ordinary as their functions are various. The
"Rieur," employed for farces, is a common-place
individual. The profession of "laughter" is not
a difficult one; it is easily filled, and is poorly
remunerated. But the "Moucheur," or blower
of the nose, and flourisher of the pocket-handkerchief
at a new pathetic play, is looked upon
as a somewhat superior officer. Still higher
stands the "Sangloteur," or sobber, whose
business is sufficiently indicated by the
designation, and whose effects have to be studied
with considerable care. But few rank higher
than the "Pâmeuse." This is the name of the
female (generally posted in the first boxes)
who undertakes a fainting-fit, or convulsions
ad libitum—in other words, "qui se pâme"
at critical moments. If she provide for the
night a "toilette sans reproche," an embroidered
pocket-handkerchief, and a jewelled smelling-
bottle, her price rises accordingly. As a
general rule, she is paid in proportion to the
sympathy that her elegance, and the weakness
of her nerves, at the tragic scene, excite.

To show that these revelations of the manners
and customs of the "Romans" are not merely
jocular, but are stated in earnest, reference
need only be made to a scene which, according
to the reports of the Parisian papers, took
place, not very long ago, in a Parisian court of
justice. A female witness was asked by the
judge the customary question, "What is your
profession?" "Monsieur le juge," was her
answer, "je m'évanouis" (I faint). The
compassionate judge, thinking she was then and
there about to swoon from emotion, ordered a
glass of water to be presented to the astonished
lady. The question as to her profession was
then again repeated. The same answer,
"Monsieur le juge, je m'évanouis." "You don't mean
to say that is your profession?" exclaimed the
judge, now getting angry. "Unquestionably,
monsieur le juge," she replied. An explanation
followed, and it came out that she was a
theatrical pâmeuse.

Another variety of skirmisher employed on
special and important occasions, is the "Inter-
locateur," or "Interrupteur," who was only in
latter years employed in the army of "Romans."
This ally represents a very innocent individual,
who, led away by the excitement of the drama
represented, is supposed to take it all for natural,
and who apostrophises the villain, or wicked
persecutor. The interrupteur is generally turned
out of his box, hustled, captured, and led away
by confederate policemen, laughing in their
sleeves. But the performance of his little
scene is usually crowned with a great success
—for the piece! Not too often used, the
interrupter generally carries the day in favour of
the "Roman" cause on doubtful occasions.
But another ally, still more seldom placed on
active service, is the "Siffleur." The "hisser"
of a piece, if he chooses the exact moment of a
turn in the minds of the audience favourable to
the new drama, is generally received by the
genuine public with the cry of "A bas la cabale!"
and is ignominiously put down and put out. But
the office of "Siffleur" is of a very ticklish and
highly diplomatic nature. It requires to be
performed with a delicacy of tact, and a nicety
of appreciation of the very "nick of time,"
which render it unsafe in any but clever and
experienced hands. It is a superior office,
bestowed with care, well remunerated, and seldom
resorted to but on highly important occasions.

Whatever the leader of the tribe of Parisian
Romans may have been when he had not
stepped higher in rank than the now ignominious
"Claqueur"—and there is every reason to
surmise that, in those days, his attire was as
shady as his avocations, and his linen as doubtful
as his social status—the success-contractor
en chef is now a gentleman who dresses well,
keeps his brougham, and, in his moments of
leisure when not occupied by his literary
avocations, lounges, cigar in mouth, along the
Boulevards, where he will catch hold of the arm of
any dramatic author, who may be one of his
"clients"—the very comedy of non-complicity
being no longer considered worth the trouble of
acting—and will talk over with him the
progress, or presumed effect, of his new piece. He
considers himself a very important collaborateur.
In this respect his vanity is fostered by the
fact, that, under some circumstances, the
manuscript of a new piece is placed in his hands
by the manager, for his perusal and judgment,
previously to its being put upon the stage.
On occasions of rehearsals of importance, he
never leaves the theatre. He pulls out his note-
book, and marks down with care the strong
and weak points, the scenes to be brought out,
the situations to be emphasized, the passages to
be encored, the exits and entrances to be
peculiarly favoured, and the dangerous points to be
tenderly nursed. He never scruples to give his
advice to author and manager, or to suggest
changes and "cuts;" and he is much affronted
if not listened to. When the morning of the
great general rehearsal arrives, he summons
his troops, gets into an upper box in the centre
of the house, draws out his opera-glass and his
note-book, and arranges his plan of battle for the
important evening. He generally disposes a
square battalion in the centre of the pit, a dozen
or more of sharpshooters at each flank, a
moucheur or two, particularly well dressed, in the
stalls, a sangloteur in the balcon, a few choice
spirits in the gallery, and—in the case of a
doubtful melodrama—an interrupter in the
upper boxes.

On the occasion of a first representation, the
contractor is in all his glory as general-in-chief.
He has already drilled the troops under his
command; and he now monopolises the whole direction
of the battle. He disdains to shirk the
responsibility of being in the midst of the mêlée,
and takes his position in the centre of his forces
in the pit, with an aide-de-camp on either side,
to whom he occasionally condescends to address
a few remarks. Look down from the
amphitheatre or balcony, and you will see the compact
mass of the Roman army, distinguishable by a
certain precision of manner, an official rigidity