He entered the New York Public Library for the first time on March 7, 1917, being taken there by A. Toxen Worm, of Copenhagen. He never accepts a dinner invitation until invited three separate times, and then usually sends his regrets at the last moment. The living Americans who most interest him are Josephus Daniels and Frank A. Munsey. The only poet that he admires is John McClure. He seldom reads poetry. He has never read “Paradise Lost.” He never visits a house a second time in which he has encountered dogs, cats, children, automatic pianos, grace before or after meals, women authors, actors, _The New Republic_, or prints of the Mona Lisa. He is not acquainted with a single clergyman, Congressman, general, or reformer. He has never met any of the Vice-Presidents of the United States. He is free of adenoids. His knee jerks are normal. He has never been inside a church. He has been writing dramatic criticism for thirteen successive years, and in that time has seen more than 3000 plays in America, 400 in England, and 1900 on the Continent. He has simultaneously syndicated critical articles to as many as forty-two newspapers, and has served as dramatic critic to seven metropolitan magazines. In 1910, on a wager, he wrote sixteen magazine articles in a single month. Among his short stories are “D. S. W.,” “Nothing to Declare,” “But I Love Her,” “The Soul Song,” “The Triple Expense,” etc. Among his most widely quoted retorts is that made by him to the newspaper interviewer who asked him if it was true that a disgruntled theatrical manager named Gest had alluded to him as a “pinhead.” “That,” replied Nathan, “is on the face of it absurd. ‘Pinhead’ is a word of two syllables.” He once observed that the reason the galleries of our theaters, as our theatrical managers lament, are no longer filled with newsboys is that all the newsboys are now theatrical managers. He wrote the introduction to Eleanor Gates’ play, “The Poor Little Rich Girl.” He is the first American critic to have written of the dramatists Molnar, Brighouse, and Bracco. His mother’s family were the pioneer settlers of Fort Wayne, Indiana. His father’s family were figures in the continental world of letters. His father spoke eleven languages, including the Chinese. He frequently spends an entire afternoon polishing up a sentence in one of his compositions. And he often stops writing for a couple of days, or as long as it takes him, to hit upon an appropriate adjective or phrase. He never writes love letters, and seldom reads them. He cannot operate a motor car, or cook anything, or wind a dynamo, or fix a clock, or guess the answer to a riddle, or milk a cow. He regards camping out as the most terrible diversion ever invented by man. He knows nothing of country life, and cannot tell a wheat field from a potato patch. He regards all deciduous trees as oaks, and all evergreens as cedars. He has yet to drink his first glass of Hires’ Root Beer.