'society' smirk passed off certain faces that were as trained to grin as their tongues were trained to lie,--the dreadful giggle of the unwedded man-hunter was no longer heard,--and soon the most exaggerated fashion-plate of a woman forgot to rustle her gown. The passionate vibrations of a violoncello, superbly played to a double harp accompaniment, throbbed on the stillness with a beseeching depth of sound,--and people listened, I saw, almost breathlessly, entranced, as it were, against their wills, and staring as though they were hypnotized, in front of them at the gold curtain with its familiar motto-- "All the world's a stage And all the men and women merely players." Before we had time to applaud the violoncello solo however, the music changed,--and the mirthful voices of violins and flutes rang out in a waltz of the giddiest and sweetest tune. At the same instant a silvery bell tinkled, and the curtain parted noiselessly in twain, disclosing the first tableau--"Society." An exquisite female figure, arrayed in evening-dress of the richest and most extravagant design, stood before us, her hair crowned with diamonds, and her bosom blazing with the same lustrous gems. Her head was slightly raised,--her lips were parted in a languid smile,--in one hand she held up-lifted a glass of foaming champagne,--her gold-slippered foot trod on an hour-glass. Behind her, catching convulsively at the folds of her train, crouched another woman in rags, pinched and wretched, with starvation depicted in her face,--a dead child lay near. And, overshadowing this group, were two Supernatural shapes,--one in scarlet, the other in black,--vast and almost beyond the stature of humanity,--the scarlet figure represented Anarchy, and its blood-red fingers were advanced to clutch the diamond crown from 'Society's' brow,--the sable-robed form was Death, and even as we looked, it slowly raised its steely dart in act to strike! The effect was weird and wonderful,--and the grim lesson the picture conveyed, was startling enough to make a very visible impression. No one spoke,--no one applauded,--but people moved restlessly and fidgetted on their seats,--and there was an audible sigh of relief as the curtain closed. Opening again, it displayed the second tableau--'Bravery--Ancient and Modern.' This was in two scenes;--the first one depicted a nobleman of Elizabeth's time, with rapier drawn, his foot on the prostrate body of a coarse ruffian who had evidently, from the grouping, insulted a woman whose slight figure was discerned shrinking timidly away from the contest. This was 'Ancient Bravery,'--and it changed rapidly to 'Modern,' showing us an enervated, narrow-shouldered, pallid dandy in opera-coat and hat, smoking a cigarette and languidly appealing to a bulky policeman to protect him from another young noodle of his own class, similarly attired, who was represented as sneaking round a corner in abject terror. We all recognised the force of the application, and were