was once heard to grumble, who conceived the classical system of dress or undress—­and for that matter, perhaps, the classical drama also—­to be invented solely for his inconvenience and discomfort.  But more trying than this antique garb is the demoniac mask of pantomime, which is as a diver’s helmet ill provided with appliances for admitting air or permitting outlook.  The group of panting “supers,” with their mimic heads under their arms—­their faces smeared with red or blue, in accordance with direction, not of their own choice—­to be discovered behind the scenes during the performance of a Christmas piece, is an impressive portion of the spectacle, although it is withheld from the contemplation of the audience.  There have been “supers” who have approached very near to death by suffocation, from the hurtful nature of their attire, rather than fail in the discharge of their duties.  For there is heroism everywhere.

The stage has always been fertile in the matter of anecdotage, and of course comical stories of “supers” have abounded; for these, the poorest of players are readily available for facetious purposes.  Thus, so far back as the days of Quin, there is record of a curious misapprehension on the part of the supernumeraries of the time.  Quin’s pronunciation was of a broad old-fashioned kind, a following of a traditional method of elocution from which Garrick did much to release the theatre.  The play was Thomson’s “Coriolanus,” and Quin appeared as the hero.  In the scene of the Roman ladies’ entry in procession, to solicit the return to Rome of Coriolanus, the stage was filled with tribunes and centurions of the Volscian army, bearing fasces, their ensigns of authority.  Quin, as the hero, commanded them to “lower their fasces” by way of homage to the matrons of Rome.  But the representatives of the centurions understood him to mean their faces, and much to the amusement of the audience all reverently bowed their heads with absurd unanimity.

But it is as the performers of “guests” that the “supers” have especially moved derision in our theatres; and, indeed, on the Parisian stage les invites have long been established provocatives of laughter.  The assumption of evening dress and something of the manners of polite society has always been severely trying to the supernumerary actor.  What can he really know of balls and fashionable assemblies?  Of course speech is not demanded of him, nor is his presence needed very near to the proscenium, but he is required to give animation to the background, and to be as easy and graceful as he may in his aspect and movements.  The result is not satisfactory.  He is more at home in less refined situations.  He is prone to indulge in rather grotesque gestures, expressive of admiration of the brilliant decorations surrounding him, and profuse, even servile gratitude for the hospitality extended to him.  He interchanges mute remarks, enlivened by surprising grimaces, with