"Well," he said at parting, "Stoddard cannot and will not play the part and I have resolved to try a young man we have in our company, selected from the Standard Theatre Company, where he was playing in a comic opera 'The Black Cloak.' He is now rehearsing the part of the ambassador in 'A Parisian Romance.' He shall play the Baron. He is intelligent, knows French and I am convinced that I can coach him into a success." In four weeks from that time the young man who was taken from the ranks to play the Baron awoke to find himself famous. His name was Richard Mansfield. _Philosophy, Thou Liest!_ One night several years ago at the Garrick Club in London, Joseph Knight and I were discussing the American invasion of England by American artists. During the course of our conversation, Knight said:-- "My dear Goodwin, we had an extraordinary chap over here from your country some years ago. I can't recall him by name, but he was a most uncomfortable person to meet and an _awful_ actor! He endeavored to play Richard the III and gave an _awful_ performance! He followed this with a play, written by Robert Louis Stevenson in which he scratched the carpet and was somebody else! He was a boss-eyed chap, spoke several languages and was remarkably adept at the piano. I can't for the life of me recall his name." From Knight's description I knew that he meant Mansfield and ventured to suggest that that might be the man to whom he referred. "Mansfield! Yes, that's the chap! Is he still going strong in America?" "Going strong!" I replied. "Why, he makes more money than all of us combined. He is called America's greatest player!" "Really!" exclaimed the illustrious Knight. "What an extraordinary country!" Mr. Knight unconsciously echoed my sentiments. We are an extraordinary people. Think--and be called a fool. 'Tis better to realize a fact than agree with the majority. Only a few weeks ago I was reading a biography of the late Mr. Mansfield, written by one of his managers; another, by a notorious critic; and, believe me, Edmund Kean's biographers were amateurs compared with Mansfield's in their shamelessly abject adulation of that "genius." The fulsome flattery of the senile, undersized critic who pens his truckling screeds at so much a column (but never again in the paper from which he was dropped) and has been doing so to my certain knowledge for over thirty years, is but the vaporing of his infinitesimal soul.