ployed in the book called "The Art of Theatrical Make-up," by Mr
Cavendish Morton, the object of which is to tell players--amateurs as
well as professionals--how to make-up. No doubt it will render useful
service to the actor--to the actor, since nothing is said in it about
the actress and make-up in relation to her.

Thereby hangs something of importance. The actress has held her own
against the actor: even the most unkind critic of the fair sex cannot
deny that the achievements of women on the stage are as great as the
achievements of men, although they have been a shorter time at the game,
and have not had so many splendid parts written for them. Yet make-up
has been of little assistance to actresses.

Eleanora Duse at the present moment is probably accepted as the greatest
living player of the world. Of late years she has, to some extent, used
make-up, but with great moderation. One can imagine her tossing aside a
book such as Mr Morton's, and asking what on earth it has to do with the
art of acting, and I fancy that tremendously rapid speech of hers would
be used effectively if she were to read such a sentence as this: "Is not
half the battle won when one perfectly physically realizes the character
to be impersonated?" By which the author clearly means that half the
battle is won when, by the aid of nose-paste or "toupee" paste and
grease-paint, powder, crepe hair, spirit-gum, wig and the like, one has
arrived at looking like the character.

Instead of this being half the battle, it does not amount to a tenth. Of
course something must be done to counteract the effect of the lighting
on the stage, and no one can complain if the players use the well-known
devices to heighten their charms; and wigs and false beards and
moustaches and whiskers may be serviceable at times; but to take such
matters seriously seems an egregious mistake. Indeed, when looking at
the result, one is inclined, unconsciously, to use a criticism by
employing the phrase, "What a capital make-up." Mr So-and-so enters as
Caliban, or Napoleon Bonaparte, or Charles II., or Falstaff. In a few
seconds, or it may be minutes, we can identify him without the aid of
the programme; and, of course, we say, "what a capital make-up," but the
whole thing is merely a Madame Tussaud aspect of drama.

Make-up has comparatively little to do with the capacity of an actor for
differentiating his parts. Take Mr Dennis Eadie, who has an
extraordinary gift for changi