BEHIND THE SCENES.

Now that the opera season is over for Boston, perhaps it would be well for us to review the prominent part that some of our friends have taken in putting the plays on the stage.

About ten weeks ago there appeared three lines in the Advertiser, to the effect that fifty supers were wanted at the "Boston"; and the next day three bold youths applied to the proper authority, and were promised a role in the Saturday matinee. In "Faust" they had a grand chance to display their military training. On Monday "Il Trovatore" found five already in the secret. But the triumph was reserved for Friday night, when "Aida" brought them out twenty strong. With what pride did the standard-bearers look upon the rowing men, who were selected to bring in the victorious Radames; and in the vocal line, who can think of the stirring chorus, "Gloria all' Egitto e ad Iside!" without remembering that the volume was increased by Undergraduate lungs? But what a fall of pride! Do we not see one of our number among the Ethiopian prisoners forcibly suggesting the end man at the negro minstrels? And then the bearers of "those idols," - a cow minus a horn, a statue minus a limb, - most imposing, no doubt, from the audience.

"Lucia" ended the Italian opera, and our actors had a respite, during which they could patronize the orchestra-seats, and enjoy Sothern supported by Jim, Jones, big Injin, and Tom, the regulars. March ushered in the English opera, and by this time the supply exceeded the demand; indeed, there was a superabundance, and little red tickets were issued accordingly. Let us follow one to the back door, behind which Cerberus Murphy stands guard. Six o'clock strikes; the crowd has assembled, the door opens, a discriminating eye selects the tall and mature, - red siders are as good as red tickets in some cases, - and the lucky ones pass in, and the little men and late-comers are left in the cold. Our first care is to get our costume, of course from the tailor. But lo! when we ask our neighbor to tie our sandals, a sober "grind" confronts us in tights. Then we gather before the glass, and apply the blacking and rouge. Our helmets and lances are supplied, and we are ready for the drill. Coming down the mountain-side is particularly trying; the narrow path cracks beneath our strides, while we hear from our critics a medley of "Slow step!" "Far apart!" "Never do!" "Close up!" The orchestra begins, and we await our cue; but one, a body-guardsman, anxious for a solo, steps out from the wings, sees his mistake, and retires in confusion. Another one is told to "pick up that hat," and, too proud to stoop, pulls it in with the end of his lance. Strange how soon the esprit de corps was developed among us. A report that Booth had died was greeted with "Another one of us gone!"

Between the acts we have time to wander about above and below the stage. Everywhere scenery. Here we narrowly escape a douche from "WATERFALL No. 2," and further on find shelter in "COTTAGE SCENE" under "LEFT WING," but soon run against "EGYPTIAN TOMB." Down stairs we find numberless trap-doors; then huge wheels and mysterious framework, which remind one of the palmy days of the Inquisition. But soon hammering calls us up stairs again; they are just finishing the tomb. The carpenter is nailing together the parts of the statue of Isis and calling for the missing head, while above him the moon is getting into the right position. The property-man rushes around supplying the necessary beards and wigs; the caller comes down stairs, ringing the bell before each dressing-room, and there at the right of the stage stands the manager, with all his machinery within reach and the whole theatre under his thumb, ready to give the signal. The system is perfect, - a head for each department, every man knowing just what his work is, and the whole as regular as a machine.

An interesting side of a man's experience as super is the insight he gets into the characteristics of the prominent artists. So amusing to hear Nillson, fresh from the Tower scene, ask in our prosaic English for some pins for her sash. Another, too, lamenting in heart-rending tones the fate of Radames, and then with her back to the audience pouting at us in the wings in regular school-girl fashion, because she had soiled her hands on the dusty scenery. And then the rage of a Signor who was driven from the stage to give room for an encore.

There is a dark side to it, too, as aching limbs, pale faces, from want of sleep and four hours of "standing round," fully attest.

At least we have learned both to sympathize with those who make it their business, and bow when we make our exit.

H. H. D.