he occasion. I found that during the
many years which had elapsed since I had previously seen him until I met
him again quite recently he had been a great traveller, not only in this
country and America, but also in South Africa and Australia.

We had a number of harmonized choruses, including several of Moore's
melodies, Banim's "Soggarth Aroon," "Native Music," by Lover; McCann's
"O'Donnell Aboo!" and others. "Killarney," words by Falconer, music by
Balfe, was sung by James McArdle, who had a fine tenor voice. Richard
Campbell was our principal humorous singer. He used chiefly to give
selections from Lover's songs, and one song written for him by John
McArdle, "Pat Delany's Christenin'."

John had an instinctive grasp of stage effect. A hint of the
possibilities of an idea was enough for him. On my return from the
Curragh I told him of how I had heard the militia men and soldiers
singing the "Shan Van Vocht" on the road. He decided that this should be
our _finale_, the climax of the first part of our minstrel
entertainment.

We had a drop scene representing the Lower Lake of Killarney. When it
was raised it disclosed the interior of the living room of a comfortable
Irish homestead, with the large projecting open chimney, the turf fire
on the hearth, and the usual pious and patriotic pictures proper to such
an interior--Terence's Fireside.

Ours was a very self-contained company. Each had some special line as
singer, musician, elocutionist, story teller or dancer.

John Clarke was our chief actor. He excelled in "character parts," and,
when well "made up" as an old man made a capital "Terence" in the first
part of the entertainment, besides giving a fine rendering of Lefanu's
"Shemus O'Brien" between the parts.

In the miscellaneous part there was a rattling Irish jig by Joseph Ward
and Barry Aylmer. The latter, being of somewhat slight figure and a
good-looking youth, made a bouncing Irish colleen. These two made a
point of studying from nature, not only in their dancing, but in their
acting and singing, so that their performances were always true to life,
without an atom of exaggeration. They were always received with great
enthusiasm, particularly by the old people, who seemed transported back,
as by the touch of a magic wand, to the scenes of their youth.

We finished the evening with a sketch, written by John McArdle, called
"Phil Foley's Frolics"--he was fond of alliteration. Noticing that
Joseph Ward had