The Modern Mathews (solemnly): Whilst I used to play with my companions, I was always much impressed by a long-legged, lanky-looking fellow, who used to walk up and down the playground with his eyes on his boots. I got in with him, found he belonged to a well-known Wesleyan family, and we founded a Church to reform the boys. The masters lent us a room, and starting with half-a-dozen we ultimately got twenty-five lads. When my Wesleyan friend left I became head of the Church. In the college was the son of a celebrated divine in London—whom we will call B. He was a very bad lot, using very bad language. One day he asked me to let him join the Church. I hesitated. Told him I'd take a fortnight to decide. I did. It came to my turn to preach. B. was present. My sermon was directed to him. After it was all over he came to me and assured me he was a changed man. I was delighted. He grasped me by the hand and said he should like to preach on the following Sunday! I assured him that it was the rule for only four or five of us to preach. He thought an exception ought to be made in his case. I would not hear of it. "Look here," he said, "won't you let me preach?" "No, I could not." "Do you mean it?" he asked. "I do." "Without a doubt, Wyndham?" "I am immovable." "Then," he said, "go to ——!"
(Quick Curtain!)
THE DRAWING-ROOM.
From a Photo by Elliot & Fry.
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!