iced beverages, during the heat of the day.
Symptoms of diarrhoea should at once be attended
to. As to those who abuse strong
liquors, or carry dram-drinking to excess, their
fate is certain. One essayist on the cholera of
1832 has written: "The drunkard is condemned
to death by cholera." In short, cleanliness,
with temperance and sobriety in all things, are
the most efficacious preservatives against this
terrible affection.

As to curative means, doctors differ. A
grand point is, for the patient to have faith in
his doctor. The premonitory diarrhoea of cholera
is almost always curable by remedies quite
within the doctor's reach; it should, therefore,
never be neglected during the continuance of
the epidemic. To place the patient immediately
in a warm bed, says Dr. Maurin, to keep up by
gentle, dry friction the action of the skin, and
to provoke a general perspiration, will be so
much assistance rendered to the medical man
during the incubation of the disease; but non-medical
attendants should attempt no more.
To do more, without calling in professional advice,
would be great imprudence. In fact, the
adoption of a decisive course of treatment requires
a knowledge which cannot be communicated
in general terms; there must be a practical
tact and perception which the acutest intellects
can only acquire by long clinical experience.

We may also permit ourselves to indulge in
the hope that the nations of Europe, on sober
reflection, and convinced of the world's solidarity,
will cut off the evil at its root by cultivating
an extraordinarily fertile region, which
would give us in return both health and wealth.
Must we wait another thousand years before
such an incendiary proposition can be entertained?

NEW MOVE IN THE LIFFEY
THEATRE.

SEEING that there is a temple to love, and
brotherhood and peace in, full work in Ireland,
and doing a good peace and brotherhood business,
it is gratifying to me to find the ROYAL
LIFFEY THEATRE sharing in the general prosperity
of the hour. It is, so to speak, in full
swing; that is, if there ever was swing in
lavish pink and yellow posters, and plenty of
flaring fiery-looking gas, and an eager crowd
about the yellow door at the end of the lane, and
a bouquet of its own, not yet " extracted" by
Messrs. Piesse and Lubin. There is such a
theatrically thriving air about the whole, that I
cannot resist, and, wishing to contribute my
little mite to peace and brotherhood, enter by
the yellow door.

And yet, when I think that not so long ago
the Royal Liffey Theatre was a sort of howling
wilderness, where bats, and things more unpleasant
than bats, might have their carnival;
that it was given over to slow decay and desolation;
that no happier personification of mildew
and dry rot could be conceived — the present
transformation seemed almost bewildering. The
oldest theatre certainly in the kingdom — for here,
in the year 1741, Handel tinkled the Messiah at
his harpsichord, and Signora Avoglio sang " I
know that my Redeemer liveth," and Mr.
Dubourg, the state composer, led off the fiddles.
It must have tumbled into sure ruin, gradually
mouldered into a nuisance, and have been taken
down and cut out of the street, like a gangrene,
to prevent its corrupting the houses about it,
unless — unless my friend MR. MALACHY had
stepped forward, secured a lease on easy terms,
and opened to peace and brotherhood at " one
shilling private boxes, with access to the stage,"
and prices judiciously graduated to a penny.

Mr. Malachy had taken deep thought, and,
like an inspiration, it had entered into his brain
to produce the piece I was now looking at; that
drama — like Pope's Kitty, "ever fair and young,"
the Vicar of Wakefield of the stage — THE COLLEEN
BAWN! — on a grand new principle.

Seated in my private box — which is so far
from being private, that there are three other
persons occupying it — I find that we are well on
in the fortunes of the ill-fated Eily. I look round
the house, and find it crammed to the ceiling. I
make out the old rococo shape, the remains of
fossilised pilasters, and mouldering bits of florid
stucco, which is so far good, for it helps me back
to the old magnificence of a hundred and twenty
years ago, when " Mr. Handel" was sitting down
below me, there where the four fiddlers are,
"thrumming" away at his harpsichord, of which
I have now actually a fragment before me; and
when the " lord-lieutenant" and his court were
all crowded together where the ragamuffins are;
and when Mr. Dubourg was leading off his
fiddlers to the Hallelujah chorus, then heard for
the first time. And using my right of access to
the stage, I find my way to the ancient saloon,
awfully damp and green, with the plaster peeling
off, known then, as it is known now, as the
"Grove Room," and which has an air of the old
quality and spaciousness of the old days when
the lord-lieutenant and his nobility came — the
ladies without hoops, the gentlemen without
swords, to give more room to Mr. Handel — and
waited here while the " chairs" and coaches were
called. And surely this is some ghost of that
ancient Messiah of a hundred and forty years
ago! No. It is only Myles singing the Cruiskeen
Lawn, which he is not allowed to sing long,
for here is the whole house coming in in obstreperous
and frantic chorus, shrieking their satisfaction
in their " li-li-li-tle Cruiskeen Law—n!"

Myles, I must confess, is scarcely as efficient
as the original representative of the character,
neither in his dress (he wears an old white hat
without brim or crown, which gives him the air
of a house-painter), nor in his bearing. At the
same time, as the audience take so much part in
the drama, acting, in fact, as a sort of classical
'chorus," it is hard for him to work up his
points properly. Thus, at one of the finest
situations in the play, when Myles, expostulating