“Very truly yours, “EDGAR ALLAN POE.” “Jno. R. Thompson, Esq. “P. S.--I am about to bestir myself in the world of letters rather more busily than I have done for three or four years past, and a connection which I have established with two weekly papers may enable me, now and then, to serve you in respect to The _Messenger_.” Our interview was interrupted by a handsome youth with a fashionable fur coat and who used very broken English. He desired to buy autographs of French “big people,” and of composers and of musicians of all nations. Mr. Madigan brought out his royalty portfolios. Louis XIV. and Marie Antoinette were the star pieces. The youth did not hesitate long. He bought them and took about two dozen letters of musical people. He ordered them all framed and sent up to his studio. He offered English bank notes in payment of the bill (some four hundred odd dollars), but Mr. Madigan insisted on receiving United States currency, and so the man went to a nearby bank, returned shortly, and paid. “What does he want with them?” I asked, astonished. The whole transaction had lasted less than fifteen minutes. “He is a musician,” replied Mr. Madigan, “who will play the social game. He will invite some very rich people to his studio, the walls will be hung with the autographs he has just bought, and he’ll tell them about his ‘dear’ relics of his ancestors and will also point familiarly to his ‘dear’ friends the musicians and composers. “If he succeeds in his game, he will keep the autographs, but most likely he will come back to me in six months or sooner, financially embarrassed, and will beg of me to buy them back.” A well-known poet came in. Mr. Madigan took him to the back of the store. The poet wrote for a little while and then handed the sheet of paper to Madigan. A short conversation in subdued tones, and the poet left the shop. Madigan told me that the poet had written an extemporaneous ode on Oscar Wilde. “He often comes in,” Mr. Madigan continued, “for a chat and presents me quite frequently with a few lines of his poetry. Once he had not left the shop more than half an hour. I sold the poem he had just written to another friend of mine for ten dollars.” An old lady entered. She unwrapped a parcel that she had carried under her arm. A lot of letters and photographs. I felt that she resented my presence during the coming transaction. I turned my back. I listened to a long lecture by Mr. Madigan about the cheapness and undesirability of the autographs which she offered to him for sale. Finally he offered a few dollars and the old lady, reluctantly, pocketed the money and left her parcel.