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Fips, ignorant whether I couldn't let loose all the papers on him, was rather bullied, and made a great effort to be cordial, though he evidently disliked to reply. At last he said that Mr. Spurling proposed to invest $75,000.

"Very good," said I, "that will be very convenient to develop the oil-lands we have bought. Now, about that commission. I won't allow you a single cent of it."

"Very well," replied Fips, with a little effort, as when one seeks to hide disagreeable surprise. "Very well. You can do as you like. I shall put the business into other hands, of course."

"Do so. Good-day to you."

"Good-day "—with a great affectation of absorption, and much fumbling among some papers. And I departed, just lifting a finger at stout old Mr. Spurling as I passed, as much as to say, "Beware!" like a warning phantom in a melodrama.

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I found Mr. Spurling at his hotel in the evening, and he greeted me right cordially.

"To begin with," said the fine old fellow, "let the business wait five minutes, and tell me all about yourself. I haven't seen you for five years. Where have you been? What have you been doing? How do you get on? How much are you worth? Are you making money? Are you married? Any children?"

And the old man laughed at his own string of questions, and I laughed too. "Nowhere, nothing, nohow, no, none. At any rate, I have only a negative for all your expectations. I believe I know rather more than I did when I came down to this wicked city; but I've gained nothing otherwise, except age. There's really nothing to tell in the life of a newspaper understrapper. I've really nothing to tell except the business errand."

"Well, let's have that, then."

I proceeded to tell very briefly how I had just been up into Venango County and Timothyville; how I had found a regular Pandemonium of greasy wicked

ness and intrigue up there; how I had examined into all the purchases of lands made by Fips for the Company; how they looked all right, but how all the opinions I could gather were unanimous in this one point: that Fips had paid rather more than the current value of all the land he had bought. That was just the phrase" rather more than the current value; a not very dangerous-looking statement, until you remember what a furious high-tide of speculative prices it was that had thus been overtopped.

"Now," I concluded, "here he pretends to be running this concern for the benefit of the stockholders, and he has expended for oil-lands, as my memoranda show, and as the books will show,-for they will correspond to the record entries in Pennsylvania-all the money thus far received by the Company, some slight margin excepted. Where is the money to come from to develop them?" Why," said Spurling, "from further subscriptions to the stock."

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"Was he going to use your $75,000 to develop or to buy?

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The old gentleman was a little startled. "To buy, to be sure," he said at last. "He wants to get hold of that Roe Farm at $80,000. Parties are anxious to get sub-leases on it, on terms that will give two per cent. a month on that investment, any how."

"Look here, Mr. Spurling. There isn't an oil-well on the Company's lands -not one single one. There isn't the money left in bank to-day to sink one well. Here he wants to spend $5,000 more than this money of yours that he sees coming, for another one hundred and fifty acres of wild upland without one well on it. If he kept half his receipts to develop with, and managed the affair in good faith, and with good business ability, I think it would be safe. But at this rate, you know the concern must smash, for Fips' first advertisement claimed that oil was being received then; and it won't be many weeks before somebody will insist either on dividends or on an account-sales of oil. Let him once pay for this Roe

Farm, and those anxious sub-tenants perfect good faith, as a sound and honwon't be forthcoming."

"But what does he want, then?" queried Spurling. "He can't be stealing, as I see. The vouchers are on file for every cent of money, and the deeds are recorded for every inch of dirt."

"See here." I took out my pocket memorandum-book. "Here is an entry that I made from the words of the agent that's trying to sell that very Roe Farm. I took them down on the land,-the agent made me the offer himself, provided I could find him a purchaser." I pointed out the entry, and Mr. Spurling read: "Ten per cent. commission for purchaser at $80,000 cash. Roe."

"Now," I continued, “Fips is simply spending all the Company's money in bad bargains for high-priced lands, simply for the sake of the neat commission which he retains as per oral agreement at completing his bargain. If he has laid out $125,000 in this way, he has retained $12,500 at least. Your $75,000 is worth $8,000 to him."

"Hmm?" said Spurling, with the rising inflection-that is, reflectively. "That's a pretty square charge against a business man. How are you going to prove it?"

"I don't expect to prove it by affidavits of the parties," I said. "He won't tell, and the other fellows won't tell. But judge for yourself. How does it look?"

"I hate to think ill of any body," said old John. "What made you think of this thing, and what's your particular need of chocking his wheels?"

"I'll tell you." And I gave him a short history of all my own dealings with Fips, enlarging perhaps rather more than was necessary on my poor little story so brutally slaughtered before it was alive.

"Personal revenge, isn't it, my boy?" said the old man, when I was through. "Most assuredly, for my own part," I answered. "But do you object to promoting a just revenge which is accomplished by saving you $75,000 ? "

He laughed. I added:

"I took hold of this enterprise in

est undertaking; and such it would have been, if properly managed. And here this fellow has made me help him in a systematic swindle. I suspected that as soon as I found they had bought the office-oil specimens ready made; and I fully satisfied myself of it when I went up the country. I went into the office that day to threaten Fips that if he didn't at once set about putting the Company into a safe business condition, I would have his institution shown up in all the papers. If he would have done that, I would have waited and watched until the annual meeting. But when I found you there, I saw at once that the proper course for me was to save your money first, if you thought of investing."

"Well, Gasby, I don't know but you have done it. I'll see how their accounts stand, and what they say on the question of oil actually furnished. If they have spent up as close as you say, I'll look sharp. But I guess you would enjoy for yourself, a little, his not getting my money, as well as my saving it -hey?"

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In the course of the next day I received a note from Fips, intimating that he would like to make me a proposition. To this I paid no attention; for the more I considered the state of affairs, the less probable did it seem to me that the concerns of the Company could be carried to a prosperous issue in his hands. I went to see Spurling again in the evening. He seemed to be feeling very comfortably, and observed with wisdom,

"A penny saved is a penny earned, my boy. Take supper with me." I did and a good one.

"See here," he said suddenly, at a little pause in the chat and the eating

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"But you want them to write with?" mainly on a hint from Spurling, I be"No."

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My book has been more successful than it deserved. It was--I may inform you, my friendly reader, in strict confidence and to use the obliging terms of one of my publishers' advertisements ("Did I draft the ad myself?" No impertinent questions!), "that highly successful and very popu lar novel," ," "The Sangreal of To-day." Yes, I wrote that book-though old John Spurling is perhaps really the author of it. It was very naughty in me to contrive to have it credited to "a new and most promising young lady-writer," I admit. But I couldn't resist the temptation; and it was uncommonly funny to read the criticisms and see how all the reviews picked out the weaknesses of the female character in it, and showed how much better a man would have done it. And so it was to receive letters from the jolly publishers with checks, and addressed (within only), "Dear Marm." I have VOL. II.-15

lieve found it necessary to call an informal meeting, silence Fips by threats of prosecution, thrust him summarily forth, and intrust their sickly body-corporate to a shrewd business dry-nurse.

In this reverse of fortune, Fips made an effort to get the secretaryship of a Fire Insurance Company, and sought to forward his design by a curious device. He made a vigorous attempt to be admitted a member of Pilgrim Church. I was told-I don't know how true it is-that when Fips went to old Deacon Flagg, and applied for the usual examination preliminary to admission, the old gentleman gravely replied:

66 'Very sorry, Mr. Fips, but the church is full. There isn't a single vacancy. If there should be one, I'll let you know."

I can hardly believe that the good old Deacon would be so funny as that on such a subject; but however that may be, Fips neither obtained his church-membership nor his secretaryship. I believe he is at present diligently trotting about as an agent for the Dartford Accidental Catarrh Insurance Company. I met him in Broadway the other morning. He was very well dressed, but I couldn't catch his eye.

-Upon reading over what I have written, I see with surprise that the Feminine Element is entirely wanting. I can't help it. No woman was concerned in the affair; and I couldn't be expected to invent a whole woman, just to put her into a story?

A MORNING AMONG AUTOGRAPHS.

BEFORE citing any further extracts from Mr. Old's collection, a few more words may be fitly bestowed upon it as a whole. The autographs, then, set apart in groups, illustrated by extremely choice portraits, and chronologically arranged, number about one thousand. Two or three hundred besides-that may be termed miscellaneous, though possessing in some instances a rare interest-await the acquisition of the requisite engravings, and have not yet fallen into their places. The collection, properly so called, is contained in twelve large portfolios. Eight of these are devoted to the British series; two to the French, from the period of Louis XI. to that of Louis XVIII.; one to the German, between the reigns of Maximilian I. and Joseph II. inclusive; and one to the Italian and Spanish, the latter of which commences with Charles V. and comes down only to the era of Ferdinand VI. This covers, however, the Spanish occupation of the Low Countries, and offers therefore a rich field for gleaning. The British series, filling, as I have said, eight portfolios, is thus subdivided and grouped: five portfolios are given up to the sovereigns, statesmen, military and naval commanders, and other personages usually designated as historical; two to celebrities in Literature, Science, and the Arts; one to priests and divines, a numerous and important class. With very few exceptions-and these generally of the most remote date-the letters are holograph, that is to say, written entirely by the hand of the signer. One cannot expect, indeed, to find manuscripts at length from the pen of Henry VII., or Louis XI., or Charles V.; but mere signatures, as a rule, would be but lightly esteemed by your genuine collector of autographs. Indeed, I came to

II.

the conclusion that Mr. Old, in exercising his judgment, had been very much influenced by the character, so to say, of the letter or document that he acquired. Light is thrown, in some cases, upon doubtful points in history; in others, upon the motives that have influenced men of mark in their doings at critical moments, or on occasions that have been variously interpreted by commentators. This will be shown, I cannot but think, in a few more citations; and to these I hasten back for the reader's entertainment, seeing that generalities soon tend to be wearisome. A bill of fare is no criterion of the excellence of a restaurant. You may be struck with the brilliant air of an evening assembly; but how soon does the eye settle down upon individual attraction! You care not to speculate on the height or breadth of the saloons; you wonder rather, or inquire, who may be the tall blonde promenading round the room— who the handsome little woman seated apart in a corner, with lily complexion and expressive features, with classic head faultlessly posed on faultless shoulders, wearing a perfect costume as though none other would fit her, and carrying a wealth of ornament as though gems were made for her, and not she for them.

But now comes in reality what the French call the embarrassment of riches. The intellectual treat is of so high an order, that one is fairly puzzled which way to turn. In compliment, nevertheless, to the scholarly tone of Putnam's Magazine, let us turn at the outset to Alexander Pope. Thus does he conclude a letter to Dr. Oliver, dated 28th August, 1743, the year before his death -his courtly faith in medical science not exonerating him from the common lot of mortality:

Pray make my compliments to Dr. Hartley, as I shall yours to Dr. Mead. I have had such obligations to the best of your Faculty during my whole life, that I wish all others, both my Friends and my Enemies, were their Patients, in which I show that I wish well to my Friends, and not ill to my Enemies. That every Physical and moral Evil may be far from you is the Philosophical prayer of,

Dear Sir, Your very obliged and very affectionate servant,

A. POPE.

Jonathan Swift's character has been extensively discussed, of late. Here is a strong testimonial in his favor, given in a letter from Sir William Temple to Sir Robert Southwell, dated 29th March,

1690. It seems to have served as an introduction and recommendation of

for fear it should be thought an idle piece of arrogance.

Not dedicated to any man of quality, for fear it might be thought too assuming.

Not dedicated to any learned body of men, as either of the Universities, or the Royal Society, for fear it might be thought an uncommon piece of vanity.

Not dedicated to any one particular friend, for fear of offending another.

Therefore dedicated to Nobody.

But if, for once, we may suppose Nobody to be Everybody, as Everybody is often said to be Nobody, then is this work dedicated to Everybody, by their most humble and devoted.

I might have made copies of holograph epistles from John Evelyn, Jeremy Taylor, Abraham Cowley, Edmond Waller, Lady Dorothy Sunderland, known as Waller's "Sacharissa," John

Swift to the care and patronage of Sir Dryden, John Locke, Sir Isaac Newton,

Robert:

Hee has lived in my house, read to me, writt for me, and kept all accounts, as far as my small occasions required. Hee has Latine and Greek, writes a very good and current hand, is

very honest and diligent, and has good friends, though they have for the present lost their fortune in Ireland; and his whole family hav. ing been long known to me, obliged mee thus farr to take care of him. If you please to accept him into your service, either as a Gentleman to wait on you, or as Clerk to write under you; and either to use him so, if you like his service, or upon any Establishment of the Colledge to recommend him to a Fellowship there, which he has a just pretence to, I shall acknowledge it as a great obligation.

Here is a bit from David Garrick, that almost rivals Edmund Kean's expression: "the pit rose at me." Writing to his brother, George Garrick, on the 12th April, 1776, he says:

Last night I played Drugger for the last time. The Morning Post will tell you the whole of that night. I thought the audience were mad, and they almost turned my brain.

In an age when lordly patronage was considered, by authors and artists, an essential passport to public favor, it is curious to find Hogarth thus satirizing the system that prevailed. What follows is a copy of an undated paper in his handwriting, headed "The No Dedication:"

Not dedicated to any Prince in Christendom,

Matthew Prior, Joseph Addison, Sir Richard Steele, Henry Fielding, Lawrence Sterne, Samuel Johnson, James Boswell, Oliver Goldsmith, Sir Joshua Reynolds, David Hume, Edward Gibbon, Thomas Gray, William Cowper, William Wordsworth, or Samuel Taylor Coleridge—I might, I say, have transferred to my note-book, for use in these pages, the whole or parts of letters penned by these notable persons, and by others who are naturally grouped with them.

But I bore this fact in mind, with reference to those whom Literature has made famous: we are familiar with their style, and with an infinity of their thoughts. One does not, therefore, in regarding their correspondence, feel the same sense of gratified curiosity, as in being brought face to face, as it were, with those whose actions have tended to the making of history, but whose spoken or written words are comparatively unknown or scarce. Thus I confess to looking with profoundest interest at letters from Sir Philip Sidney and Sir Walter Raleigh, treasures that few private collections can boast. One from the former I quote at length, as a sample of phraseology that appears quaint in these days. The seal is broken, whereas generally in these antique missives the seal remains intact, while the silk that was secured by it has been cut. The writing, on foolscap

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