Kipling was not a member of The Players, on account of his book about the United States. He was not well known when he first came here, and no one was prophet enough to guess that he was to become the greatest name in English of his time. Many of the older men would not “stand for” his criticism of America. I heard old Edward Bell burst forth to Edwin Booth: “If that cussed young Englishman ever comes into this club, I’ll boot him out of it.” “Yes,” said Booth, and immediately left for his own room, as he always did if anything seriously disturbed him. In spite of these prejudices, Kipling was a visitor and became a friend to many of the members. I met him very casually, but admired him greatly, thinking his comments upon us a little harsh, but quite fair in many ways. His classification of England, France, and America to Brander Matthews is interesting. England he claimed, would die for liberty, but had a poor idea of equality; France would die for equality, but was hazy about fraternity; the United States was hazy about both liberty and equality, but went in heart and soul for fraternity; and that was why they would pay five cents to stand up in a street car when others sit down for the same price. Zogbaum, the artist, once took Kipling over to the Brooklyn Navy Yard to meet Commander Evans, known as “Fighting Bob.” He told me that they at once squatted down together and began to “swap” stories, nor did they do anything else until it was time for Kipling to go. He was silent on the ferryboat coming home, and upon landing in New York asked for the nearest bookseller, where he bought a copy of his own _Seven Seas_. Borrowing a pencil from Zogbaum, he sat in the shop and wrote for some time, then handing the book to the clerk, he asked him to mail it to Evans at the Navy Yard. That is the way we got the poem, “Zogbaum looks after his pencil and I look after my style.” Edwin Booth was the spirit and controlling force of The Players when I joined. It was his home and he lent an atmosphere of good breeding and repose that has endured to the present day. I was made a member in ’91 and had the honor of seeing quite a bit of him before his death. His memory for names was already going, and almost every day after breakfast, when he and I would be sitting together in the reading room with the morning papers, he would suddenly look over his newspaper at me in a quizzical manner and say: “Pardon me, sir, but you remind me forcibly of a family of dear friends of mine the—the—the—actor-painter people—the—” “The Forbes-Robertsons?” I would suggest. “Yes, the Forbes-Robertsons. Have you ever been mistaken for them?” “Oh yes, several times in London,” I would reply. And, the ice so broken, we would talk of all sorts of matters.