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 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 cla