wild looks, their violent gestures, and, above all, their strange and guttural language, for they were all speaking Irish, attracted the attention of the manager; the effect, to his professional eye was good, the thought struck him at once. Here were the very fellows he wanted. It was scarcely necessary to alter any thing about them, they were ready made to his hand, and in many respects better savages than their prototypes. Through the mediation of some whiskey, the appropriate liquor in all treaties of this nature, a bargain was readily struck, and in two hours more, ‘these forty thieves’ were rehearsing upon the classic boards of our theatre, and once more, La Perouse, in all the glory of red capital letters, shone forth in the morning advertisements. The run of the piece continued unabated; the Indians were the rage; nothing else was thought or spoken of in Dublin, and already the benefit of Ashewaballagh Ho was announced, who, by the by, was a little fellow from Martin’s estate in Connemara, and one of the drollest dogs I ever heard of. Well, it so happened that it was upon one of their nights of performing that I found myself, with Mr. Burke, a spectator of their proceedings; I had fallen into an easy slumber, while a dreadful row in the box lobby roused me from my dream, and the loud cry of ‘turn him out,’ ‘pitch him over,’ ‘beat his brains out,’ and other humane proposals of the like nature, effectually restored me to consciousness; I rushed out of the box into the lobby, and there, to my astonishment, in the midst of a considerable crowd, beheld my friend, Mr. Burke, belaboring the box-keeper with all his might with a cotton umbrella of rather unpleasant proportions, accompanying each blow with an exclamation of ‘well, are they Connaughtmen, now, you rascal, eh? are they all west of Athlone, tell me that, no? I wonder what’s preventing me beating the soul out of ye.’ After obtaining a short cessation of hostilities, and restoring poor Sharkey to his legs, much more dead than alive from pure fright, I learned, at last, the teterrima causa belli. Mr. Burke, it seems, had entered into conversation with Sharkey, the box-keeper, as to all the particulars of the theatre, and the present piece, but especially as to the real and authentic history of the Indians, whose language he remarked, in many respects to resemble Irish. Poor Sharkey, whose benefit-night was approaching, thought he might secure a friend for life, by imparting to him an important state secret; and when, therefore, pressed rather closely as to the ‘savages’ whereabout’ resolved to try a bold stroke, and trust his unknown interrogator. ‘And so you don’t really know where they come from, nor can’t guess?’ ‘Maybe, Peru,’ said Mr. Burke, innocently. ‘Try again, sir,’ said Sharkey, with a knowing grin. ‘Is it Behring’s Straits?’ said Mr. Burke. ‘What do you think of Galway, sir?’ said Sharkey, with a leer intended to cement a friendship for life; the