rd, and in which Edward A. Sothern laid
the foundation of the fantastic character of Lord Dundreary, which was
to make him famous. A year later, he created another of his great
characters, Caleb Plummer, in "The Cricket on the Hearth," and soon
afterwards, the most famous of all, Rip Van Winkle, which remained to
the end his supreme impersonation.

After that time, his career was a golden and happy one. He won the
affection of the American public as perhaps no recent player has ever
done. His art had a peculiarly wide appeal because it was fine and
sweet; he won sympathy and inspired affection; and seemed the very
embodiment of the tender, artless and lovable characters it was his joy
to represent.

Jefferson's death marked the passing of the last of the "old
school"--that mellow, fluent, and accomplished circle of players who
seem so different to their successors. But public taste is different
too. We care no longer for the rantings and heroics of Virginius and
Spartacus and all the rest of those toga-clothed gentlemen who differed
from each other only in their names. We demand something more subtle,
more--yes, let us say it!--intellectual. The modern who came nearest to
answering this demand, to showing us the complex thing which we know
human nature to be, was Richard Mansfield. A great artist, whom no
difficulty appalled, he gave the American public, season after season,
the most significant procession of worthy dramas that one man ever
produced.

Mansfield was born in Heligoland in 1857, and studied for the East
Indian civil service, but came to Boston and opened a studio, studied
art, and then suddenly abandoned it for the stage. Curiously enough, he
began with small parts in comic opera, and a few years later, made one
of the funniest Kokos who ever appeared in "The Mikado." But he soon
changed to straight drama, and the first great success of his career was
as Baron Chevrial in "A Parisian Romance," a part which was given him
after other actors had refused to take it, and in which he created a
real sensation. His reputation was secure after that, and grew steadily
until the swift and complete collapse from over-work, which ended his
life at the age of fifty-one.

Are there any great players alive in America to-day? E. H. Sothern,
perhaps, comes nearest to greatness, and has at least won respectful
attention by a sincerity and earnestness which have accomplished much.
He is the son of Edward Askew Sothern, w