As to the books, there is a veritable treasure house—all the knowledge of the stage that one could possibly desire, with many valuable autographed copies and rare editions. The most unusual possession of the club in the way of printed stuff is the second, third, and fourth folios of Shakespeare’s plays. The library room, arranged for ease and comfort, runs the whole length of the house. In the center are soft chairs and couches, with lights close to one’s elbow. There is an air of rest and quiet which has often been found more conducive to sleep than weighty reading by certain of us who are in the habit of staying up till the “wee sma’ hours.” One memento that has always cheered me in my moments of financial stress—for misery loves company—is a letter, written by Oliver Goldsmith to Doctor Johnson, trying to borrow three pounds, which he promises will be repaid as soon as _The Traveller_ shall be published. The letter is probably worth twelve hundred dollars to-day! Gifts flow into such a place, some appropriate and some ridiculous. The costumes of Edwin Booth, for instance, are of great interest to all, but the back tooth of a comedian—a molar—which the wife of one actor presented to us after his death, is not a very great treasure. But there it is in a glass case by day, and locked up in a steel safe at night along with the paste jewels of the stage. My earlier friends are the most vivid to me—those who are now gone. Descriptions of them are futile and have been done too many times by others far better equipped in a literary way than myself. I remember them only as they came into the club—some peculiarity of looks, some small joke, some story around the long table at luncheon where we were brought together for a fleeting instant, each to depart the next moment and go his own way. The stories, the wit, and the necessity of competing with the best brains of America in The Players was an education to me. There were the Aldriches—Louis and Thomas Bailey—no relation, except Louis was named after the writer. As a boy he was very poor, did not know where he came from, only that he was called “Louis.” Having the job of running errands around a theater out west, he was accosted by the stage carpenter one day, who was a great admirer of the writing of Thomas Bailey. “Your name from now on is Aldrich,” he said, “Louis Aldrich. Don’t forget it or you will catch the devil from me.” Louis Aldrich it was, and when he had made his way in the world and was successful enough to go in the same society with Thomas Bailey, he had reached the goal that the carpenter had unwittingly marked for him. The poet always rather resented his existence, however.