SCENE IV.--_Drawing-room. A beautiful set. By the door is a fine bear's

skin, the animal having been shot by the actor's son on his ranch in Colorado. The china and articles of vertu are as rare as they are valuable. The pictures tell of the artistic discrimination of their possessor. The mementos are many--a harp of roses and forget-me-nots, with a gold plate inscribed: "Au grand Comédien Charles Wyndham, Hommage d'Admiration un Parisian, 1889," is given a prominent place. An exquisite silver sledge was from friends in St. Petersburg, and a massive silver cup bears the inscription: "To Charles Wyndham, from Albert Edward Prince of Wales, in remembrance of 'David Garrick,' at Sandringham, 7th January, 1887."_

THE MODERN MATHEWS (_handling cup_): The Prince is one of the most perfect stage managers conceivable. He made all the arrangements for the production of "Davy" at Sandringham. (_Takes up an inkstand in the shape of horse's hoof._) One of my mares--poor thing! I always kill my horses when it has come to their last trot, and never sell them when they are past all work.

INTERVIEWER _inwardly--on behalf of the public--votes_ THE MODERN MATHEWS _a thoughtful man in all things_.

INTERVIEWER (_insinuatingly_): And you----

THE MODERN MATHEWS: Oh! yes. Germany fifteen months; then to Paris. Occasional theatre. Had to be home by eight! Locked out one night--one sou left. Put it on a gingerbread board gamble. My sou on biggest piece. Round went the spinner--stopped at my piece. Won! Only gamble I ever won in my life. Walked that night till six in the morning; managed to get into the school. Met head master whilst creeping upstairs. He commended me for my early rising! From Paris to King's College as a medical student. Ha! no sooner there, than able to go to theatre. Got to Cabinet Theatre, King's Cross, in amateur performances. There I first met William Blakeley, an admirable comedian, who in those days was a slim, thin, dashing young fellow. I was not long in making up my mind. I would go in for tragedy, I was so impressed with Barry Sullivan; though I fancy on looking back that Charles Mathews attracted me most, although I never dreamed of becoming a light comedian. What a voice Charley had, how perfect his every movement! The marvellous charm of that man was his extreme naturalness. How well I remember waiting for him at the stage door to watch him come out! No one who ever saw Charley could forget him. Dear old Mathews!

INTERVIEWER (_noting down the great similarity between the actor's description of Mathews and himself_): And your first _real_ appearance?

THE MODERN MATHEWS: At one of the Ash Wednesday performances by Cole at the Haymarket Theatre. I played _Captain Murphy Macguire_ in "The Serious Family," and John Clayton was the _Charles Tarcus_. I often played with Clayton. He and I were in the cast of "Dearer Than Life," at the Queen's Theatre, in 1868, together with Toole, Irving, Lionel Brough, and Henrietta Hodson (Mrs. Labouchere). I paid a guinea to play Macguire, and it was worth more to me, for I was soon after playing with Buckstone, and then made my first dash on at the Royalty at £1 a week, when Ellen Terry and I used to play lovers. But one of my great desires was to play _Rover_ in "Wild Oats." I made up my mind to do it as soon as I saw Phelps in the part at Sadler's Wells. I had £30, and meeting another young fellow with a similar sum, we began to negotiate for the Strand Theatre, then under the management of Mr. Payne. But our hopes were crushed, as a slight barrier cropped up in the way of rent. Payne wanted £60 a week rent, and three months in advance. By this time I was ashamed of myself, although I had an offer of twelve shillings a week at the Theatre Royal, Preston--which, probably, I never should have got! I wrote to my father. He was somewhat wroth when I told him my theatrical desires. He said: "Well, take your diploma, and I won't interfere." I accepted the bargain, finished my medical studentship, went to Dublin--took my diploma. I had almost abandoned the idea of going on to the stage, and 1863 found me on my way to America to the war. I left with £9 in my pocket! It was the dad's suggestion I should go, but I believe he did it with a breaking heart. Look at that! (_Takes a massive gold ring set with a single diamond, and passes it to_ INTERVIEWER.) Why, the old fellow came over to America whilst I was there. When he was leaving the docks, he threw this, wrapped up in a piece of paper, on to the quay. My eyes were fixed on my father. There was he, making frantic gesticulations and pointing. I thought the piece of paper a greenback, and refused to pick it up. At last he became almost frantic in his anxiety. I picked up the paper, and there was that ring in it. The old fellow went away happy. This diamond and sapphire ring was given to me by the Czar. Not a bad ring, eh? Look at it. (INTERVIEWER _does so, and unconsciously puts it on finger_!)

(INTERVIEWER _is busy for the next ten minutes in noting small "asides," thrown in between whiffs of cigarette: "£250 a year as medical officer." "In several engagements." "Did fairly well." "Have a cigarette?" "Appeared with Mrs. John Wood in New York." "Six weeks." "£4 12s. a week." "Dismissed for incompetency." "Came home." "Met amateur friends again." "Engaged at Royalty." "£4 a week." "Leading light comedy and stage management." "Offer from Miss Herbert to go to St. James's. Went. Miss Herbert, Irving, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Mathews, Stoyle, Ada Cavendish there, and--Oh! that first night."_)

THE MODERN MATHEWS _crosses to table_ L., _and taking up an edition de luxe of a commemorative volume of the Clover Club, reads the story which he told ten years ago of that first night. His back is to the fireplace_ (CENTRE), _the book in one hand leaves the other free for action. He reads and remembers._

"The piece was an adaptation of Ouida's 'Idalia.' I was playing the hero, _Hugh Stoneleigh_; a young actor named Charles was _Victor Vane_; Miss Herbert (long since retired) was _Idalia_; and Henry Irving was the villain of the play, _Count Falcon_. In those days, by-the-bye, managers would insist upon casting me for the virtuous heroes, and Irving for the vicious ones, although our proclivities in no way justified the selection. But what a charming villain Irving was: the only actor I have ever seen who has been able to make villainy on the stage appear as it should appear--lovable. But to resume: The opening scene was a rocky defile, in which I was suddenly attacked by Irving, and left for dead. The stage-manager had outshone himself in the production of a grandly impressive scene, in which the demands of realism were observed by the introduction of a natural waterfall: descending from the flies at the side, passing under a massive bridge, and rushing wildly and obliquely across the stage. It was certainly a gorgeous scene; an inspiring one, bound to elicit uproarious approval. Well, on the first night it did, and during the rest of the evening that waterfall was never forgotten. I told you it was supposed to dash under a massive bridge (which, by-the-bye, sloped down towards the footlights, in full view of the audience); but stage-managers propose, and waterfalls dispose. It was its first appearance on any stage, and, like most beginners, it wanted to do too much: it not only dashed under the bridge, but it trickled over the bridge; and, on its passage across the stage, it oozed from its proper channel, in several independent little rivulets, down towards the footlights. Wherever that inexperienced water went, it left the stage slippery. Thunders of applause greeted the enthusiastic débutant, and all the time the traitor was preparing for the annihilation of his brother artists. Gracefully down the bridge came F. Charles. He touched the slippery part of the bridge, threw his arms out wildly, away went his cloak into the torrent, and--well, he sat down. With dramatic instinct in every nerve of his body, firmly entered, half a minute afterwards, Henry Irving; looked about him warily; then strode down the bridge--you know the stride--till he also reached the fatal spot, threw his arms wildly round, and--well, he sat down. Need I tell you that the awe of the situation was fading? Now came my turn. Standing on a platform behind the scene from the commencement, I had seen what had happened to my two friends; so, stepping gingerly down the bridge, I arrived on the stage without sitting down, had my encounter with the two ruffians, escaped from them, had run wildly up the bridge again to receive the shot from _Falcon's_ pistol, and had fallen, according to stage-manager's instructions, a foot or so below the treacherous spot. On came _Idalia_--she had heard the shot. 'Ah! a body on the bridge!' She runs down, recognises me--'Great heavens, 'tis he!'--rushes further down, reaches the fatal place, away go her arms, and--well, she sat down: the folds of her dress falling over me and completely hiding me from the view of the audience. That was the end of the act--it was a powerful one. We had all done our level best, but the waterfall had scored the most.

"The next scene was a simple drawing-room. The waterfall was gone, thank Heaven, and we could rely upon ourselves. The act began. It was interesting and dramatic: a powerful scene between Miss Herbert and Irving--accusation of murder, defiance, vengeance for my death--all very startling; sufficiently so to drive for the time the slippery knave from everybody's mind. A great scene, well acted and well received; everything going splendidly, and an effect in store bound to please the audience.

"The hero is not dead, for he suddenly appears; appears, as a hero always does, at the back of the stage; great applause at his resuscitation; Miss Herbert backs with joy and surprise right to the footlights, and I prepare to rush towards her; success is in our grasp; the audience are in splendid humour; spite of all difficulties, we have triumphed. Alas, the vanity of human hopes! The waterfall was lying in wait for me. I told you the scene was a drawing-room; but I did not tell you that it was an Italian one--consequently, that the carpet covered only the centre of the stage. Across it I madly rushed towards my faithful love. '_Idalia_,' I exclaimed, 'I never expected to see you again!'--reached one of those rivulets, that had trickled in exactly the same direction I was going--reached it unknowingly--slipped, and--well, _I_ sat down.

"Never in the whole course of my life have I heard such a roar as went up from that auditorium.

"Need I go on? Need I tell you how, in the next scene, when she and I were supposed to be escaping from the Austrian soldiery, those brave heroes came on, and, as the first slipped over our general enemy, the others came tumbling after? How massive rocks were knocked over by the falling bodies, and how the second act terminated in convulsions on the part of the audience? Need I tell you that, in the last act, the actors had become through sheer helplessness as demoralized as the audience--that I assured my love, in a voice smothered by laughter, that nothing would shake my firmness of belief in her--that she chuckled out she believed me--or that Irving came on to die in a white shirt, a blood-red spot on his breast, and his face all grins, dying the most facetious death actor ever died? Oh, that night--that night of horrors!"

(_Curtain._)