Identifier: lifeartofrichard01wint (find matches)
Title: Life and art of Richard Mansfield : with selections from his letters
Year: 1910 (1910s)
Authors: Winter, William, 1836-1917
Subjects: Mansfield, Richard, 1857-1907
Publisher: New York : Moffat, Yard and company
Contributing Library: Boston Public Library
Digitizing Sponsor: Boston Public Library

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kept the stage alive, in honor and pros-perity, and upon that force its dependence mustrest. The stalwart presence of Richard Mansfieldin the American Theatre, therefore, was auspiciousin a high degree. He was a leader; he was a bul-wark against the rampant phalanx of theatricalbutton-makers, and the loss of him will be long feltand deeply mourned. Information of the death of my old friend reachedme at Mentone, in Southern California, and broughtwith it a solemn sense not only of personal bereave-ment but of loss to the world. The disappearanceof an illustrious figure--the extinction of splendidabilities, and the termination of brilliant accom-plishments—imparts an inexpressible feeling of deso-lation. Mansfield had been my companion in manyscenes of busy life, and in that lovely solitude amongthe mountains. He would never come again. Itwas then that I wrote the Elegy which herefollows,—speaking from the heart, and castingon his grave the white rose of honor and lovingremembrance.
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Photograph by Uarceau, Xeic York RICHARD MANSFIELDFrom His Last Photograph ELEGY FOR MANSFIELD. WRITTEN AT MENTONE, CALIFORNIA, SEPTEMBER 8, 1907. For me terrestrial mountains rise; For thee celestial rivers run;My steps are neath familiar skies, But thine in realms beyond the sun. This peaceful scene, that does not change,This smiling vale, so fair to see, Those lonely plains, that mountain range,So glorious,—all were known to thee. For many a year, in shade or shine, When life was gay, when life was drear, Thy friendly hand was clasped in mine,Thy form was oft beside me here. Now, though I sought through evry land,I should not feel, in any place, The pressure of that loving hand, Nor hear thy voice, nor see thy face. So friendship fades, so love departs,So living joy becomes a name Shrind in the depth of breaking hearts,—And yet the world remains the same. The roses bloom, the fields are green, The branches wave, the streamlets flow,— For Nature, ruffled or serene,Is deaf and

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