[Not long since an American author received an application from a
German correspondent for "a few Autographs"--the number of names
applied for amounting to more than a hundred, and covering several
sheets of foolscap. A few years since an Englishman of literary note
sent his Album to a distinguished poet in Paris for his contribution,
when the volume was actually stolen from a room where every other
article was left untouched; showing that Autographs were more valuable
in the eyes of the thief than any other property. Amused with the
recollection of these facts, and others of the same kind, some idle
hours were given by the writer to the following view of this mania of
the day.]
The month of November of the year sixteen hundred and -- was cheerless
and dark, as November has never failed to be within the foggy, smoky
bounds of the great city of London. It was one of the worst days of the
season; what light there was seemed an emanation from the dull earth,
the heavens would scarce have owned it, veiled as they were, by an
opaque canopy of fog which weighed heavily upon the breathing multitude
below. Gloom penetrated every where; no barriers so strong, no good
influences so potent, as wholly to ward off the spell thrown over that
mighty town by the spirits of chill and damp; they clung to the silken
draperies of luxury, they were felt within the busy circle of industry,
they crept about the family hearth, but abroad in the public ways, and
in the wretched haunts of misery, they held undisputed sway.
Among the throng which choked the passage of Temple-Bar toward evening,
an individual, shabbily clad, was dragging his steps wearily along, his
pallid countenance bearing an expression of misery beyond the more
common cares of his fellow-passengers. Turning from the great
thoroughfare he passed into a narrow lane, and reaching the door of a
mean dwelling he entered, ascended a dirty stairway four stories high,
and stood in his garret lodging. If that garret was bare, cold, and
dark, it was only like others, in which many a man before and since has
pined away years of neglect and penury, at the very moment when his
genius was cheering, enriching, enlightening his country and his race.
That the individual whose steps we have followed was indeed a man of
genius, could not be doubted by one who had met the glance of that
deep, clear, piercing eye, clouded though it was at that moment by
misery of body and mind that amounted to the extreme of anguish. The
garret of the stranger contained no food, no fuel, no light; its
occupant was suffering from cold, hunger, and wretchedness. Throwing
himself on a broken chair, he clenched his fingers over the manuscript,
held within a pale and emaciated hand.
"Shall I die of hunger--or shall I make one more effort?" he exclaimed,
in a voice in which bitterness gave a momentary power to debility.
"I will write once more to my patron--possibly--" without waiting to
finish the sentence, he groped about in the dull twilight for ink and
paper; resting the sheet on a book, he wrote in a hand barely legible:
"Nov. 20th 16--,
"MY LORD--I have no light, and cannot see to write--no fire and my
fingers are stiff with cold--I have not tasted food for eight and forty
hours, and I am faint. Three times, my lord, I have been at your door
to day, but could not obtain admittance. This note may yet reach you in
time to save a fellow-creature from starvation. I have not a farthing
left, nor credit for a ha'penny--small debts press upon me, and the
publishers refused my last poem. Unless relieved within a few hours I
must perish.
"Your lordship's most humble,
"Most obedient, most grateful servant,
-------- --------"
This letter, scarcely legible from the agitation and misery which
enfeebled the hand that wrote it, was folded, and directed, and again
the writer left his garret lodging on the errand of beggary; he
descended the narrow stairway, slowly dragged his steps through the
lane, and sought the dwelling of his patron.
Whether he obtained admittance, or was again turned from the door;
whether his necessities were relieved, or the letter was idly thrown
aside unopened, we cannot say. Once more mingled with the crowd, we
lose sight of him. It is not the man, but the letter which engages our
attention to-day. There is still much doubt and uncertainty connected
with the subsequent fate of the poor poet, but the note written at that
painful moment has had a brilliant career, a history eventful
throughout. If the reader is partial to details of misery, and poverty,
any volume of general literary biography will furnish him with an
abundant supply, for such has too often proved the lot of those who
have built up the noble edifice of British Literature: like the band of
laborers on the Egyptian pyramid, theirs was too often a mess of leeks,
while milk, and honey, and oil, were the portion of those for whom they
toiled, those in whose honor, and for whose advantage the monument was
raised. Patrons, whether single individuals or nations, have too often
proved but indifferent friends, careless and forgetful of those whom
they proudly pretend to foster. But leaving the poor poet, with his
sorrows, to the regular biographer, we choose rather the lighter task
of relating the history of the letter itself; a man's works are often
preferred before himself, and it is believed that in this, the day of
autographs, no further apology will be needed for the course taken on
the present occasion. We hold ourselves, indeed, entitled to the
especial gratitude of collectors for the following sketch of a document
maintaining so high a rank in their estimation.
And justly might the Lumley Letter claim a full share of literary
homage. Boasting a distinguished signature, it possessed the first
essential of a superior autograph; for, although a rose under any other
name may smell as sweet, yet it is clear that with regard to every
thing coming from the pen, whether folio or billet doux, imaginative
poem, or matter-of-fact note of hand, there is a vast deal in this
important item, which is often the very life and stamina of the whole
production. Then again, the subject of extreme want is one of general
interest, while the allusion to the unpublished poem must always prove
an especial attraction to the curious. Such were the intrinsic merits
of the document, in addition to which, sober Time lent his aid to
enhance its value, and capricious Fortune added a peculiar charm of
mystery, which few papers of the kind could claim to the same extent.
The appearance also of this interesting paper was always admitted to be
entirely worthy of its fame. The hand-writing fully carried out the
idea of extreme debility and agitation corresponding with its nature,
while a larger and a lesser blot bore painful testimony to that
recklessness of propriety which a starving man might be supposed to
feel; one corner had been ruthlessly abstracted at the time it was seen
by the writer of this notice, and with it the last figures of the date;
a considerable rent crossed the sheet from right to left, but happily
without injuring its contents; several punctures were also observed,
one of these encroaching very critically upon the signature. But I need
not add that these marks of age and harsh treatment, like the scars on
the face of a veteran, far from being blemishes, were acknowledged to
be so many additional embellishments. The coloring of the piece was of
that precious hue, verging here and there on the dingy, the very tint
most charming in the eyes of an antiquary, and which Time alone can
bestow. In fact, one rarely sees a relic of the kind, more perfect in
color, more expressive in its general aspect, or more becoming to an
album, from the fine contrast between its poverty-stricken air, torn,
worn, and soiled, and the rich, embossed, unsullied leaf on which it
reposed, like some dark Rembrandt within its gilded frame. In short, it
was the very Torso of autographs. Happily the position which it finally
attained was one worthy of its merits, and we could not have wished it
a more elegant shrine than the precious pages of the Holberton Album, a
volume encased in velvet, secured with jeweled clasps, reposing on a
tasteful etagere.
{etagere = small table or shelf for displaying curios (French)}
But I proceed without further delay to relate some of the more
important steps in the progress of this interesting paper, from the
garret of the starving poet to the drawing-rooms of Holberton House,
merely observing by way of preface that the following notice may be
relied on so far as it goes, the writer--Colonel Jonathan Howard of
Trenton, New Jersey,--having had access to the very best authorities,
and having also had the honor of being enlisted in the service of the
Lumley Autograph upon an occasion of some importance, as will be shown
by the narrative.
It was just one hundred years since, in 1745, that this celebrated
letter was first brought to light, from the obscurity in which it had
already lain some half a century, and which no subsequent research has
been able fully to clear away. In the month of August of that year, the
Rev. John Lumley, tutor to Lord G----, had the honor of discovering
this curious relic under the following circumstances.
Mr. Lumley was one day perched on the topmost step of a library ladder,
looking over a black letter volume of Hollinshed, from the well filled
shelves of his pupil. Suddenly he paused, and his antiquarian instincts
were aroused by the sight of a sheet of paper, yellow and time worn. He
seized it with the eagerness of a book-worm, and in so doing dropped
the volume of Hollinshed alarmingly near the wig-covered head of his
youthful pupil, who with closed eyes, and open mouth, lay reclining on
a sofa below. The book, grazing the curls of the young lord's wig, he
sprang up from his nap, alive and sound, though somewhat startled.
{Hollinshed = Raphael Holinshed (d. 1580), famous writer of British
historical chronicles, used by Shakespeare as source for some of his
plays}
"Hang it Lumley, what a rumpus you keep up among the books! You well
nigh drove that old volume into my head by a process more summary than
usual."
The learned tutor made a thousand apologies, as he descended the
ladder, but on touching the floor his delight burst forth.
"It was this paper, my lord, which made me so awkward--I have lighted
on a document of the greatest interest!"
"What is it?" asked the pupil looking askance at letter, and tutor.
"An original letter which comes to hand, just in time for my lives of
the tragedians--the volume to be dedicated to your lordship--it is a
letter of poor Otway."
{Otway = Thomas Otway (1652-1685), English playwright who wrote a
number of important tragedies in verse, but who died destitute at the
age of 33. The Coopers were familiar with his work; James Fenimore
Cooper used quotations from Otway's "The Orphan" for three chapter
heading epigraphs in his 1850 novel, "The Ways of the Hour"}
"Otway?--What, the fellow you were boring me about last night?"
"The same my lord--the poet Otway--you may remember we saw his Venice
Preserved last week. It is a highly interesting letter, written in
great distress, and confirms the story of his starvation. You see the
signature."
{Venice Preserved = a well-known play by Otway, written in 1682}
"That name, Otway?--Well, to my mind it is as much like Genghis Khan."
"Oh, my lord!--Thomas Otway clearly--signatures are always more or less
confused.
"Well, have it your own way.--It may be Tom, Dick, or Harry for all I
care," said the youth, stretching himself preparatory to a visit to his
kennels; and such was his indifference to this literary treasure that
he readily gave it to his tutor. In those days, few lords were literary.
Mr. Lumley's delight at this discovery, was very much increased by the
fact that he was at that moment anxious to bring out an edition of the
English Tragedians of the seventeenth century. The lives of several of
these authors had been already written by him, and he was at that
moment engaged on that of Otway. A noted publisher had taken the matter
into consideration, and if the undertaking gave promise of being both
palatable to the public, and profitable to himself, a prospectus was to
be issued. Now here was a little tit-bit which the public would
doubtless relish; for it was beginning to feel some interest in Otway's
starvation, the poet having been dead half a century. It is true that
the signature of the poor starving author, whoever he may have been,
was so illegible that it required some imagination to see in it, the
name of Otway, but Mr. Lumley had enough of the true antiquarian
spirit, to settle the point to his own entire satisfaction. The note
was accordingly introduced into the life of Otway, with which the
learned tutor was then engaged. The work itself, however, was not
destined to see the light; its publication was delayed, while Mr.
Lumley accompanied his pupil on the usual continental tour, and from
this journey the learned gentleman never returned, dying at Rome, of a
cold caught in the library of the Vatican. By his will, the MS. life of
Otway with all his papers, passed into the hands of his brother, an
officer in the army. Unfortunately, however, Captain Lumley, who was by
no means a literary character, proved extremely indifferent to this
portion of his brother's inheritance, which he treated with
contemptuous neglect.
After this first stage on the road to fame, twenty more years passed
away and the letter of the starving poet was again forgotten. At length
the papers of the Rev. Mr. Lumley, fell into the hands of a nephew, who
inherited his uncle's antiquarian tastes, and clerical profession. In
looking over the MSS., he came to the life of Otway, and was struck
with the letter given there, never having met with it in print; there
was also a note appended to it with an account of the manner in which
it had been discovered by the editor, in the library of Lord G----, and
affirming that it was still in his own possession. The younger Lumley
immediately set to work to discover the original letter, but his search
was fruitless; it was not to be found either among the papers of his
uncle, or those of his father. It was gone. He was himself a tutor at
Cambridge at the time, and returning to the university, he carried with
him his uncle's life of Otway, in MS. Some little curiosity was at
first excited among his immediate companions by these facts, but it
soon settled down into an opinion unfavorable to the veracity of the
late Mr. Lumley.--This nettled the nephew; and as Lord G----, was still
living, a gouty bloated roue, he at length wrote to inquire if his
lordship knew any thing of the matter. His lordship was too busy, or
too idle, to answer the inquiry. Some time later, however, the younger
Lumley, then a chaplain in the family of a relative of Lord G----'s,
accidentally met his uncle's former pupil, and being of a persevering
disposition, he ventured to make a personal application on the subject.
"Now you recall the matter to me, Mr. Lumley, I do recollect something
of the kind. I remember one day, giving my tutor some musty old letter
he found in the library at G----; and by the bye he came near cracking
my skull on the same occasion!"
Mr. Lumley was not a little pleased by this confirmation of the story,
though he found that Lord G---- had not even read the letter, nor did
he know any thing of its subsequent fate; he only remembered looking at
the signature. Not long after the meeting at which this explanation had
taken place, Mr. Lumley received a visit from a stranger, requesting to
see the MS. Life of Otway in his possession. It was handed to him; he
examined it, and was very particular in his inquiries on the subject,
giving the chaplain to understand that he was the agent of a third
person who wished to purchase either the original letter if possible,
or if that could not be found, the MS. containing the copy. Mr. Lumley
always believed that the employer of this applicant was no other than
that arch-gatherer, Horace Walpole, who gave such an impulse to the
collecting mania; he declined selling the work, however, for he had
thoughts of printing it himself. The application was mentioned by him,
and, of course, the manuscript gained notoriety, while the original
letter became a greater desideratum than ever. The library at G---- was
searched most carefully by a couple of brother book-worms, who crept
over it from cornice to carpeting; but to no purpose.
{Horace Walpole = Horace Walpole (1717-1797), a prolific writer,
connoisseur, and collector, best known for his extensive
correspondence; he established a taste for literary collecting by
would-be cultured gentlemen in England}
Some ten years later still--about the time, by the bye, when
Chatterton's career came to such a miserable close in London, and when
Gilbert was dying in a hospital at Paris--it happened that a worthy
physician, well known in the town of Southampton for his benevolence
and eccentricity, was on a professional visit to the child of a poor
journeyman trunk-maker, in the same place. A supply of old paper had
just been brought in for the purpose of lining trunks, according to the
practice of the day. A workman was busy sorting these, rejecting some
as refuse, and preserving others, when the doctor stopped to answer an
inquiry about the sick child.
{Chatterton = Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770), British poet, who created
an imaginary Thomas Rowley, a supposed medieval monk, to whom he
ascribed some of his poems. Chatterton committed suicide at the age of
18 when a poem of his, allegedly by Rowley, was rejected; he was buried
in a pauper's grave. Susan Fenimore Cooper no doubt has this in mind in
naming a character in this story Theodosia Rowley.
{Gilbert = Nicolas Gilbert (1751-1780), French poet, who died in Paris
at the age of 29. The French writer Count Alfred de Vigny (1797-1863),
in his book of essays "Stello" (1832), popularized a legend that
Gilbert had died insane and in abject poverty at the charity hospital
of the Hotel Dieu in Paris, and compared his miserable end with that of
Chatteron; it seems likely that Vigny, whose book appeared while Susan
Fenimore Cooper was studying in Paris, was her source for this
reference to Gilbert. In fact, Gilbert was not impoverished, and died
of injuries after falling from his horse}
"Better, Hopkins--doing well. But what have you here? I never see old
papers but I have an inclination to look them over. If a man has
leisure, he may often pick up something amusing among such rubbish.
Don't you ever read the papers that pass through your hands?"
"No, sir--I 'as no time for that, sir. And then I was never taught to
read writing, and these 'ere papers is all written ones. We puts them
that's written for one trunk, and them that's printed for another, as
you see, sir; one must have a heye to the looks of the work."
"Why yes--you seem to manage the job very well; and I have a trunk, by
the bye, that wants patching up before my boy carries it off with him;
I'll send it round to you; Hopkins. But stay--what's this?" and the
doctor took up a soiled, yellow sheet of paper, from the heap rejected
by the workman; it contained a scrawl which proved to be the identical
letter of the poor poet, the Lumley autograph, though in what manner it
became mingled with that heap of rubbish has never been satisfactorily
ascertained.
"Here's a poor fellow who had a hard fate, Hopkins," said the
benevolent man, thoughtfully. "It is as good as a sermon on charity to
read that letter."
The trunk-maker begged to hear it.
"Well, poor journeyman as I be, I was never yet in so bad a way as
that, sir."
"And never will be, I hope; but this was a poet, Hopkins--and that's
but an indifferent trade to live by. I'll tell you what, my good
friend," said the doctor, suddenly, "that letter is worth keeping, and
you may paste it in the trunk I'll send round this afternoon--put it in
the lid, where it can be read."
The trunk was sent, and the letter actually pasted in it as part of the
new lining. Dr. H----, who, as we have observed, was rather eccentric
in his ways, had a son about to commence his career as a soldier; and
the worthy man thought the letter might teach the youth a useful lesson
of moderation and temperance, by showing him every time he opened his
trunk, the extreme of want to which his fellow beings were occasionally
reduced. What success followed the plan we cannot say. The trunk,
however, shared the young soldier's wandering life; it carried the
cornet's uniform to America; it was besieged in Boston; and it made
part of the besieging baggage at Charleston. It was not destined,
however, to remain in the new world, but followed its owner to the East
Indies, carrying on this second voyage, a lieutenant's commission. At
length, after passing five-and-twenty years in Bengal, the trunk
returned again to Southampton, as one among some dozen others which
made up the baggage of the gallant Colonel H----, now rich in laurels
and rupees. The old trunk had even the honorable duty assigned it of
carrying its master's trophies, doubtless the most precious portion of
the colonel's possessions, though at the same time the lightest; as for
the rupees, the old worn-out box would have proved quite unequal to
transporting a single bag of them, for it was now sadly unfit for
service, thanks to the ravages of time and the white ants; and, indeed,
owed its preservation and return to its native soil solely to the
letter pasted in the lid, which, in the eyes of Colonel H----, was a
memento of home, and the eccentric character of a deceased parent.
{cornet = the lowest officer rank in a British cavalry regiment, below
that of Lieutenant; now obsolete}
The time had now come, however, when the Lumley autograph was about to
emerge forever from obscurity, and receive the full homage of
collectors; the hour of triumph was at hand, the neglect of a century
was to be fully repaid by the highest honors of fame. The eye of beauty
was about to kindle as it rested on the Lumley autograph; jeweled
fingers were to be raised, eager to snatch the treasure from each
other; busy literati stood ready armed for a war of controversy in its
behalf.
It happened that Colonel H---- was invited to a fancy ball; and it also
happened that the lady whom he particularly admired, was to be present
on the occasion. Such being the case, the most becoming costume was to
be selected for the evening. What if the locks of the gallant colonel
were slightly sprinkled with gray? He was still a handsome man, and
knew very well that the dress of an eastern aymeer was particularly
well suited to his face and figure. This dress, preserved in a certain
old trunk in the garret, was accordingly produced. The trunk was
brought down to the dressing-room, the costume examined piece by piece,
pronounced in good condition by the valet, and declared very becoming
by the military friend called in as counsellor.
{aymeer = Emir; a Muslim title signifying commander in Arabic}
"But what a queer old box this is, H----," said Major D----, eyeing the
trunk through his glass.
"It's one I've had these hundred years," replied the colonel. "So you
think this trumpery will do, D----?"
"Do? To be sure it will, my dear fellow--it gives your Milesian skin
the true Nawaub dye. But I was just trying to make out an old letter
pasted in the lid of your trunk, under my nose here. Is this the way
you preserve your family archives?"
{Milesian = slang term for Irish, from Milesius, mythical Spanish
conqueror of Ireland; Nawaub = from Nabob, Anglo-Indian slang for one
who has returned home from India with a large fortune}
"That letter is really a curiosity in its way," said the colonel,
turning from the glass and relating its history, so far at least as it
was known to himself.
His friend spelt it through.
"My dear fellow, why don't you give this letter to the father of your
fair Louisa; he's quite rabid on such points; you'll make him a friend
for life by it!"
The advice was followed. The letter was cut from its old position in
the lid of the trunk, and presented to Sir John Blank, the father of
the lovely Louisa, who, in his turn, soon placed the hand of his
daughter in that of Colonel H----.
Sir John, a noted follower in the steps of Horace Walpole, had no
sooner become the owner of this interesting letter, than he set to work
to find out its origin, and to fill up its history. Unfortunately, the
sheet had received some wounds in the wars, as well as the gallant
colonel. One corner had been carried away by an unlucky thrust from a
razor--not a sword; while the date and signature had also been half
eaten out by the white ants of Bengal. But such difficulties as these
were only pleasing obstacles in the way of antiquarian activity. Sir
John had soon formed an hypothesis perfectly satisfactory to himself.
His mother's name was Butler, and he claimed some sort of affinity with
the author of Hudibras; as the Christian name of the poor poet had been
almost entirely devoured by the ants, while the surname had also
suffered here and there, Sir John ingeniously persuaded himself that
what remained had clearly belonged to the signature of the great
satirist; as for the date, the abbreviation of "Nov. 20th." and the
figures 16-- marking the century, were really tolerably distinct.
Accordingly, Sir John wrote a brief notice of Butler's Life, dwelling
much upon his well-known poverty, and quoting his epitaph, with the
allusion to his indigence underscored, "lest he who living wanted all
things, should, when dead, want a tomb," and placed these remarks
opposite the letter of our starving poet, which was registered in the
volume in conspicuous characters as an "Autograph of Samuel Butler,
author of Hudibras, showing to what distress he was at one time
reduced."
{Samuel Butler (1612-1680), another English author popularly believed
to have died in great poverty; he is best known for his long satiric
mock-epic poem, "Hudibras" (1663-1678)}
Here the sheet remained several years, until at length it chanced that
Sir John's volume of autographs was placed in the hands of a gentleman
who had recently read Mr. Lumley's MS. Life of Otway. The identity of
this letter, with that copied by Mr. Lumley, immediately suggested
itself; and now the first sparks of controversy between the Otwaysians
and the Butlerites were struck in Sir John's library.
From thence they soon spread to the four winds of heaven, falling on
combustible materials wherever they lighted on a literary head, or
collecting hands.
By the bye, the rapidity with which this collecting class has increased
of late years is really alarming; who can foresee the state of things
likely to exist in the next century, should matters go on at the same
rate? Reflect for a moment on the probable condition of distinguished
authors, lions of the loudest roar, if the number of autograph-hunters
were to increase beyond what it is at present. Is it not to be feared
that they will yet exterminate the whole race, that the great lion
literary, like the mastodon, will become extinct? Or, perhaps, by
taming him down to a mere producer of autographs, his habits will
change so entirely that he will no longer be the same animal, no longer
bear a comparison with the lion of the past. On the other hand should
the great race become extinct, what will be the fate of the family of
autograph-feeders? What a fearful state of things would ensue, even in
our day, were the supply to be reduced but a quire! The heart sickens
at the picture which would then be presented--collectors turning on
each other, waging a fierce war over every autographic scrap, making a
battle-field of every social circle. Happily, nature seems always to
keep up the balance in such matters, and it is a consoling reflection
that if the million are now consumers, so have they become producers of
autographs; it is therefore probable that the evil will work its own
remedy; and we may hope that the great writers of the next century will
be shielded in some measure by the diversion made in their favor
through the lighter troops of the lion corps.
As for the full merits of the controversy so hotly waged over the
Lumley autograph between the Otwaysians and the Butlerites, dividing
the collecting world into two rival parties, we shall not here enter
into it. In all such matters it is better to go at once to the fountain
head; if the reader is curious on the subject, as doubtless he must be,
he is referred to one octavo and five duodecimo volumes, with fifty
pamphlets which have left little to say on the point. Let it not be
supposed, however, for an instant, that the writer of this article is
himself undecided in his opinion on this question. By no means; and he
hastens to repel the unjust suspicion, by declaring himself one of the
warmest Otwaysians. It is true that he has some private grounds for
believing that a dispassionate inquiry might lead one to doubt whether
Otway or Butler ever saw the Lumley autograph; but what of that, who
has time or inclination for dispassionate investigation in these
stirring days! In the present age of universal enlightenment, we don't
trouble ourselves to make up our opinions--we take and give them, we
beg, borrow, and steal them. True, there are controversies involving
matters so important in their consequences, so serious in their nature,
that one might conceive either indifference or fanaticism equally
inexcusable with regard to them; but there are also a thousand other
subjects of discussion, at the present day, of that peculiar character
which can only thrive when supported by passion and prejudice, and
falling in with a dispute of this nature, it is absolutely necessary to
jump at once into fanaticism. Accordingly, I had no sooner obtained a
glimpse of the letter of the starving poet, embalmed within the
precious leaves of one of the most noted albums of Europe, than I
immediately enlisted under Lady Holberton's colors as a faithful
Otwaysian. With that excellent lady I take a tragical view of the
Lumley Letter, conceiving that a man must be blind as a bat, not to see
that it was written by the author of Venice Preserved, and this in
spite of other celebrated collectors, who find in the same sheet so
much that is comical and Hudibrastic. Strange that any man in his
senses should hold such an opinion--yet the Butlerites number strong,
some of them are respectable people, too; more's the pity that such
should be the case.
As we have already observed, the controversy began in the library of
Sir John Blank, and it continued throughout the life-time of that
excellent and well-known collector. At his death, a few years since, it
passed into the hands of his daughter, the widow of Colonel H----; and
it will be readily imagined that although the main question is still as
much undecided as ever, yet the value of the document itself has been
immeasurably increased by a controversy of twenty years standing, on
its merits. I wish I could add that the fortune of Colonel H---- had
augmented in the same proportion; but, unhappily for his widow, the
reverse was the case; and it was owing to this combination of
circumstances that Lady Holberton at length obtained possession of the
Lumley Autograph. Mrs. H---- became very desirous of procuring for her
eldest son a cornetcy in the regiment once commanded by his father; as
she was now too poor to purchase, the matter required management and
negotiation. How it was brought about I cannot exactly say. Suffice it
to declare that the young man received his commission, through the
influence of Lady Holberton, in a high military quarter, while the
Lumley Autograph was placed on a distinguished leaf of that lady's
velvet-bound, jewel-clasped album.
It so happened that I dined at Holberton-House on the eventful day upon
which the Lumley letter changed owners. I saw immediately, on entering
the drawing-room, that Lady Holberton was in excellent spirits; she
received me very graciously, and spoke of her son, with whom I had just
traveled between Paris and Algiers.
"Wish me joy, Mr. Howard!" exclaimed the lady after a short
conversation.
Of course I was very happy to do so, and replied by some remarks on the
recent success of her friends in a parliamentary measure, just then
decided--Lady Holberton being a distinguished politician. But I soon
found it was to some matter of still higher moment she then alluded.
"I never had a doubt as to our success in the house, last night--no;
rather wish me joy that I have at last triumphed in a negotiation of
two years standing. The Lumley Autograph is mine, Mr. Howard! The
letter of poor Otway, actually written in the first stages of
starvation--only conceive its value!"
Other guests arriving I was obliged to make way, not however, before
Lady Holberton had promised me a sight of her recent acquisition, in
the evening. In the mean time I fully entered into her satisfaction,
for I had already seen her album in Paris, and heard her sigh for this
very addition to its treasures. During dinner the important
intelligence that the Lumley letter was her own, was imparted to the
company generally.
"I knew it! I was sure of it from her smile, the moment I entered the
room!" exclaimed Mr. T---- the distinguished collector, who sat next me.
Another guest, Miss Rowley, also a collecting celebrity, was sitting
opposite, and turned so pale at the moment, that I was on the point of
officiously recommending a glass of water.
"Have you albums in America, Mr. Howard?" inquired a charming young
lady on my right.
"There is no lack of them, I assure you,"--I replied.
"Really! Adela, Mr. Howard tells me they have albums in America!"
repeated the young lady to a charming sister, near her; while on my
left I had the satisfaction of hearing some gratifying remarks from Mr.
T----, as to the state of civilization in my native country, as shown
by such a fact.
"And what are your albums like?" again inquired my lovely neighbor.
"Not like Lady Holberton's, perhaps--but pretty well for a young
nation."
"Oh dear--not like Lady Holberton's of course--hers is quite unique--so
full of nice odd things. But are your albums in America at all like
ours?"
"Why yes! we get most of them from Paris and London."
"Oh dear! how strange--but don't you long to see this new treasure of
Lady Holberton's--that dear nice letter of Otway's, written while he
was starving?" inquired the charming Emily, helping herself to a bit of
pate de Perigord.
{pate de Perigord = an expensive French delicacy: goose liver pate with
truffles.}
"Yes, I am exceedingly curious to see it."
"You don't believe it was written by that coarse, vulgar Butler, do
you?"
"No, indeed,--it is the pathetic Otway's, beyond a doubt!"
My neighbor, the Butlerite, gave a contemptuous shrug, but I paid him
no attention, preferring to coincide with the soft eyes on my right,
rather than dispute with the learned spectacles to the left.
After dinner when we had done full justice to the bill of fare,
concluding with pines, grapes, and Newtown pippins, we were all
gratified with a sight of the poor poet's letter, by way of bonne
bouche. A little volume written by Lady Holberton--printed but not
published--relating its past history from the date of its discovery in
the library of Lord G----, her grandfather, to the present day, passed
from hand to hand, and this review of its various adventures of course
only added force to the congratulations offered upon the acquisition of
this celebrated autograph.
{pine = pineapple. Newtown pippin = a green, tart, tangy American
apple, originally from Long Island, a favorite of George Washington and
Thomas Jefferson; bonne bouche = a tasty morsel (French)}
While the company were succeeding each other in offering their homage
to the great album, my attention was called off by a tap on the
shoulder from a friend, who informed me that Miss Rowley, a very
clever, handsome woman of a certain age, had expressed a wish to make
my acquaintance. I was only too happy to be presented. After a very
gracious reception, and an invitation to a party for the following
evening, Miss Rowley observed:
"You have Autographs, in America, I understand, Mr. Howard."
"Both autographs and collectors," I replied.
"Really! Perhaps you are a collector yourself?" continued the lady,
with an indescribable expression, half interest, half disappointment.
"No--merely a humble admirer of the labors of others."
"Then," added the lady, more blandly, "perhaps you will be good-natured
enough to assist me."
And, after a suspicious glance toward the spot where Lady Holberton and
Mr. T---- were conversing together, she adroitly placed herself in a
position to give to our conversation the privacy of a diplomatic
tete-a-tete.
"Could you possibly procure me some American autographs for my
collection? I find a few wanting under the American head--perhaps a
hundred or two."