the lady of the ballet, in the shabbiest of ball dresses, who hangs affectionately upon his arm.  The limited amount of his stipend naturally asserts itself in his costume, which will not bear critical investigation.  His boots are of the homeliest and sometimes of the muddiest; coarse dabs of rouge appear upon his battered cheeks; his wig—­for a “super” of this class almost always wears a wig—­is unkempt and decayed; his white cravat has a burlesque air; and his gloves are of cotton.  There are even stories extant of very economical “supers” who have gone halves in a pair of “berlins,” and even expended rouge on but one side of their faces, pleading that they were required to stand only on the right or the left of the stage, as the case might be, and as they could thus be seen but in profile by the audience, these defects in their appearance could not possibly attract notice.  Altogether the “super’s” least effective performance is that of “a guest.”

It is a real advance for a “super” when he is charged with some small theatrical task, which removes him from the ranks of his fellows.  He acquires individuality, though of an inferior kind.  But his promotion entails responsibilities for which he is not always prepared.  Lekain, the French tragedian, playing the part of Tancred, at Bordeaux, required a supernumerary to act as his squire, and carry his helmet, lance, and shield.  Lekain’s personal appearance was insignificant, and his manner at rehearsal had been very subdued.  The “super” thought little of the hero he was to serve, and deemed his own duties slight enough.  But at night Lekain’s majesty of port, and the commanding tone in which he cried, "Suivez moi!" to his squire, so startled and overcame that attendant that he suddenly let fall, with a great crash, the weapons and armour he was carrying.  Something of the same kind has often happened upon our own stage.  “You distressed me very much, sir,” said a famous tragedian once to a “super,” who had committed default in some important business of the scene.  “Not more than you frightened me, sir,” the “super” frankly said.  He was forgiven his failure on account of the homage it conveyed to the tragedian’s impressiveness.

M. Etienne Arago, writing some years since upon les choristes, calls attention to the important services rendered to the stage by its mute performers, and demands their wider recognition.  He ventures to hold that as much talent is necessary to constitute a tolerable figurant as to make a good actor.  He describes the figurant as a multiform actor, a dramatic chameleon, compelled by the special nature of his occupation, or rather by its lack of special nature, to appear young or old, crooked or straight, noble or base-born, savage or civilised, according to the good pleasure of the dramatist.  “Thus, when Tancred declaims, ’Toi, superbe Orbassan, c’est toi que je defie!’ and flings his gauntlet upon the stage, Orbassan has but to wave his hand and an attendant advances boldly, stoops, picks up the gage of battle, and resumes his former position.  That is thought to be a very simple duty.  But to accomplish it without provoking the mirth of the audience is le sublime du metier—­le triomphe de l’art!”