This time was quite a social period in my life. Good plays, good music and much of it—there was a spontaneity in the New York folk that has never touched me at any other time in America. I was strong, though never muscular, with the vitality of five men; and to work all day, run to the club in the late afternoon, dine well, and then be in the company of congenial friends most of the night, did not put a dent in my surplus energy. Stanny was the great driving force of all our entertainments, and as he was the type of man who always paid for everything and shoved anyone aside who tried to get in first, my lack of money did not make much difference. It was in 1893, I think, that he made me a member of the Vaudeville Club. In those days, that large space to the left, in the second tier of the Metropolitan Opera House, was given up to men only, and behind was the bar, a set of rooms, and a small stage. Here a member could meet a friend, have a drink, go in and hear what he wished of the opera, and come out when he felt bored. After the performance there would be a supper and a show given by the leading vaudeville people from Broadway. Relaxation after the music, good food and drink, and much talk and fun. Such entertainers as Vesta Victoria would be on the program, and once we were honored by the presence of Mr. Sandow. The latter was quite a lion for a time. I remember him, in evening clothes, coming into the box of a lady very highly placed socially. He seemed to be paralyzed by the attention given him. When he said good-by, and evidently wishing to return his social obligations, he handed each feminine occupant of the box a ticket to his private performances out at his quarters, where they “could see more of him.” I remember one dinner party which was much criticized, but in reality how very moral and dignified it was! The guests, all men, were socially and artistically of the best set of the town. We wanted a “blowout” and we did not propose to be limited by New-Englandism, politics, or anything else. There were fifty men; everything was in perfect taste, arranged by the best artists in America. There was remarkably good music, made by a colored orchestra, and—_mirabile dictu!_—no talk, no speeches, and no toasts. Every man at that dinner knew that his next-door neighbor would be a treat to talk to and a man on his feet would be an interruption. Two girls—models—in exquisite costumes, one blond and one brunette, poured the drinks, each one serving the colored wine which corresponded to her complexion. At the dessert, solemn servants came forward, bearing a huge six-foot pasty which was placed in the center of the great horseshoe table. The negro musicians began to sing, in that inimitable manner and rhythm of their race. “Sing a song of Sixpence, pocket full of rye, Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie—” At the next words, “When the pie was opened—”