I was standing, many years ago, in the lobby of the Parker House, Boston, speaking to the late Louis Aldrich, an old and esteemed friend of mine, who had just made a tremendous success in a play written by the late Bartley Campbell, called "My Partner," when a gaunt, thin and anaemic person suddenly approached us and grasping Louis by the arm said, "I saw your play last night, great house, splendid performance, bad play," and left us as quickly as he came. "Who is that chap?" I asked.--"Oh, he is a young crank," said Aldrich, "who has written a play he wants me to produce called 'The Professor,' not a bad play, but he insists upon playing the leading rôle." "He looks more like a chemist than an actor," I replied. Several years after I was negotiating with the late A. M. Palmer, to produce a play called "The Private Secretary," but, unfortunately, strolling into the Boston Museum pending the negotiations, I witnessed an adaptation of "The Private Secretary," taken from the German I believe, called "Nunky," excellently played by the Stock Company. Having four weeks booking at the Park Theatre in Boston the ensuing season, where I intended playing "The Private Secretary," if my negotiations with Palmer proved successful, I called everything off, as I did not desire to enter into competition with Ian Robertson, who was scoring immensely in the character of "The Private Secretary," which I contemplated doing. Shortly after Palmer secured an injunction against "Nunky," and I witnessed the performance of "The Private Secretary," at the Madison Square Theatre in New York, to a packed house, and the so-called crank I had previously met with Aldrich at the Parker House, in Boston, was playing the leading rôle. His name was William Gillette. William is a very quaint person, and even to this day, many people call him a crank. He may be eccentric, all geniuses are, but he is a very able man, one of the best American dramatists, and a most excellent actor, particularly when playing the hero of one of his own plays. He has no natural repose and is possessed of very little magnetism. He certainly has a personality however and has solved the problem of standing still like the center pole of a merry-go-around in all his plays, successfully contriving to arrange his scenes so that his characters rush around him, while he stands motionless in the center, giving the impression of great repose. This is a splendid trick but only permissible to actors who pay themselves their own author's fees.