written of the play was actually rehearsing, and that, incredible as it may appear, until the end of the fourth act, neither Mrs. Siddons, nor Charles Kemble, nor Barrymore, had all their speeches for the fifth? Mr. Sheridan was up-stairs in the prompter's room, where he was writing the last part of the play, while the earlier parts were acting; and every ten minutes he brought down as much of the dialogue as he had done, piece-meal, into the green-room, abusing himself and his negligence, and making a thousand winning and soothing apologies, for having kept the performers so long in such painful suspense. One remarkable trait in Sheridan's character was, his penetrating knowledge of the human mind; for no man was more careful in his carelessness; he was quite aware of his power over his performers, and of the veneration in which they held his great talents: had he not been so, he would not have ventured to keep them (Mrs. Siddons particularly) in the dreadful anxiety which they were suffering through the whole of the evening. Mrs. Siddons told me, that she was in an agony of fright; but Sheridan perfectly knew, that Mrs. Siddons, C. Kemble, and Barrymore, were quicker in study than any other performers concerned; and that he could trust them to be perfect in what they had to say, even at half-an-hour's notice. And the event proved that he was right: the play was received with the greatest approbation, and though brought out so late in the season, was played thirty-one nights; and for years afterwards proved a mine of wealth to the Drury Lane treasury, and, indeed to all the theatres in the United Kingdom." The concluding remark is singularly sagacious; and shows that Kelly is not deficient in penetration in those points which came under the sphere of his observation, and are within the scope of his acquirements. One more story of Mr. Sheridan, and we have done. "Mr. Harris, the late proprietor of Covent Garden, who had a great regard for Sheridan, had at different times frequent occasions to meet him on business, and made appointment after appointment with him, not one of which Sheridan ever kept. At length Mr. Harris, wearied out, begged his friend Mr. Palmer, of Bath, to see Mr. Sheridan, and tell him that unless he kept the next appointment made for their meeting, all acquaintance between them must end for ever. Sheridan expressed great sorrow for what had been in fact inevitable, and positively fixed one o'clock the next day to call upon Mr. Harris at the theatre. At about three he literally made his appearance in Hart Street, where he met Mr. Tregent, the celebrated French watchmaker, who was extremely theatrical, and had been the intimate friend of Garrick. Sheridan told him, that he was on his way to call upon Harris. "I have just left him," said Tregent, "in a violent passion, having waited for you ever since one o'clock." "What have you been doing at the theatre?" said Sheridan. "Why," replied Tregent, "Harris is going to make Bate Dudley a present of a gold watch, and I have taken him half a dozen that he may choose one for that purpose." "Indeed," said Sheridan. They wished each other good day, and parted. Mr. Sheridan proceeded to Mr. Harris's room, and when he addressed him, it was pretty evident that his want of punctuality had produced the effect which Mr. Tregent described. "Well, Sir," said Mr. Harris, "I have waited at least two hours for you again; I had almost given you up, and if—” "Stop, my dear Harris," said Sheridan, interrupting him; "I assure you these things occur more from my misfortunes than my fault; I declare I thought it was but one o'clock, for it so happens that I have no watch, and to tell you the truth, am too poor to buy one; but when the day comes that I can, you will see I shall be as punctual as any other man." "Well, then," said the unsuspecting Harris, "if that be all, you shall not long want a watch, for here-(opening his drawer)-are half a dozen of Tregent's best -choose any one you like, and do me the favour of accepting it." Sheridan affected the greatest surprise at the appearance of the watches; but did as he was bid, and selected certainly not the worst of the cadeau." Such are the light and amusing materials which the author, by a singular power of memory, has been able to put together. His accounts of the Italian singers and composers with whom he lived when abroad, will serve to fill up an important gap in the history of music, and will be read with pleasure by all lovers of the stage. To those who, like ourselves, are advanced in life, the latter portion of these volumes will afford a melancholy interest, though the frequent mention of names gracious to the recollection by their association with our earliest pleasures: The dropping off of actor after actor, as it stands recorded in Mr. Kelly's page, affords food for much melancholy reflection. All biography ends in a tragedy; but that of an actor is peculiarly sombre in its close. The strong contrast of the brilliant triumphs and gay dissipations of youth, with the decrepitude, dependence, and abandonment of old age, furnishes a better lesson on the world's vanity and the flight of time, than the most wearisome homily that it was ever our misfortune to listen to. Poor Mich, it must be owned, makes a terrible hash of his French and Italian, if the printer be not more to blame than he; and has fallen into some ludicrous mistakes about persons. He makes Mad. Albani to be the Pretender's daughter instead of his wife. These, however, are trifles which those who knew better may correct, and those who do not will not be led into any serious error by them. One thing is commendable, that there is not a single ill-natured phrase in the whole book. We shall be very much mistaken if these volumes do not become a favourite, and take their place in Theatrical Libraries, beside the Davies's, the Cibbers, the Murphys, and other established historians of "the brief chroniclers of the times." A LETTER TO THE BELLS OF A PARISH CHURCH IN ITALY. FOR God's sake, dear bells, why this eternal noise? Why do you make this everlasting jangling and outcry? Is it not enough that the whole village talk, but you must be talking too? Are you the representative of all the gossip in the neighbourhood? Now, they tell me, you inform us that a friar is dead: now you jingle a blessing on the vines and olives, "babbling o' green fields:" anon you start away in honour of a marriage, and jangle as if the devil were in you. Your love of information may be generous where there are no newspapers; but when you have once informed us that a friar is dead, where is the necessity of repeating the same intelligence for twelve hours together? Did any one ever hear of a newspaper which contained nothing from beginning to end but a series of paragraphs, informing us that a certain gentleman was no more? Died yesterday, Father Paul- and so on from nine in the morning till nine at night? It is like a piece of cut-glass with a thousand faces in it, turned into a sound. You shall have some information in return, very necessary to be known by all the bells in Christendom. Learn then, sacred, but at the same time thoughtless tintinnabularies, that there are dying, as well as dead, people in the world, and sick people who will die if they are not encouraged. What must be the effect of this mortal note unceasingly reiterated in their ears? Who would set a whining fellow at a sick man's door to repeat to him all day long, "Your neighbour's dead;-your neighbour's dead.” But 66 you say, It is to remind the healthy, and not the dying, that we sound; and the few must give way to the many." Good: it delights me to hear you say so, because every thing will of course be changed in the economy of certain governments, except yourselves. But in this particular instance allow me to think you are mistaken. I differ from a belfry with hesitation. Triple bob majors are things before which it becomes a philosophic inquirer to be modest. But have we not memorandums enough to this good end? Have we not coughs, cold, fevers, plethoras, deaths of all sorts occurring round about us, old faces, churchyards, accidents infinite, books, muskets, wars, apothecaries, kings? Is not the whole nation swallowed up in grief when a minister dies? Does not even a royal old lady die now and then? You remind the sick and the dying too forcibly: but you are much mistaken if you think the healthy regard your importunity of advice in any other light than that of a considerable nuisance. They may get used to it; but what then? So much the worse for your admonitions. In like manner they get used to a hundred things which do them no sort of good; which only tend to keep their moods and tempers in a duller state of exasperation. Pray think of this. As to the bell-ringers, whom I should be unwilling to throw out of bread, they might be given some office in the state. Then the marriages. Dear bells, do you ever consider that there are people who have been married two years, as well as two hours. What |