Wild Oats; or, The Strolling Gentlemen

PRINTED UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF THE MANAGERS FROM THE PROMPT BOOK.
PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME, PATERNOSTER ROW. SAVAGE AND EASINGWOOD, PRINTERS, LONDON.
With a double respect for talents, and for misfortune, these remarks are begun.
The present comedy is written by O'Keeffe, who saw not the traces of his pen as he marked the paper; whose days pass away, uncheered by the sun or any visible object; but whose mind supports with resignation his bitter calamity, and is enlightened by imagination, whilst his eyes are shut in utter darkness.
Were each close imitator of an author's style punishable by law, like the perpetrator of other wrongs, Mr. O'Keeffe might have been an independent, though not a happy man; for that source of a new kind of mirth, termed by some exquisite nonsense, of which he was the first discoverer, made the town so merry, that, like good wine, he might have sold it at any price; but this rich juice of hilarity, polluted by the false spirit of imitation, at length gave a stupor to those, whom the beverage had before revived; and the pure and the adulterated became distasteful together.
This comedy is the only attempt of the author to produce a drama above opera and farce. His productions, in the latter species of writing, are perfect compositions: nothing of the kind can be superior to his Agreeable Surprise, and his Son-in-Law. He has a number of other farces of little less attraction; such as Peeping Tom. —Another class after that, and each possessing infinite fancy, whim, and novelty. Still success did not follow all his productions: a few years past he wrote very frequently, and sometimes too hastily.
On the first night of representing any of those whimsical dramas, amidst loud peals of laughter at the comic dialogue or incidents, there was generally a most affecting spectacle behind the curtain. O'Keeffe, stone-blind, (not an affliction of birth, but of late years) led by his little son, as a guide, down to the stage-door—to the lock of which he would anxiously place his ear to catch the quickest information how his work was received—and when, unhappily hisses from the audience would sound louder than applause—in strong agitation he would press his hands to each side of his head, as if he had yet one sense too much. Thus he would remain, without sight or hearing, till some unexpected sally of humour in his drama once more put the house in good temper, and they would begin to laugh and applaud;—on which, his son, rapid as lightning, would pull him by the elbow, and cry out, Now, father, listen again.