Life and art of Richard Mansfield, with selections from his letters . rring to Master and Man, but I willget into port just the same. It is a little dishearten-ing, sometimes, thats all. His book of songs,afterward published under the name of OneEvening, Hkewise now occupied some part of his attention. The Croisic, New York, December 17, dear, dear Winter:— How nobly—how generously—how greatly you have written!I do not think words can ever repay you and I am afraid /can in no way ever—unless it be to deserve your commenda-tion. How well and beautifully all is said that you have tosay!
Life and art of Richard Mansfield, with selections from his letters . rring to Master and Man, but I willget into port just the same. It is a little dishearten-ing, sometimes, thats all. His book of songs,afterward published under the name of OneEvening, Hkewise now occupied some part of his attention. The Croisic, New York, December 17, dear, dear Winter:— How nobly—how generously—how greatly you have written!I do not think words can ever repay you and I am afraid /can in no way ever—unless it be to deserve your commenda-tion. How well and beautifully all is said that you have tosay! I thank you, I thank you, with all my heart. God knowswhether the people will come to see us—but if they do not—at least your writing will be the fine monument that will standwhere I fell.—I am worn out to-day. Ever your true, devoted, and obliged friend, Richard Mansfield. The Croisic, New York, December 29, Dear Old Fellow:— It seems such a hollow mockery,—when we had no Yule log,no Christmas tree, no children around us, no dance, nor no. Photograph hij Stereoscopic Companij, London RICHARD as Gloster; Beatrice Cameron as Lady Anne (Act I.) CHRISTMAS 123 snap-dragon, ifb halls full of merry people,—to wish anybodya jolly Christmas, that I refrained. I didnt have one myselfand I didnt see why anybody else should and I smarted when-ever one of the stage-hands, with a significant hand in hispocket and an expectant look said: Merry Christmas. Butdont think that I had forgotten you—only when one playsRichard the Third 500 times in one week, one hasnt any timeeven for ones truest friends! Damn Ibsen! Who cares for Ibsen? Only I would wish,for that dear sweet girls sake, her heart being so warped tothat buoy, that it had not been entirely dragged away fromher. I know—I feel, how she looked forward to a successhere; I think her whole life was in it; too much so and itmilitated somewhat against her doing herself complete has be
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