In the summer of 1830, we accompanied him to pay the veteran Quick a visit at his snug retreat at Islington. Tony Lumpkin (then in his seventy-fifth year), with little round body, flaring eye, fierce strut, turkey-cock gait, rosy gills, flaxen wig, blue coat, shining buttons, white vest, black silk stockings and smalls, bright polished shoes, silver buckles, and (summer and winter) blooming and fragrant bouquet! received us at the door, with his comic treble! The meeting was cordial and welcome. No man than Quick was a greater enthusiast in his art, or more inquisitive of what was doing in the theatrical world. Of Ned Shuter he spoke in terms of unqualified admiration, as an actor of the broadest humour the stage had ever seen; and of Edwin, as a surpassing Droll, with a vis comica of extraordinary power. He considered Tom Weston, though in many respects a glorious actor, too rough a transcript of nature, and Dodd (except in Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, which he pronounced a master-piece of fatuity,) too studied and artificial. He could never account for Garrick's extreme partiality for Woodward, (David delighted to act with him,) whose style was dry and hard; his fine gentleman had none of the fire, spirit, and fascination of Lewis; it was pert, snappish, and not a little ill-bred; but his Bobadil and Pa-rolles were inimitable. He declared the Sir Fretful Plagiary of his guest equal to the best thing that Parsons ever did; yet Parson's Old Doiley was for ever on his lips, and “Don't go for to put me in a passion, Betty!” was his favourite tag, when mine hostess of the King's Head, Islington, put too much lime in his punch. He thought King the best prologue- speaker of his time. In characters of bluff assurance and quaint humour--Brass, Trappanti, Touchstone, &c.--he had no superior. Garrick was his idol! His sitting-room was hung round with engravings of him in Drugger, Richard, Sir John Brute, Kitely, cheek-by-jowl with himself in Sancho, Tony Lumpkin, “Cunning Isaac,” Spado, &c. The time too swiftly passed in these joyous reminiscences. Quick promised to return the visit, but increasing infirmities forbade the pleasant pilgrimage; and soon after he became the Quick and the dead! Our last visit to Mr. Mathews at Kentish Town was in March, 1833. “'Tis agony point with me just now,” he writes. “I have been scribbling from morning till night for three weeks.