A few companies have done away entirely with the canvas-outlined turkey and the sawdust-stuffed dumpling, and have meals that figure in the play served on the stage piping hot from some neighboring restaurant. There is genuine wine too, and often it is champagne of such quality that its sparkle makes the eyes of the tipplers in the audience dance, and their mouths run water. In this and many other ways the desire to get as near to the real thing as possible in art has caused encroachments on the property-man's territory, and gradually his treasures are decreasing. Still his occupation is not as gone as Othello's. Travelling combinations have their own property-man, and the theatres each carry one. Besides the magnificent work of producing snow-storms from paper, etc., there are minor details of his business that he brings as much art to as the average actor and actress take to the stage. He builds a warrior's helmet from simple brown manilla paper and makes a pair of bronze urns in the same cheap way, although they may appear to be worth $300. Bronze figures, too, are obtained from the same material; also flower-pots, mantelpieces, and such things. He goes about the work like an artist. He first makes a model in clay of the article—say it is an urn. This done he builds a wooden box around it, and mixing plaster of paris and water pours the mixture between the box and model where it is allowed to harden. After the clay mould has been withdrawn the plaster of paris mould is greased, and five successive coats of small pieces of thick brown paper that have been soaked in water are carefully laid on. A layer of muslin and glue follows, and three more coats of the brown paper. When the application has thoroughly dried, the last three layers of brown paper are removed, and the urn which has been four days in process of completion is ready for use. Goblets for royal or knightly banquets are manufactured by the property-man in the same manner. Often has a golden goblet, ewer, amphora, or salver fallen to the floor from the hands of awkward Ganymedes and Hebes without creating any consternation among the gathered gallants, or making a sound loud enough to ripple above the lightest notes of the orchestra. These properties are light, but very durable, and well withstand the harsh and careless treatment they frequently receive. Often the entire "banquet set" is made of paper, the skilled work of the worthy property-man, who holds probably the most independent place in the theatre, being obliged to carry no article to anybody—not even a foreign star—but leaves that menial work to the stage manager, prompter, or call-boy.

Moonlight is one of the most poetical and beautiful of stage effects. The first work in producing it is done by the scenic artist, who places a moonlight picture on his canvas. The calcium light filtered through a green glass fills the foreground with its mellow influence. At the back of the stage a row of argand burners with light green shades, gives the faint and soft touches that fill in the distance. A "ground piece" or strip of scenery runs along the floor at the back of the stage, and just under the main scene hides the "green mediums," as the shaded burners are called, from the eyes of the audience. Sometimes the row is above the stage, and protected from sight by the "sky-borders." Silver ripples on the surface of water, and twinkling stars in the sky are frequently made features of moonlight scenery. The twinkling stars are bright spangles hung by pin-hooks to the scenes, and the ripples are only slits in the water canvas, behind which an endless towel with slits cut in its surface and a strong gaslight between the rollers and the sides of the towel, is made to revolve. Every time the slits in the towel came opposite the slits in the canvas the light shines through and the silver dance upon the lake or river. When the slits in the towel are made to move upward the ripples seem to lift their silvery tops towards the bending sky. Moonrise, which is always an agreeable illusion, even to those who know how it is done, is effected by lifting the "moon-box," as it is carried slowly up behind a muslin canvas, upon which heavy paper is fastened to represent clouds. The "moon-box" is an ordinary cubial affair with a round hole at one end, over which a strip of muslin is fastened, and behind which is a strong illumination. Two wires from above are manipulated causing the moon to move through its orbit. When its path lies behind one of the paper clouds the fraudulent Cynthia, just like the genuine queen of the heavens, fails to shine, but as soon as she emerges from the dark spot and the outer ruin of the illuminated circular surface of the "moon-box" touches the white muslin once again, she is the fair queen of night and the young lovers in the audience feel as happy as if they were at home swinging on the front gate, while pa is at the club and ma is entertaining an amiable cousin in the second parlor. The flushed countenance of the moon, as she is just rising from Thetis's arms, as you see her every night when she is taking her first dainty steps up the eastern sky, is obtained by having the lower edge of the muslin painted red and gradually blending with the white, while floating clouds are only the result of hanging or sewing on the gauze drop in front of the muslin screen, pieces of muslin or canvas cut into the proper shapes. The change from day to night, or vice versa, effects that surpass the other in real beauty, and also in attractiveness for the public, is produced by having a drop twice the usual length, painted one half in a sunset and the other half in moonlight. If the change from day to night, which is the more effective, is desired, the sunset sky occupies the upper half of the drop—that is nothing but the sunset sky is presented to the eyes of the audience. The distance scenery is painted upon a separate piece and the outlines of the objects are sharply cut out so that the sunset sky can be seen above the irregular outline of the horizon. A gauze drop hangs in front to give the picture the required hazy effect, and red lights give a sunset glow to the entire scene. Rolling up the back drop the change is made slowly and carefully until the moon is discovered in the night half of the sky and goes up with it, while the usual moonlight mediums are brought into requisition to increase the brightness of the view.

There are two ways of producing ocean waves. Sometimes a piece of blue cloth with dashes of white paint for wave-crests covers the entire stage, when the necessary motion of the waters is obtained by having men or boys stationed in the entrances to sway the sea. Again, each billow may be made to show separate with the alternate rows of billows rearing their white crests between the tips of the row on each side. These billows are rocked backward and forward—to and from the audience—while the ocean's roar comes from a wooden box lined with tin and containing a small quantity of bird shot. The desired sound is produced by rolling the box around.

Anybody who has witnessed Milton Noble's "Phoenix" properly placed on the stage, or "The Streets of New York," must have been, the first time, both terrified, and still somewhat delighted, with the fire scenes. Of late years they have been made wonderfully thrilling, and almost perfect fac-similes of the Fire Fiend himself. The scene-painter gets up his house in three pieces. The roof is swung from the "flies"; the front wall is in two pieces, a jagged line running from near the top of one side of the scene to the lower end of the other side. If shutters are to fall, as in "The Streets of New York," they are fastened to the scene with "quick match," a preparation of powder, alcohol, and lamp wick. Iron window and door frames are covered with oakum soaked in alcohol or other fire-quickening fluid. Steam is made to represent smoke, and the steam itself is obtained by dissolving lime in water. A platform from the side affords a footing to the firemen who are fighting the flames in the very midst of the burning building, and an endless towel with painted flames keeps moving across the picture after the first wall and roof have been allowed to fall in, while red fire plays upon the whole picture and "flash torches" are made to represent leaping tongues of flame. There appears to be a great deal of danger from the operation of a scene of this kind, but if proper care is taken the danger is as worthy of consideration as that attending the presentation of a parlor scene.

"The World" has been pronounced a novelty in scenic effects. I went behind the scenes to see how the thing worked, and had the pleasure of finding out all about it. The play is in seven set scenes. The first had nothing unusual in it except that the ship with full steam on and the dock was produced very artistically. The ship and the buildings were in profile with a good stretch of sky beyond, that was all. Next came the explosion scene, when the vessel was, by the supposed use of dynamite, sent flying in splinters in mid-ocean, and all save four souls went down to the briny depths. The mere ship setting, with its boilers, its hatches, its galleries, spars and guys, was worthy of admiration. While the performers were leading up to the point where the awful and fateful moment comes, a man sat quietly behind the scenes ready to fire an anvil of guns, each charged to the muzzle; men stood at the numerous openings in the rear, and men with chemical red-fire occupied the side-scenes, while others with powdered lycopodium were under the stage beneath a half-dozen grated openings. At the left, in the wings, stood an array of "supers," to rush on and increase the commotion when the shock came. When the heavy villain announced that there was a dynamite machine on board, and the captain gave orders to his men to overhaul everything below and try to find it—then the thunder came. Bang went the young cannons in the rear. The stage shook, and the theatre seemed ready to fall about our ears; the females shrieked; the "supers" rushed on and shouted; then came the leaping flames from below and from the sides, until, finally, the whole picture was one burning glow and whirl of smoke, and the curtain came down in time, I suppose, to prevent a panic, for women shrieked, and men got up from their seats to flee from the theatre. Act three brought the grandest illusion of all—the great raft scene. This picture shows a raft tossing on a rolling ocean with a vast stretch of sea on all sides, the sky and waters apparently meeting as far away as if they were realities and not mere attempts at nature. This scene always struck me with awe until I saw it from the stage. The second act at an end, the stage manager has the stage cleared in a short time; then the carpenter and his assistants go to work. A "ground piece" of sea is placed across the stage at the first entrance. All the side scenes are removed and a huge curtain of light blue is hung in a semi-circle from one side of the stage, up around to the rear and then down to the other side. A couple of men now come down to the centre of the stage bearing something that looks like an old barn-door with four swinging legs, one at each corner. A pivot is fastened on the stage; the barn door is balanced on it and down through four small openings in the stage go the four arms or legs, at points corresponding with the four corners of the door. I can see now that the upper side of the door bears a slight resemblance to a rude raft, the timber being artistically painted upon its surface. Somebody sticks a pole in the side up the stage. A box is placed at one end for the villain who is among the saved; a cushion is furnished at the other end for the young lady who plays the lad, Ned; Old Owen, the miner, lies along the lower side and Sir Clement Huntingford, the hero, takes his stand at the mast, pale and haggard with hunger and anxiety. The sea cloth, covering the stage except for a rectangular aperture that goes around the raft and has its edges fastened to the raft, is spread; boys crawl under the sea and lie upon their backs; men stand in the side scenes holding the ragged edges of the already white-crested sea. Everything is ready now, and amid the right kind of music the curtain goes up on the magnificent raft scene. Four men under the stage have hold of the four pieces hanging from the corners of the raft, and by pulling in exact line give it the motion of the heaving sea; the men in the side scenes agitate the blue cloth and the boys beneath it toss and roll the cloth with hands and feet. Old Owen dies before Sir Clement sights a ship no bigger than a star away off in the horizon. He ties a rag to the mast for a signal; but the ship keeps moving past, until at last, to the despair of all on board the raft, it is about to dip below the horizon. But it suddenly tacks; there is a tiny rocket seen curving in the air; the ship has noticed the signal of distress and down comes the curtain upon the happy trio left alive on board their storm-tossed and frail raft. Passing over two acts that are only eventful the sixth comes, which represents the yard of a lunatic asylum, with two great walls on either side of an iron gate that is set well up the stage, and through which a stretch of the River Thames and the overhanging sky are seen. Sir Clement, who is the rightful heir to certain property, has been confined here through the machinations of his brother, who is in possession, and of another scoundrel. Here, though, the hero makes his escape by knocking the officers right and left and bounding through the gate; in a moment the walls part and a house with cornices and wide projections folds together like a stuffed valentine that has been sat upon. One of the walls moves off the stage to the left, the other to the right, each moving in an arc of a circle, and the whole disappearing from the stage, while Sir Clement is discovered paddling safely down the Thames from his pursuers. The walls are moved from the stage through the agency of men stationed inside. Rollers are provided for the scenic structures, and there are two men inside of each piece, the one in advance having a lookout hole and acting as guide. The only thing attractive in the last act is an elevator in the Palace Hotel. This is a simple mechanical effect, however, and needs no explanation. I should have said in describing the sea that the horizon rises gradually from the stage to a height of about three feet at the back, and the sail that is sighted is a tiny ship mounted on a frame work on rollers and pulled across the stage by a small cord. This raft scene is all that has been claimed for it, and the illusion has not its equal on the stage. The revolving tower in "The Shaughraun," and the vanishing scene in "Youth," are both worked in the same manner as the lunatic asylum walls in "The World."