pprentice, the some of forty
shillings and a citterne, a bandore, and a lute, to be paid and
delivered unto him at the expiration of his terme of yeres in his
indentur of apprenticehood." From his bequests of musical instruments,
it has been conjectured that Phillips sometimes played in what is now
called the orchestra of the theatre. A sum of forty shillings in
Elizabeth's time represents the value of about ten pounds of our
currency. What with its "gatherers," "servitors," and journeymen, the
Shakespearean stage was obviously provided sufficiently with
supernumerary assistants.

The "super" is useful, even ornamental in his way, though it behoves
him always to stand aloof from the foot-lights, so that distance may
lend his aspect as much enchantment as possible; but he is not highly
esteemed by the general public. In truth he has been long the object
of ridicule and caricature. He is charged with stupidity, and is
popularly considered as a very absurd sort of creature. But he has
resigned his own volition; he has but to obey. He is as a puppet whose
wires are pulled 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 h