What eager transport stares from every eye,
When pulleys rattle and our genii fly,
When tin cascades like falling waters gleam,
Or through the canvas bursts the real stream,
While thirsty Islington laments in vain
Half her New River rolled to Drury Lane.
Of late years a change has come over the equestrian drama. The circus flourishes, and quadrupeds figure now and then upon the stage, but the "horse spectacle" has almost vanished. The noble animal is to be seen occasionally on the boards, but he is cast for small parts only, is little better than a four-footed super
numerary. He comes on to aid the pageantry of the scene; even opera does not disdain his services in this respect. A richly-caparisoned charger performs certain simple duties in "Masaniello," in "Les Huguenots," "L'Etoile du Nord," "Martha," "La Juive," and some few other operas. The late M. Jullien introduced quite a troop of cavalry in his "Pietro il Grande," but this homage to horseflesh notwithstanding, the world did not greatly prize the work in question. The horse no longer performs "leading business." Plays are not now written for him. He is no longer required to evince the fidelity and devotion of his nature by knocking at street-doors, rescuing a prisoned master, defending oppressed innocence, or dying in the centre of the stage to slow music. Something of a part seemed promised him when the popular drama of "Flying Scud" was first represented; at least, he supplied that work with its title. But it was speedily to be perceived that animal interests had been subordinated to human. More prominent occupation by far was assigned to the rider than to the horse. A different plan of distributing parts prevailed when "The High-mettled Racer" and kindred works adorned the stage. A horse with histrionic instincts and acquirements had something like a chance then. But now he can only lament the decline of the equestrian drama. True, the circus is still open to him; but in the eyes of a well-educated performing horse a circus must be much what a music-hall is in the opinion of a tragedian devoted to five-act plays.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE "SUPER."
The theatrical supernumerary—or the "super," as he is familiarly called—is a man who in his time certainly plays many parts, and yet obtains applause in none. His exits and his entrances, his début and his disappearance, alike escape criticism and record. His name is not printed in the playbills, and is for ever unknown to his audience. Even the persons he is supposed to represent upon the stage always remain anonymous. Both as a living and fictitious creature he is denied individuality, and has to be considered collectively, massed with others, and inseparable from his companion figures. He is not so much an actor, as part of the decorations, the animated furniture, so to say, of the stage. Nevertheless, "supers" have their importance and value. For how could the drama exist without its background groups: its soldiers, citizens, peasants, courtiers, nobles, guests, and attendants of all kinds? These give prominence, support, and effect to the leading characters of the theatre; and these are the "supers."
Upon the French stage the minor assistants of the scene are comprehensively described as les choristes. In this way the pedigree of the "super" gains something of nobility, and may, perhaps, be traced back to the chorus of the antique drama, a body charged with most momentous duties, with symbolic mysteries of dance and song, removed from the perils and catastrophes of the play, yet required in regard to these to guide and interpret the sympathies of the spectators. In its modern
application, however, this generic term has its subdivisions, and includes les choristes proper, who boast musical attainments, and are obedient to the rule of a chef d'attaque, or head chorister; les accessoires, performers permitted speech of a brief kind, who can be entrusted upon occasion with such simple functions as opening a door, placing a chair, or delivering a letter, and who correspond in many respects with our actors of utility; les figurants, the subordinate dancers led by a coryphée; and lastly, les comparses, who closely resemble our supernumeraries, and are engaged in more or less numbers, according to the exigencies of there presentation. Of these aids to performance les comparses only enjoy no regular salaries, are not formally enrolled among the permanent members of the establishment, but are paid simply for appearing—seventy-five centimes for the night, and fifty centimes for each rehearsal—or upon some such modest scale of remuneration. This classification would appear to afford opportunities to ambition. Here are steps in the ladder, and merit should be able to ascend. It is understood, however, that as a rule les comparses do not rise. They are the serfs of the stage, who never obtain manumission. They are as conscripts, from whose knapsacks the field-marshal's bâton is almost invariably omitted. They become veterans, but their length of service receives no favourable recognition. Comparses they live, and comparses they die, or disappear, not apparently discontented with their doom, however. Meantime the figurant cherishes sanguine hopes that he may one day rise to a prominent position in the ballet, or that he may become an accessoire; and the accessoire looks forward fervently to ranking in the future among the regular actors or artistes of the theatre, with the right of entering its grand foyer, or superior green-room. Until then he must confine himself and his aspirations to the petit foyer set apart for the use of players of his class.