"You

the priest's feelings by an artistic criticismfor, in fact, but three paintings were worthy of more than passing mention - and remarked that he was an ardent admirer of art. are a blessing to me, then," responded the priest, "for I have longed to meet with some one from the outside world who could enlighten me as to the name of a new saint, whose picture is in the sacristy, and whose power for healing the sick is truly wonderful. The picture reached me some three months ago, and since that time many persons have worshiped before it and received almost instant cure from bodily ailments. It is the picture of Saint Lilli, but I am so cut off from the world that I never heard of her until the picture came. Since you have visited us, I feel quite sure that you will be able to enlighten me, and if you will come with me I shall be delighted to show you the picture." So saying, the priest led the way down a long, narrow passage, at the end of which Mr. Foote discovered several men and women kneeling before a picture, the face of which at once impressed him as being very familiar. There," said the priest in an undertone, “is Saint Lilli, and now pray tell me what you may know of her." As soon as his eyes became used to the dim light of the candles, he made a discovery that well-nigh caused him to roar out with laughter, for there hanging on the wall between two tall candles hung a large oil chromo of Mrs. Langtry, with an expression of such merry mischief upon it that it almost seemed to say, "How's this for a saint?" Recovering his composure very quickly, Mr. Foote pretended to study the picture closely, and then turning to the priest said in a voice of great solemnity: "I do not know of any such saint as this picture represents, although the face is remarkably familiar to me. Would it not be a good idea to have the picture photographed and the copy sent to Rome?

The

fathers there will certainly be able to give you a full history of this new saint. America is a Protestant country, you know, and that accounts for my lack of information on the subject. She looks like a young lady better known as the Jersey Lily, who, I believe, makes no great claims upon saintliness." The priest thanked his informant and said he would follow out his suggestions. What the result will be when that picture reaches Rome can better be imagined than described. Mr. Foote is not going to Mexico very soon again.

D. F.

Mr. Joseph Wheelock has been cast as Napoleon in Mrs. Bowers' new play, which is said to be a singularly beautiful dramatic work. Napoleon would enjoy the comparison if he were alive. Dalziel's News Letter.

A WOMAN'S WEAPONS.

THERE's a smile, and a glance, and a blush, and a sigh,
And perhaps, on occasion, a tear:
There's a delicate touch of a hand on the sly,
And a flower she may wear when he's near.

There's a note in her voice that but one may awake,
And a gleam in her blue (or brown) eye;
There's a kiss on her lips that some fellow may take,
(Now why the deuce is n't it I ?)

There's the turn of an ankle, the size of a waist,
And the way that she does up her hair;
There's the fit of a glove, and, according to taste,
The tint of the dress she may wear.

There are words that are often but semi-expressed,
And some are hid others below;

For instance, a .. yes may be frequently guessed
Through a clearly reversible "no."

Yet her infinite change is her strongest of arms,
As the song says, "Femme souvent varie;
But what does she want with such numberless charms
When one of them finishes me?
S. D S., Jr.

MARY ANDERSON AT KILLARNEY.
KILLARNEY'S lakes so bright and pure,
Beneath the Irish skies!
Ye'll smile a happy welcome, sure,
When ye see Mary's eyes.

In Ireland's em'rald bosom set
Ye shine like jewels rare,
But never gem was fairer yet

Than she who wanders there.

But warning word I give to thee:
Ere she has seen ye twice,
The Irish boys and girls will be
A skating on the ice.

Buffalo Express.

Mr.

Another newspaper man in luck. Will R. Wilson, one of the brightest of the Sun's bright young men, assisted by his brother James, has written, and, what is more to the point, had accepted, an American play. It is a melodrama, entitled, "Among the Pines," and treats of life away down East in Maine. Edwin F. Thorne, who purchased it at sight, is particularly pleased with his own part, a dialect one, and feels positive that the play will be a go. He will bring it out early in the season. We welcome a Sun pen "in our midst."

A Wall Street Bandit" is not, as its title may lead some to construe it, a comedy or burlesque of the Stock Exchange, but it is a powerful drama built upon incidents connected with transactions in the street that will be readily recalled by those who witness the play. Its first production is announced for September 25, at the Standard Theatre.

Speaking of Charles B. Welles' performance as Prince Paola, with Mr. Barrett last week, the Tribune said: "His performance possessed the weight appertaining to a resolute character, the sentiment and ardor that are natural to youth, and the theatrical merit of strong and free expression."

The realism of to-day is brutal. It has lifted its hand and smitten Desdemona. What killed her? Was that untimely death brought on by a pillow, or did her maddened husband drive a dagger into her white bosom? Deaths on the stage run through the gamut of human wickedness. If dramatic literature takes its suggestions from romance, the first follows but slower the latter, and is not "in at the death." Novelists, English ones, are at their wits' ends for tragical denouements. You can't conveniently paralyze a hero or heroine on the stage by means of an electric current. It is not visible enough, nor can drowning in a bath-tub be made exactly effective. There was a suggestion presented the other day in an English romance, which the author took a great deal of pride in, and seemed to think might be adapted to the stage. The hero and heroine were to walk on a gravel bank overhanging the scene, with practical precipice below. The woman had sworn vengeance, and her betrayer was to be done away with. She knows the ground, and is so light-footed, that like a second Atalanta she can "skim over the plain." The hero is necessarily a heavyweight. There is a dainty flower blooming just at the edge of the treacherous gravel bank. She lures him on; bids him pluck for her "that one sweet flower." He ventures, when down he comes, and there is an avalanche. Several cart loads of real gravel and a barrel of genuine cobble-stones are shot or dumped on the resounding stage. Would not that bring down the house?

Returning to Desdemona, it was Garrick who first used cold steel, and leading American and English actors have followed suit. Dr. Furness is quite certain that Shakespeare never had any idea of using a dagger for Desdemona's death. "I'll not shed her blood," says Othello, and again, "Your niece, whose breath indeed these hands have newly stopped" may allude to suffocation, though as an indication, it is by no means as suggestive of how Desdemona was killed, as I'll not shed her blood." Did Desdemona have her neck broken? There is a realistic American surgeon, who having studied Shakespeare, gives in his evidence as if it were an opinion delivered before a ⚫ crowner's quest.' He insists her neck was broken. Desdemona died of fracture of the cricoid cartilage of the larynx." To smother is a very unusual death. Criminal records present it but rarely, and perhaps only in cases of very young children. Suffocation, to be critical in regard to such a dreadful subject, is, according to popular opinion, confined to the use of something as a pillow, which is stuffed or thrust into the mouth and nose, so as to pre

vent breathing, but suffocation may be better brought about by a tight clutching of the throat. Did then Othello use the pillow or his nervous hands when he throttled Desdemona? We incline to the latter method as the one he used, inflicting then death, and that he never stabbed his wife. German critics insist, for the major part, that the dagger is out of place. Realistic effects may be quite well in their way, but it would be too horrible, too dragging in its ugly action to smother Desdemona with a pillow; Desdemona would be dying for ten minutes. Othello may have used the pillow to stifle her moaning. We think with his sinuous fingers tight set 'round her svelt neck, he killed her. In the hands of a strong, powerful man a death of this kind, thus brought about, would be speedy and fearfully dramatic. The Thugs, though they used a cord, sometimes killed their victims with a peculiar clutch applied to the windpipe. As it is, how Desdemona ought to be killed, is a subject still worthy of discussion.

Barnet Phillips.

A POEM TO WILSON BARRETT. AT the great banquet at Leeds, given in honor of Mr. Wilson Barrett, a copy of the following poem was offered to each of the guests:

We speed thee o'er the wide Atlantic waste,
With words and wishes full of loving fire;
We pledge thee in a farewell cup, whose taste
Hath nothing bitter. What can we desire
More for thee, master of a glorious art,
Than ever-widening circles of renown?
And since for thy new laurels' sake we part,
And for the winning of another crown

In art's wide world, our farewell words are said
With right good will, with wave of friendly hand:
And with our hearts' best wishes art thou sped
Forth on thy voyage to the younger land,
Go thou thy way with purpose high and true,
We guard old laurels while thou winnest new.
Leave them to us, those shining leaves of fame,
Won by thy worthy work in by-gone days,
Leave thou to us the glory of thy name

Bright with the lustre of deserved praise.
Win thou new laurels, we will guard the old,
Yea, with the loyal faith of English hearts,
And when the hours of absence are all told,
Come back to us, thou Player of many parts:
Come back, and let us learn of thee again
The solemn lesson of "The Silver King ;"
Follow thy Claudian on his path of pain;

Hear the grand eloquence of Junius ring
Through ear and heart; and sadly ponder on
The lonely, awful death of Chatterton.
Or bring us, Master, from the western land,
A new romance of opposites enwove,
The wild adventures of some lawless band,
Joined to an idyl of sweet fireside love.
But come, come back to us, ere it be long,
A welcome waits for thee of voice and heart,
The wild applauding welcome of the throng,
The subtler welcome of quick drops that start
When thy rich voice unlocks the fount of tears.
Come back to us in all thy strength and grace,
Not one, no, not the greatest of thy peers,
Can ever fill for us thy vacant place.
Pluck thou new laurels from a younger tree.
Then claim the wreath old England keeps for thee.

THE PRESTIDIGITATEUSE.

FROM FACTS FURNISHED BY THE HEROINE.

IT was my first appearance in New York, so it was only natural for me to be a little nervous. Everything had passed off successfully thus far, however; the house was crowded and the audience appreciative, and each "illusion" had been received with loud applause. When my share of the evening's work was over, I went down to the room underneath the stage, where I could look through a peep-hole and criticise the audience. My brother and I were the only members of the company; he was acknowledged master of his profession; as for myself (his halfsister), I was but a beginner, but I had youth and vivacity, and sense sufficient to learn the "second-sight" and other tricks, and do as he told me.

As I sat looking through the tiny hole in the partition which separated me from the auditorium, I came to the pleasing conclusion that the occasion of my first appearance in New York was a decided success. There was not a sleepy, bored-looking face in the whole house, not an empty seat from gallery to orchestra, nothing but smiles of approval, mystified looks and thunders of applause. Even those tricks that were not altogether original — not to say rather old but which helped to fill our programme, were applauded vigorously, for my brother knew to perfection the art of mystifying; and possessed, moreover, such a ready tongue and such a merry laughing face, that his audience, beginning with gentle titters, broke at last into loud peals of mirth, and two young newspaper reporters, sitting in front stalls, threw back their heads and laughed until they cried.

I was laughing, too, in sympathy with the rest, when the gentle tinkling of a bell from above made me start up suddenly. My brother was about to perform the since well-known trick of the rings and the doves, and the bell was his signal for me to be ready to do my part. I saw him pass down among the spectators, borrowing a hat, a handkerchief, and three finger-rings," and then I went over to the table, opened a bird-cage which stood near and let out the three white doves. A few minutes afterwards the trap-door above me opened noiselessly, and down came the rings. It was my duty to tie each of these rings to the neck of a dove, and at a signal from the stage send the birds up with their precious burdens. It was a pretty little trick and the soft, snowwhite doves were always greeted with a buzz of admiration when the hat was lifted, and they fluttered out, perching upon their master's head and shoulders. I had ready three bits of scarlet ribbon with which I began at once to tie on the rings. They were all valuable, and the last one I took up was a diamond of such

unusually good quality, and such dazzling brilliancy that I stopped suddenly in the act of putting on the ribbon to look at the stone. I had never seen such a beautiful diamond before; the temptation was irresistible. I put the ring on my finger. It was a size too large for me, and while I was turning my hand this way and that to see the diamond flashing in the gaslight, the ring fell off. I stooped hastily to pick it up, but struck my foot against it, and it disappeared before my eyes. Then I went down on my knees to hunt for it, but in vain; I took up the loose ragged bits of matting which covered the floor, put a lighted candle down beside me and searched again. At last, I found - not a ring, but a hole- a small, jagged hole in the old boards of the flooring. The mystery was explained, and by putting my face close to the opening, I could see the diamond far down below me, shining and flashing in the darkness. What was I to do? My first thought was to call one of the attendants and send him down to the cellar for the ring, but that would not do, for my brother had given me strict orders to allow no one to come into the room beneath the stage, and besides, I dared not trust such valuable property to the care of a servant. I looked at my

watch and found that I had wasted several minutes in reflecting. Before very long Albert would want the rings, and suppose I could send him only two!

What would he think, how cover his confusion and account for the non-appearance of the third ring? It would not do for him to leave the stage. What would not be the suspicions of the spectators? There was only one thing to do, and that must be done at once – I must go myself and get the ring.

The thought filled me with dismay, for I knew that the cellar was dark, full of rats, and above all, was not an ordinary place at all — it was an old burial vault! The theatre had originally been a church, though when we engaged it, my brother assured me that the bodies in the vault had long since been removed. Yet the thought of going down there alone made me shiver from head to foot. There was no other way out of the difficulty, however, so I got up from the floor, where I had been kneeling, picked up the candle, thrust the doves back into their cage, and went out of the room, locking the door carefully behind me. There was a gaslight burning in the passage leading to the door of the cellar, and as I unbolted this door, and threw it open, a cold wind, bearing a damp, musty odor, greeted me and made me wince. Then I lighted my candle, picked up the end of my dress and went down the narrow stone steps, wondering what I should have thought if anyone had told me that I was to be down in a burial vault, alone, at eleven

o'clock at night! And in full evening dress! My arms were bare, my neck covered only by a thin lace material, my kid boots were no protection against the dampness of the stones, and I felt the clinging cold creep through the thin soles. I must have presented rather a queer spectacle, picking my way between those gloomy stone arches, with my train of pale green brocade thrown over my bare jeweled arm, and holding in the other hand a tallow candle in a tin candle-stick! I went on as quickly as I could, over rubbish of all kinds, and as I raised the candle to look about me cautiously, a tall, dark figure glided by, between me and the opposite wall. In a second my heart stood still, and a cold dew broke out upon my forehead, but the next instant I decided that it was my own shadow. "My shadow, of course!" I cried aloud, by way of reassuring myself, and I was trying to forget it, when I heard a low rushing sound and felt a blast of cold wind on the back of my neck. Then I remembered that a window at the top of the stairs had been left open. If only I had thought to close it! A loud banging sound told me that the door of the vault had blown to. A damp, clammy wind enveloped me for a moment, and then my candle's flame flared over, sputtered, smoked and went out. I had no matches, and the darkness was so thick that I could feel it. I turned to retreat, but the thought of the ring and of my brother, and of what the consequence of my cowardice might be, made me stop suddenly, turn round, and then start forward again, grasping at the damp stone walls to keep myself from falling. Something glided over my foot, then rattled in the | rubbish near me. Again my courage sank, but only for a moment. I stumbled on, exclaiming, "A frightened rat, that is all!" Then I saw just over my head a tiny chink in the ceiling with the gaslight shining through. It was my first ray of comfort. I strained my eyes to pierce the darkness of the floor, almost sobbing in my eagerness.

The ring, the diamond ring!" and there it lay, sparkling and twinkling like a star a yard or two before me.

I sprang towards it, stepping in among a lot of miscellaneous articles which I could not distinguish, and stretched my hand to grasp the treasure, but drew back suddenly with a cry of horror. I had tangled my fingers in a long lock of hair the hair of some dead woman! A sickening sensation came over me, my blood curdled in my veins, and every nerve seemed paralyzed. I leaned heavily against the wall and for a moment forgot the ring, and everything on earth besides.

Then I heard a peculiar muffled sound which gradually grew louder and more distinct, until

I recognized the clapping of hands and the striking of canes upon the floor. That roused me, for it brought a sense of my responsibility

I knew that I ought to be at that moment in my place at the table up-stairs with the rings and doves all ready to send up through the trap. In an instant's flash of thought I saw the trouble and suspicion that would be brought upon my brother by the indignant demands of the owner of the ring- then I set my teeth together, stooped over the diamond once more, clutched at it madly, sprang up, and flew towards the stone staircase. Unmindful of the bruises I received from the walls and arches which I kept running against in the inky darkness; not daring to turn round when my skirts caught on something and I thought that I was being held; possessed only with the idea of escaping from that awful place, I dashed about like a maniac until I reached the steps, ran up, and along the passage to the room where I had left the doves. As I entered I heard the bell from the stage ringing impatiently; I flew to the table, let out the doves, tied on the ring with ice-cold fingers, sent the birds up through the trap heard a loud sound of applause, and then fell back and knew no

-The Pope has requested M. Gounod to conduct a performance of Mors et Vita" at the Vatican early next year.

- Buffalo Commercial Advertiser: There is a capital process-photographic picture in THE THEATRE for September 13, likeness of Mrs. Gilbert and James Lewis, taken in London.

Boston Home Journal: THE THEATRE, of New York, on Saturday completed its first volume, and seems to be well launched on a sea of prosperity. The last number is especially valuable in illustrations, having a fine picture of Mrs. Gilbert and Mr. James Lewis as a frontispiece, and several other excellent portraits, with interesting articles relative to dramatic affairs. The dignified tone of THE THEATRE entitles it to respect both from the public and the profession, in the interest of which it is issued.