The Dasypidæ are not such fearful wild-fowl as their name may seem
to indicate; for the name Dasypus is nothing but the scientific
naturalist's innocent little Greek way of saying "hairy-foot." The
Sloth, the Scaly Manis, the Armadillo, the Platypus, the Aard-Vark,
the Ant-eater, and one or two more comprise the family, presenting
the appearance of a job-lot of odds and ends at the tail of an
auctioneer's catalogue. Not only is the family of a job-lot nature, but
each individual seems a sort of haphazard assemblage of odd parts made
up together to save wasting the pieces; for some have tremendous tails,
and some have almost none; some have armour and some have hair; one
has an odd beak, apparently discarded by a duck as awkwardly shaped;
some have two toes only on a foot, some three, some four, and some
five--just as luck might have it in the scramble, so to speak; they
only agree in being all very hard up for teeth.
[Illustration: A MERE MOP--]
[Illustration: WHICH--]
[Illustration: REVEALS--]
[Illustration: ITSELF--]
[Illustration: GRADUALLY.]
The sloth is an admirable creature in many respects. Chiefly, he
has a glorious gift of inaction--a thing too little esteemed and
insufficiently cultivated in these times. If it is sweet to do nothing,
as we have it on the unimpeachable authority of a proverb, therefore it
must be actually noble to do nothing on scientific principles, as does
the sloth. The objectionably moral and energetic class of philosopher
is always ready to enlist the ant, the bee, and similarly absurdly
busy creatures as practical sermons on his side; and that the indolent
philosopher has never retaliated with the sloth is due merely to the
fact that he _is_ indolent, practically as well as theoretically.
Yet the sloth has well-esteemed relations. Consider other proverbs.
"Sloth," says one, "is the mother of necessity." Then another.
"Necessity," says this second, "is the mother of invention." Whence it
plainly follows that sloth is invention's grandmother--although nobody
would think it to look at the sloth here, in house number forty-seven.
[Illustration: "WOT? NOT A COPPER?"]
Now there are persons who attempt to deprive the sloth of the credit
due to his laziness by explaining that his limbs are not adapted for
use on the ground. This is a fact, although it is mean to use it to
discredit so fine a reputation. The sloth is indeed a deal more active
when he is hanging upside down by his toes--but then that is all a part
of his system, since it is plain that his greatest state of activity is
merely one of suspended animation. It is only when he is in a state of
suspense that the sloth is really happy, and this is only one aspect of
the topsy-turviness of his entire nature. Hanging horizontally, head
and tail downward, is his normal position in society, and this is apt
to lead to a belief among the unthinking that he must have lived long
in Australia and there become thoroughly used to holding on to the
world in his usual attitude; but his actual home is Central and South
America--not altogether "down under" but merely on the slope.
[Illustration: "GURN! I'LL--"]
The sloth in this place is, in the eyes of most visitors, a mere mop in
a heap of straw. Let but the keeper stir him up and he reveals himself
gradually, the picture of a ragged, rascally mendicant--a dirty ruffian
whose vocation can be nothing more laborious than extorting coppers on
pretence of sweeping a crossing. A little more stirring, and he will
reach for his perch and invert himself, to think things over. To him
the floor is inconvenient, for it is his ceiling; anybody's ceiling is
inconvenient to crawl about on.
[Illustration: A DIRTY RUFFIAN.]
When one knows that the sloth never drinks, one is prepared to
believe that he persistently refuses to stand; but then nobody can
stand anything, even drinks, on a ceiling. If by any chance he finds
himself on the ceiling (which, as I have said, is his word for floor),
he can only hook his claws wherever he sees a hole, and drag himself.
He is the poorest of all the Dasypidæ in the matter of tail, and was
also unfortunate in the allotment of toes, only wearing two on each
fore-foot. Which disposes of the sloth.
[Illustration: DISPOSED OF.]
Of the Dasypidæ there are only, beside the sloth, various armadillos
and an ant-eater in this place. The armadillo is a placid creature,
with none of the warlike disposition that its armour might lead some to
expect. Mild and placable, as well as rather bashful, it has somewhat
the character of a beplated and armed theatrical super, who plays the
flute and teaches in a Sunday-school when off duty. It is susceptible
to cold, too, and regardless of any heroism of appearance in face of a
chill in the air. Withal the armadillo is indifferent alike to flattery
and abuse: you can no more hurt his feelings than his back.
[Illustration: MILD SUPERS.]
[Illustration: A CHILLY PERSON.]
There are several sorts of armadillo here, but all are equally
indifferent to criticism. Nothing is more impervious to criticism (or
anything else, if you come to that) than an armadillo. He should have
been born a minor poet. An oyster appears to care very little for what
is said of him, but a good deal of his indifference is assumed; you
often catch him opening his shell to listen. The armadillo won't open
his shell for anything--figuratively as well as literally speaking. If
a raging mad jaguar prances up to an armadillo, the armadillo curls
up quietly with an expression that says: "Really, you excite yourself
overmuch; I suppose you want to gnaw me. If you expect to _eat_ me,
after your length of experience, you must be--well, rather a fool, if
I may say so. I shall go to sleep," which he does, while the jaguar
ruins his teeth. Naturalists have marvelled at the fact that native
Paraguayans find whether an armadillo is at home by poking a stick into
his burrow, when (if he is) out comes a swarm of mosquitoes. "What,"
they ask, wonderingly, "can mosquitoes want with an armadillo, when
other things not quite so hopeless are near at hand for biting?" But it
is probably a mosquito championship meeting.
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The sloth, _sluggard_ as he is, has not gone to the ant, but to the
ant-eater; that is to say, his cage is not far from Sukey's here.
Sukey is not a wise person. Nobody anxious to be an orator with so
little talent for it can be wise. When first you enter the room you
observe that Sukey is anxious to address a large meeting. She has a
ledge before her, on which she rests her fore-knuckles in a manner
so extremely suggestive of a lecture that you instinctively look for
the customary carafe and glass, and feel perplexed at their absence.
Regardless of this disadvantage, Sukey will turn this way and that,
and thump alternately with one fist and the other, and even, in the
excitement of her eloquence, bounce bodily upon the ledge before her,
as one has heard of a gymnastic American divine doing in his pulpit.
This will the voiceless Sukey do till public indifference disgusts
her, and she flops heavily back on her knuckles into hinder retirement.
But no failure can stifle her ambition, whether it be actually for
oratorical distinction, as appearances indicate, or only for such
cockroaches as you may choose to offer, as the keeper believes.
[Illustration: A SNEER.]
[Illustration: AN IMPOSING PRESENCE.]
[Illustration: DIGNITY.]
Sukey is not an impressive person--her features are against it. She
is not equal to assuming a presence. With all her wealth of nose,
she can't turn it up at anybody. Her sneer is a wretched failure.
Any attempt at an imposing attitude is worse; a large nose of a
sort is often a noble feature of itself; but a nose like this!...
Sukey's extravagance in nose is paid for by a scarcity of mouth.
Her small mouth may be a loveliness in itself, but it will never
allow Sukey a sneer or a smile--let alone a laugh; it condemns her
to perpetual prunes and prism. So that Sukey may neither impress you
by a haughty presence, nor sneer at you, nor laugh at you; one thing
only remains--and it a low expedient--she _can_ put out her tongue at
you--by the yard.
[Illustration: A LOW EXPEDIENT.]
[Illustration: A LAUGH.]
I have often speculated as to how much of this tongue Sukey really
has stowed away inside her, and what would happen if she let it all
out at once. It would probably get entangled with everything and with
itself, like a ball of string cast loose, and Mansbridge (who is
Sukey's keeper) would spend an afternoon unfastening all the knots.
One has to see Sukey many times before the lineal possibilities of
her tongue begin to dawn on one. See her once or twice only, and she
may only exhibit a mere foot or so of it--possibly only eight or ten
inches. Another time she will let out a foot or eighteen inches more,
and you are rather surprised; still, your belief is unshaken that
there _is_ another end to that tongue somewhere. But when, some time
later, she casually releases another yard or two, beyond the few feet
wherewith you are familiar, with an aspect of keeping miles more in
reserve, you abandon the doctrine of the finiteness of things earthly
as mere scientific superstition. Plainly, I don't believe there is any
other end to Sukey's tongue. It has the redeeming feature, however, of
possessing _one_ end, which anybody may see; and as there is an end to
Sukey's tongue we won't be too hard on her, remembering that there have
been Sukeys--well, differently provided for.
[Illustration: PERSEVERANCE.]
Sukey's tongue is a sticky thing, and she waves it about with a
view of eating any unfortunate insect that may adhere to it, on the
catch-'em-alive-oh principle. Her chiefest tit-bit is a cockroach, and,
as you will perceive from her manner as you make her acquaintance,
it is a firm article of Sukey's belief that visitors carry these
interesting insects about with them, in large quantities. When one
remembers how comparatively unfashionable this practice is, one
can understand that Sukey largely lives the life of a disappointed
creature. By way of a great feast, she will sometimes be given a
mouse; and she fishes perseveringly through such odd cracks and holes
as she may find, in hopes of providing such a feast for herself. I
respectfully suggest baiting the end of her tongue with a piece of
cheese. As it is, I fear her catch of mice is scarcely sufficient
to warrant the importation of the ant-eater as a substitute for the
harmless necessary (but usually more harmful than necessary) Tom-cat of
the garden-wall.
[Illustration: A SUGGESTION.]
The ant-eater is not a prepossessing being. Anybody who had never
before seen or heard of him would readily believe him to be an
inhabitant of the moon. He looks the sort of animal one would invent in
a nightmare; his comparatively sober colours and his bushy tail save
him from being an absolute unearthly horror. Conceive, if you can, a
pink ant-eater with blue spots and a forked tail!
[Illustration: ON THE GARDEN WALL.]
Neither is the ant-eater very wise; nothing with so much tongue is very
wise; and the ant-eater uses up so much of its head-stuff on its nose
that nothing is left for the brain. The ant-eater never cuts his wisdom
teeth, because he never has any teeth at all. Really the ant-eater
scarcely seems a respectable character considered altogether. An animal
with more than a foot of slender nose, expressly used for poking
into other people's concerns (the ants'), an immeasurable tongue, no
use for a tooth-brush, and an irregular longing for cockroaches for
lunch--well, _is_ such an animal quite respectable? Would you, for
instance, tolerate him in your club?
[Illustration: NOT VERY WISE.]
The only fairly respectable member of the Dasypidæ is the
armadillo--unless you count the sloth's scientific indolence a claim
to respectability; I rather think it is. But none of the Dasypidæ are
clever--not one. They are all in the lowest form of the mammalian
school, and whenever one is not at the bottom of the form it is because
another already occupies the place. You will commonly find them placed
last of the mammalia in the first book of natural history you look at.
[Illustration: THE LOWEST FORM.]
_Actors' Make-Up._
The art of making-up is one which every actor cultivates most
assiduously. He can convey as much by his countenance as he can by
the words which so glibly roll off his tongue. An extra wrinkle about
the eye will whisper of anything between a diabolical murder and a
hungry interior; a highly-coloured nose may either betray a tendency
to a too frequent falling down in adoration of Bacchus, or the
excessive colour may act as a silent reminder of a "cobd it de head"
and the advisability of an immediate application of a small bottle of
glycerine. All well and good. But some of our actors are beginning to
play pranks with their faces, and are forgetting that they possess a
canvas which needs as delicate touching with the colours as that on
the easel of a Royal Academician. There is a positive danger of "the
Villain at the Vic" making a successful re-appearance again--that
estimable individual whose corkscrew curls were as black as his deeds;
whose every glance told that "ber-lud, ber-lud, nothing but ber-lud,
and let it be cer-r-rimson at that, my lor-rd!" would satisfy. You
remember him. But it is not intended that these pages should either
by word from pen or picture from pencil libel the face of any actor
breathing. It is only desirable that the disciples of Thespis should be
warned against overdoing their stage faces. There is really no need for
it. They are not at Sadler's Wells to-day.
[Illustration: "THE VILLAIN AT THE VIC."]
I remember one old actor at Sadler's Wells in the good old days. He
used to boast that he had played several hundreds of parts during the
last fifteen years, and had made one wig do for every character! He
would flour it, tie it with a ribbon bow, and, lo! he had a George III.
He would red-ochre it for a carroty cranium of a comic countryman,
and he admitted once to black-leading it. His make-up was equally in
keeping with his head-gear. He burnt a cork for making moustaches and
eyebrows, he utilized the white-washed walls for powder, and scraped
the red-brick flooring with his pocket-knife to gain a little colour
for his cheeks. And even then he used to wonder how it was he could
never get his face clean! Though it is to be hoped that no modern
actor will ever have to stoop so low as the floor for his rouge, yet
there seems to be rising up in our midst a generation of actors who
altogether misunderstand the use of brush and pencil. Glance at this
worthy fellow, for instance. Doubtless he is endowed with the best
of intentions, but he has made his face resemble a sweep's, and the
five-barred gate he has put on his forehead would not disgrace the
entrance to a highly respectable turnip field.
[Illustration: "TOO MANY WRINKLES SPOIL THE FACE."]
Now, he will enter like that, and would probably feel hurt if
somebody were to cry out from the gallery that it would be as well if
_some_ actors were to let the audience see their faces for a change
occasionally. The cultivation of wrinkles--on the stage, of course--is
a positive art.
"Must put plenty of lines on the face," says the actor; "I'm playing an
old man to-night." But there is no necessity to wrinkle the face like
badly-straightened-out forked lightning; there is no need to lay down a
new line on your countenance such as a debilitated luggage train would
scorn. The effect, from the front, of the lines laid down about the
vicinity of the eyes appears like a huge pair of goggles without the
connecting link across the bridge of the nose.
[Illustration: "THE FUNNY COUNTRYMAN."]
Then there is "the old man from the country." His wrinkles are nothing
more or less than wicked. He is not content with resembling a cross
between Paul Pry and a Drury Lane clown--he pitchforks the paint on,
increases the size of his mouth by "bringing up" the corners to insure
a perpetual smile, wears a wig which even a Joey Grimaldi would shudder
at, dresses as no countryman ever dressed, and wears a huge sunflower
from his back garden. Your old stage hand, when called upon to play
a countryman, will tell you that there is nothing to equal a level
colouring all over the face, with a little rouge on the cheeks, and the
immediate neighbourhood of the eyes touched up to balance the effect.
Our country friend is almost as wicked in his make-up as the individual
who still pins his faith to the hare's foot--now almost obsolete--and
grins at himself in the glass, and considers an admirable effect is
obtained by "rouging" a somewhat prominent nasal organ.
[Illustration: "'COLOURING' IT."]
[Illustration: "DUTCH."]
Your Dutchman is a funny fellow. Make-up: flaxen wig and fat cheeks.
There are several ways of obtaining this necessary rotundity of
the cheeks. Padded pieces may be joined on to the other parts of
the face with spirit-gum and coloured to match. I believe Mr. W. S.
Penley adopted this course--and a very capital idea it was--when
presenting his admirably amusing _Father Pelican_ in "Falka." But
there is considerable risk in resorting to another course which has of
late become popular. Figs are inserted in the mouth on either side.
The effect may be all right, but, I repeat, the risk is great. In a
pantomime recently played the audience were considerably surprised
to see the fat boy's cheeks suddenly collapse. The actor--who was
particularly fond of these highly delectable articles--having, through
some cause unknown, had to rush on the stage without his evening
meal, suddenly became terribly hungry, and quite forgetful of the
consequences, ate his own cheeks off. The pad, or coloured wool
delicately joined with gum, is therefore to be recommended.
[Illustration: "BELIEVES IN A GOOD EYE."]
Nothing like a good eye--an eagle eye. Hence the camel's hair brush
is called into requisition, and our theatrical friend plays at
latitude and longitude all over his face. The wrinkle on the stage
is a distinctive art, and to become on familiar terms with it is
very necessary. The camel's hair brush has been superseded by lining
pencils, which can be obtained in any colour. They possess the great
advantage--being made of grease--of giving a wrinkle that will not wash
off with perspiration. The "wash off" is after the play is over, when
the wise resort to vaseline or cold cream, with a wash in warm water
afterwards. The gentleman who plunges his head well wrinkled into a
basin of water before vaselining or cold creaming presents a sorry
sight.
[Illustration: "A NICE WASH."]
But, for really beautiful eyes, some ladies may be recommended. The
fair performer has to play the juvenile part in a light comedy, has to
be loved by the nice-looking young man who crowns himself with golden
locks. Hence she goes in for a contrast--a strong contrast.
[Illustration: "'CROWNING' HIMSELF."]
"Love!" she murmurs to herself--"love has eyes," and she immediately
proceeds to "Two lovely black!"
A line under the eye will give it prominence. Too much prominence
is not a desirable thing, especially about one's features. But the
"juvenile" lady does not stop at black-eyeing. The lips have to be made
to look kissable, so they are reddened to a delicately puckered-up
appearance. The grand finale is a fair wig, in total rebellion to the
two lovely black!
[Illustration: "TWO LOVELY BLACK EYES."]
Then we have "the old head on young shoulders"--the young man who makes
up his face as "the doctor" really very well, but forgets all about
his legs. His half-bald wig is joined to a nicety; his eyebrows gummed
on most artistically; the wrinkles are wonderfully, but not fearfully,
made. A good figure-head! But his walk is that of a "two-year-old"; the
cut of his clothes, the shape of his collar, are those of a fashionable
dandy. He stopped short at making-up his head. He should have continued
the process all over.
[Illustration: "OLD HEAD ON YOUNG SHOULDERS."]
The ways of producing whiskers, beards, or moustaches are of three
kinds. They can be made by sewing hair on thin silk gauze, which fits
the part of the face it is intended to decorate, and stuck on with
spirit gum, or they can be made out of crêpe hair--a plaited, imitation
hair--which, in deft fingers, may be made into shape. These, too, are
held on to the face with spirit gum. The last method is to paint the
hair on. The latter course is not recommended.
[Illustration: "THAT'S THE WAY TO GROW A MOUSTACHE, MY BOY."]
I remember once hearing a capital gag at the Gaiety Theatre on this
whisker-spirit-gum question. I believe it was by Mr. E. W. Royce, and
it was during the burlesque days of Edward Terry and Nelly Farren.
Royce's moustache came off; he was supposed to have been driven on to
the scene in a conveyance. He picked it up and proceeded to stick it on
again, quietly remarking:--
"Dear me! I really must be moulting;
Unless it is the carriage jolting!"
One of the most effective make-ups on the stage is that of the Jew--and
the really marvellous change which may be obtained in three moves is
well illustrated in this character. The face prepared and painted,
the wig joined to the forehead with grease paint, the actor proceeds
to put on his nose, again finding the spirit gum handy. Such stage
noses are invariably made of wool, coloured to suit the complexion.
The beard--which for such characters as these is always a ready-made
one--is fastened to the face by means of wire over the ears. He shrugs
his shoulders, opens his eyes, leers, and--there is the complete
manufactured article.
[Illustration: "THE MANUFACTURED ARTICLE."]
_Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of Their Lives._