1876 by Gore Vidal Page A

proprietor of a newspaper which has the largest (if not the best, as Bryant would undoubtedly observe) circulation of any newspaper in the United States.
    Much of the Herald’s success is based on its “Personal Column” advertisements that are nothing more than a straightforward guide to the Sodom below Bleecker Street, to the Gomorrah of Sixth Avenue, to every prostitute with a few dollars and a desire to see her name in print. Good folk complain about the Herald’s advertisements, but everyone reads them.
    Jamie introduced me to the elderly man with him, a sort of doleful farmer type whose name meant nothing to me.
    “I’ve known Mr. Schuyler since I was—how old?”
    “Before birth, I should think. When your mother paid us a call in Paris, a month before you were born.”
    Having failed to make his way in the proud self-contained aristocracy of New York, the older Bennett had vowed that his son would one day prevail amongst the Knickerbocker nobles and so sent the child off to Paris to be brought up.
    My wife and I used often to see Jamie and his mother. Because the boy was the same age as Emma, they were often together, and I always thought that he showed some interest in her; but in those days she was not much inclined to her father’s countrymen. Eventually Jamie returned to take with the greatest ease that place in New York society his father had wanted for him. Everyone was enchanted by Jamie’s Parisian elegance, his superb sportsmanship and, of course, his quite unexpected gift for the most sensational sort of newspaper publishing.
    The year of old Bennett’s death, Jamie arranged for one Henry M. Stanley to search for one David Livingstone, reputedly lost in Africa. Lavishly financed by Jamie, this entirely boring saga filled miles of newsprint for what seemed a decade, ensuring the Herald its American pre-eminence despite my own unremittingly dim reports on such trivia as Bismarck, Garibaldi, and Napoleon III.
    “I must leave you here, Mr. Bennett.” The sad farmer clung a moment to the younger man’s hand; then he squeezed my elbow and lugubriously departed.
    Jamie turned to me. “Come see our offices. We’re right across the street where Barnum’s used to be.” But I had had my fill of newspaper offices for one day.
    “Another time. My chipped beef grows cold.”
    Jamie made a face at the plate. “Then I’ll have a drink with you.” He joined me in my friendly green-shaded corner, and divined why I had placed myself so close to the newspapers. “You wanted to read all about your splendid arrival for free. A razzle-dazzle!” He shouted this last phrase which referred not to my arrival, as I feared, but to a perfectly terrifying cocktail that contains, in equal parts, brandy, absinthe and ginger ale. Hard drinkers, these New York gentlemen.
    “How’s Emma?”
    “She would like to see you.”
    “Handsome as ever?”
    “As always, to a father’s eye.”
    “I shall arrange something. Perhaps the theatre. Whatever Emma likes. Mr. Schuyler, what are your politics?”
    “If you’d read your own paper this morning, you’d know that I am an admirer of Governor Tilden.”
    “Cold as a clam. But that’s good.” The waiter brought Jamie his razzle-dazzle in a frozen glass, and beamed respectfully as the young lord downed the drink and asked for another. Obviously Jamie is well known at the Astor bar; but then he must be well known everywhere for New York is very much his city.
    “Good that Governor Tilden is a cold clam?”
    “No.” Jamie wiped his moustache—handkerchief heavy with eau de Cologne. “Good that you’re a Democrat. Good that you’re not one of those high-minded Republicans who’s willing to accept all sorts of thievery at Washington just because of the hallowed memory of Honest Ape.” Yes, “Ape” for “Abe.” But these New Yorkers were never partial to President Lincoln. In fact, during the late war, many distinguished New Yorkers actually favored the city’s