It used to be said that at the Parisian Cirque, once famous for its battle-pieces, refractory “supers” were always punished by being required to represent “the enemy” of the evening:  the Russians, Prussians, English, or Arabs, as the case might be—­who were to be overcome by the victorious soldiers of France—­repulsed at the point of the bayonet, trampled upon and routed in a variety of ignominious ways.  The representatives of “the enemy” complained that they could not endure to be hopelessly beaten night after night.  Their expostulation was unpatriotic; but it was natural.  For “supers” have their feelings, moral as well as physical.  At one of our own theatres a roulette-table was introduced in a scene portraying the salon at Homburg, or Baden-Baden.  Certain of the “supers” petitioned that they should not always appear as the losing gamesters.  They desired sometimes to figure among the winners.  It need hardly be said that the money that changed hands upon the occasion was only of that valueless kind that has no sort of currency off the stage.

When “supers” appear as modern soldiers in action, it is found advisable to load their guns for them.  They fear the “kick” of their weapons, and will, if possible, avoid firing them.  Once in a military play a troop of grenadiers were required to fire a volley.  Their officer waved his sword and gave the word of command superbly; but no sound followed, save only that of the snapping of locks:  Not a gun had been loaded.  An unfortunate unanimity had prevailed among the grenadiers.  Each had forborne to load his weapon, trusting that his omission would escape notice in the general noise, and assured that a shot more or less could be of little consequence.  It had occurred to no one of them that his scheme might be put into operation by others beside himself—­still less that the whole band might adopt it.  But this had happened.  For the future their guns were given them loaded.

CHAPTER XXXI.

“GAG.”

The stage, like other professions, is in some sort to be considered as a distinct nation, possessing manners, customs, a code, and, above all, a language of its own.  This, by the outside world, is designated “slang;” just as in one country the tongue of another is vulgarly described as gibberish.  Now and then, however, a word escapes from the peculiar vocabulary of the players, and secures the recognition and acceptance of the general public.  It may not be forthwith registered in formal dictionaries, or sanctioned by the martinets of speech and style; still, like a French sou or a Jersey halfpenny appearing amongst our copper coins, it obtains a fair degree of currency and circulation, with little question as to the legitimacy of the mint from which it originally issued.