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ized it in different positions, studied it for some moments and finally handed it back to me with the remark: "I cannot read a line of it, Charles. You can read it much better than I can, and I must look to you to make sense of it if you can not decipher every word." Thereafter he never would read the proof of any article written by himself if he knew I had put it in type. For sixteen years James Brooks, first as a Whig and next as a Republican, represented a congressional district in New York city. An exalted and enviable position was his until near the close of these years, when in a fatal moment he became a victim of the infamous Union Pacific Credit Mobilier scheme, which plunged him at once into lasting disgrace and obliterated all the bright pages of his previous history. As one of a congressional committee he visited Puget sound in the steamer Oriflamme a few days before he fell from his high estate, and I had the pleasure of meeting him and his colleagues in Olympia, where the citizens treated them to a clam bake on the beach. He did not long survive his disgrace; in about a year death removed him from the scenes in which he had taken such an active part. Sunset Cox succeeded Brooks as a representative of the same district, and died while in service. At one period during the seventeen years of my printing experience in New York city, I was employed in the office of the Sun, of which Moses Y. Beach was then proprietor. In connection with his newspaper Beach ran a bank in Plainfield, N. J., from which he was supposed to derive a larger income than the paper yielded him, thought that was said to return him about $1,000 a week. The bank was a vehicle by which, in conjunction with his newspaper business, he daily put in circulation large amounts of worthless notes of his bank, which he never expected to redeem with coin. He paid his employes exclusively in Plainfield bank notes; he gave change at the counter in Plainfield bank notes; he paid for paper, type, etc., in the same notes, while the coin and notes of sound banks that came into his hands were added to the hoarded treasure. There was once a run on the Plainfield bank. Moses S. Beach, the oldest son of Moses Y., went over to meet the run with a wagon load of coppers and a few hundred dimes and half dollars. By the time he had counted out $20 in coppers and half dimes it was time to close the bank. The bank held no deposits; the run was started to procure coin for the notes, which were no better and no worse than the notes of several hundred other banks then in the country. All were at a discount of from 5 to 10 per cent., and none were safe to hold for twenty-four hours. One afternoon, while looking out of the windows of the Sun office, corner of Nassau and Fulton streets, the elder Bennett (there was then no James Gordon Bennett, jr.,) was seen running up Nassau street to the Herald office, on the opposite corner. His hat was battered out of shape and his clothing covered with dirt from head to foot. He had just been interviewing Colonel James Watson Webb and was hastening to publish the result in an extra. In little more than an hour afterward the boys were crying out: "Extra Herald! Ruffianly assault on James Gordon Bennett by James Watson Webb," etc. The details and heading occupied a column and a half, and several hundred extras were quickly sold. This gave Bennett notoriety, and notoriety seemed then his chief aim in life. Bennett's face and figure would attract attention and perhaps force a smile where he was unknown. To a tall and ungainly figure he added eyes as crooked as those of Ben Butler; indeed, his crooked eyes were almost as prominent a feature as Horace Greeley's bald head, which was noticeable in his day for the reason that bald heads were not so fashionable then as now. I cannot recall a single journalist fifty years ago, except Greeley, who did not have a luxuriant head of hair. Much is known to the writer of the methods and characteristics of Bennett and others, but to detail them here would make this sketch unduly long, therefore I refrain. CHARLES PROSCH.