with Hardress, has thrown the painter's
cap upon the ground, and is advancing on that
gentleman, desiring to know " would ye make
hur yer misthriss?" and is about to deliver the
well-known burst about his (Myles's) retaining
the "old spark of virtue," notwithstanding the
temptation his peculiar course of life has exposed
him to:— I say, at this crisis, it is disturbing to be
encouraged by cries of " Give it to him!" " Hit
him, Myles!" and I sympathise with that honest
actor (Mr. Farrell, I think) when he stops and
silences the unruly throng with a look of scorn
and anger. At the same time, I cannot but admire
his readiness, for when encored unreasonably over
and over again in that " Cruiskeen Lawn" {from
motives of pure selfishness in the audience, who
only want to encore themselves), with singular
tact he substitutes for the last verse, " And when
grim death appears," &c., which even I was growing
a little weary of, some lines to this effect:

And when your hearts are sore,
Ye need but look before,
And come here when ye can-an-an;
Here MALACHY you'll find,
And FARRELL'S not behind,
(Pointing to his own waistcoat)
With the heart of a thrue Ire-rish man, man, man!
The heart of a thrue Ire-rish MAN!

But for little eccentricities I know well that
Malachy is not responsible. He has his mind on
greater things. He is unconsciously preaching
Ruskin and Mr. Carlyle, and we are now drawing
on to the water cave, where these principles will
be revealed.

It came on me like a surprise. I was not
prepared for such Realism. As the scene drew
aside, to my astonishment and delight I found the
stage three-quarters covered with a dark gloomy-looking
pool. The necessities of the stage had
indeed compelled him to a slight concession to
some of the popular conventionalities: for the
margin of the pool had to be masked by a canvas
bank, and similarly the approaches at each side,
where the hill leads down to the edge of the
water, had to be lined with profile declivities. This
fiction was unavoidable. But there below us was
the real water, cold, still, deep, impenetrable, and
looking perfectly black, Stygian, and uncomfortable.

I joined cordially in the praise given in the
bill to the author of this arrangement, where it
is stated that " the tank was under the arrangement
of Mr. Malone." Thus, though the idea
was Malachy's, the carrying of it out — often the
most difficult of the two — was Malone's; and it
gave me a better opinion of human nature to
see how generously Malachy allowed to Malone
the full credit of his exertions.

Hush! they come now at last. More Realism.
A real punt, with Danny Mann and the Colleen —
ah, in her old red cloak! — on board. Yet more
Realism: for it will be recollected that the Danny,
in order to stifle the sense of the crime he is about
to commit, has almost stupified himself with
liquor; and it seems to me, from a certain unsteadiness
in the management of the punt, that the
conscientious actor has been " priming" himself.
This would be quite in keeping with what I know
of Malachy's character. Onward they move over
the dark water, amid the cheers of the audience;
but the punt is ill trimmed and ill managed, and
rocks fearfully, and just as they touch the centre
rock, the Danny is overboard, and the Colleen is
prematurely submerged up to her middle. With
infinite presence of mind the Danny rights the
punt, has clambered on board, has landed the
Colleen Bawn on the rock, and has proceeded to
execute his purpose according to the programme.
I am ashamed to say that indecent laughter
greets this casualty.

Now, comes the well-known murder of the
girl; and, having a commanding position, I see
that a sort of dry wooden cell, or caisson, has been
contrived next the rock, into which the poor
struggling thing is plunged. Another concession
to old prejudices, or rather to the Colleen's
own private feelings, who, for no consideration
of salary, could be induced to consent to realistic
immersion! And I can make all allowance,
seeing a wasted-looking neck over the red
cloak, and a very spare figure, and something
like a consumptive chest, and I can very well
excuse Miss Lydia Rooney.

Now comes the retribution. Myles is at hand
on the canvas bank, swings himself over by the
rope - but mark how different the effect of swinging
across real water instead of across "some
ribbons of blue muslin," as Malachy puts it, for
here is the sense of danger — sees that otter we
all know of, and fires his — pistol in this case. It
misses, but Danny, wishing to save the situation,
plunges backward into the water, is seen
struggling there for a time, and is got off at the
wing somehow.

Then comes the " Header" — mark you, a true
header. Nothing finer could be conceived. A
splash of water that goes up to the ceiling.
Even the very noise is satisfactory, for we always
missed that in the other performance. Myles is
an accomplished swimmer. For we can all see
him paddling about; and not content with these
exertions in the holy cause of rescuing the
drowning, he comes out, and "goes in" again
with yet another plunge. But it is a cold night,
and the spectacle becomes really almost as
heroic as the original philanthropy, for both are
done in the cause of duty. At last he gets near
to the dry caisson, out of which he draws the
hapless Eily, raising her to the surface, and he
gasping and leaning on the rock for support in
the traditional way. Poor Eily! She has her
wet probation in the cause of duty also, and not
the least unpleasant portion must be that damp
embrace.

Talking the matter over with Malachy afterwards,
and I need hardly say congratulating him
on his exertions, he tells me the difficulties he
had to encounter were most dispiriting. The
construction of "the tank," even with the
aid of Malone, was almost disheartening. The