dred
years, or two thousand. His was the soul of the Roman Petronius, or of
one of the Corinthian eccentrics, who strutted in St. James's Park or
past Carlton House in the early days of the Regency, and gave colour to
that otherwise grim England that was grappling for life with the
Corsican; or of "King" Nash of Bath. It was the "King," perhaps, that he
suggested most of all. But in the Carlton House circle he might have
out-Brummelled Brummel, and supplanted that famous Beau as the object of
the fat Prince's attentions and ingratitude. Indeed there was a flavour
of Brummel's biting insolence in some of the sayings that were
attributed to the New Yorker. For example, there was a well-known
literary woman of New York, who had in some way incurred the arbiter's
august disapproval.

"She write stories of New York society!" he said. "Why, I have seen her
myself, buying her Madeira at Park & Tilford's in a demijohn."

When Thackeray was contemplating writing "The Virginians," he desired
information about the personality of Washington, and applied to the
American historian Kennedy. Kennedy began to impart his knowledge in the
manner that might have been expected from a historian when the
Englishman interrupted rather testily, "No, no. That's not what I want.
Tell me, was he a fussy old gentleman in a wig, who spilled snuff down
the front of his coat?" It was in some such spirit that I applied to
that old friend of the fine Italian manner, and the profound personal
and inherited knowledge of the ways and the men and women of New York. I
did not, I explained, wish to be unkind, but the memory of that
latter-day Petronius was one of the most mirth-provoking memories of my
boyhood. Was he fair game for a chapter of a flippant nature? But why
not? was the retort. He himself would have adored it.

Fame came to him through the newspaper reporter. It was a smaller New
York, a more limited Fifth Avenue in those days, and Mrs. Astor ruled
its society without any one to question her sovereignty. She was about
to give a great ball, and Ward McAllister, as the self-appointed and
generally accepted secretary of society, was in charge of the list of
invitations.

To the reporter sent to interview him Mr. McAllister explained that,
owing to problems of space, only four hundred cards were to be sent out,
commenting: "After all, there are only four hundred persons in New York
who count in a social way."

"And who are those four hundred p