hear you tell that story. Never mind me. Go on.'
"'Well, er—' began the youth.
"'Just so,' said the irrepressible comedian, 'you wanted to tell me that you were born—'
"'Yes,' faltered the youth.
"'And that after spending a few years.—'
"'Just so.'
"So Mathews filed out the whole speech for him. When he had finished he turned to the young fellow and in a voice of thunder cried:—
"'Now you may go into the next room!'
Cleaning the "props."
"Here is a story just to show you the difference of opinion in two great actors. The ——— came to Birmingham, where I was engaged. The play was 'A Scrap of Paper,' and I was cast for the boy's part. In this I have to challenge a man of the world to fight. He treats it as a joke, and suggests that the duel should take place in Japanese fashion, which, according to him, is to each take a knife and rush. Boy gets very fidgety at this.
"I used to take out a pocket-handkerchief to wipe my face at my prospects in the duel, and manage, at the same time, to let an orange fall. The audience were delighted at this little bit of business. Well, the play was over the first night. A knock at my dressing-room door—Mr. and Mrs. ———wished to see me. I got a most severe lecture, and the orange business was forbidden. It didn't occur again.
"Some time afterwards I was at another theatre. Same piece was played; I was cast for the boy again, and Mathews was in it. As I didn't agree with the ——— on the orange business, I introduced it again, believing it helped the scene. The orange was dropped. Mathews stopped and coughed.
"'Good gracious,' I thought. 'I've bothered Mathews!'
"Still, after the play was over, no knock came to the door. On the second night, thinking I inconvenienced Mathews, I left the piece of 'business' out. That night there was a tap at the door. It was Mathews.
"'Well, young Irving, what's the matter with you to-night?' he said; 'you're as dull as ditchwater. Where's the orange? Let's have that orange, it's the hit of the piece.'"
Now Mr. Irving lays his glasses on one side—it is time to make up. By-the-bye, he considers it an advantage to the actor to be short-sighted—he doesn't see if the audience smiles at the serious parts and cries at the comic portions of the play.
The face finished, Mr. Irving resumes his glasses. The whole makeup has only taken a few minutes. That needed for Mathias in "The Bells" is the simplest of all such stage faces; Shylock is the most elaborate, occupying three-quarters of an hour, Richelieu and Charles I. ranking next. Now Mr. Irving dons the silken robes of the Cardinal—the biretta and book are close at hand. A ring is put on the finger; a final glance, and the great actor leaves the dressing-room.
I follow quietly downstairs—talking together until we reach the wings; a door opens in the scene; Mr. Irving hurriedly remarks: "I'm off," and the next moment a shout of welcome tells me that Cardinal Wolsey is on the stage. This wonderful change, so sudden and complete—for he had walked straight from his room to the stage, the entrance being cleverly timed—this sudden transition from the man to the player
