Part 1 (1/2)
The Lumley Autograph.
by Susan Fenimore Cooper.
[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 Alb.u.m 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 mult.i.tude 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 pa.s.sage 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-pa.s.sengers. Turning from the great thoroughfare he pa.s.sed 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 ma.n.u.script, 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 lords.h.i.+p'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 n.o.ble 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, ent.i.tled to the especial grat.i.tude of collectors for the following sketch of a doc.u.ment 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 doc.u.ment, 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 alb.u.m, 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 Alb.u.m, 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 circ.u.mstances.
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 doc.u.ment 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 lords.h.i.+p--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 dest.i.tute 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”}