by others.  He is under the rule of a “super-master,” who is in his turn governed by the wavings of the prompter’s white flag in the wings, the prompter being controlled by the stage-manager, who is supposed to be the executant of the dramatist’s intentions.  The “super’s” position upon the stage is strictly defined for him; sometimes even marked on the boards with chalk.  He may not move until the word of command is given him, and then every change of station or attitude must be pursuant to previous instruction.  And his duties are sometimes arduous.  He may often be required to change his attire and assume a new personality in the course of one night’s performances.  A member of a band of brigands in one scene, he may in another be enrolled in a troop of soldiers, sent to combat with and capture those malefactors.  In the same play he may wear now the robes of a nobleman, and now the rags of a mendicant.  A demon possessed of supernatural powers at the opening of a pantomime, he is certain before its close to be found among those good-natured people who saunter across the stage for the sole purpose, as it would seem, of being assaulted and battered by the clown and pantaloon.  It is not surprising altogether that a certain apathy gradually steals over him, and that such intelligence as he ever possessed becomes in time somewhat numbed by the peculiar nature of his profession.  Moreover, in regard to the play in which he takes part he is generally but dimly informed.  Its plot and purpose are mysteries to him.  He never sees it represented or rehearsed as an entirety.  His own simple duties accomplished, he is hurried to the rear of the stage to be out of the way of the actors.  Why he bends his knee to one performer and loads another with fetters; why there is banning in this scene and blessing in that; why the heroine in white adores the gallant in blue and abominates her suitor in red, are to him inexplicable matters.  The dramas in which he figures only impress his mind in relation to the dresses he is constrained to assume during their representation, the dresses being never of his own choosing, rarely fitting him, and their significance being always outside his comprehension.  To him the tragedy of “King John” is but the occasion on which he and his fellows “wore them tin-pots on our ’eads;” “Julius Caesar” the play in which “we went on in sheets.”  “What are we supposed to be?” a curious “super” once inquired of a more experienced comrade.  “Blessed if I know!” was the answer.  “Demons, I expect.”  They were clothing themselves in chain-mail, and were “supposed to be”—­Crusaders.

The “super’s” dress is, indeed, his prime consideration, and out of it arises his greatest grievance.  He must surrender himself unconditionally to the costumier, and obey implicitly his behests.  Summer or winter he has no voice in the question; he must clothe himself warmly or scantily, just as he is bidden.  “Always fleshings when there’s a frost,” a “super”