a thing so beyond all question that she could afford to disguise it or to seem to slight it for a few nights; possibly it shone the brighter afterwards for its brief eclipse.  Otherwise, making-up pertains to an actor’s “line of business,” and is not separable from it.  Once young or once old he so remains, as a rule, until the close of his professional career.  There is indeed a story told of a veteran actor who still flourished in juvenile characters, while his son, as a matter of choice, or of necessity, invariably impersonated the old gentlemen of the stage.  But when the two players met in a representation of “The Rivals,” and Sir Anthony the son, had to address Captain Absolute the father, in the words of the dramatist:  “I’ll disown you; I’ll unget you; I’ll never call you Jack again!” the humour of the situation appealed too strongly to the audience, and more laughter than Sheridan had ever contemplated was stirred by the scene.

The veterans who have been accused of superfluously lagging upon the stage, find an excuse for their presence in the skill of their make-up.  For the age of the players is not to be counted, by the almanack, but appraised in accordance with their looks.  On the stage to seem young is to be young, though occasionally it must happen that actors and audience are not quite in agreement upon this question of aspect.  There have been many youthful dramatic heroines very well stricken in years; ingenues of advanced age, and columbines who might almost be crones; to say nothing of “young dogs” of light comedians, who in private life are well qualified to appear as grandsires, or even as great-grandfathers.  But ingenuity in painting the face and padding the figure will probably long secure toleration for patriarchal Romeos, and even for matriarchal Juliets.

Recent discoveries have no doubt benefited the toilets of the players, which, indeed, stood in need of assistance, the fierce illumination of the modern stage being considered.  In those palmy but dark days of the drama, when gas and lime-lights were not, the disguising of the mischief wrought by time must have been a comparatively easy task.

However, supply, as usual, has followed demand, and there are now traders dealing specially in the materials for making-up, in theatrical cosmetics of the best possible kind at the lowest possible prices:  “Superfine rouge, rose for lips, blanc (liquid and in powder), pencils for eyebrows, creme de l’imperatrice and fleur-de-riz for softening the skin,” &c.  Further, there are the hairdressers, who provide theatrical wigs of all kinds, and advertise the merits of their “old men’s bald pates,” which must seem a strange article of sale to those unversed in the mysteries of stage dressing-rooms.  One inventive person, it may be noted, loudly proclaims the merits of a certain “spirit gum” he has concocted, using which, as he alleges, “no actor need fear swallowing his moustache”—­so runs the form of his advertisement.