THE LUMLEY AUTOGRAPH(卢母雷手迹)

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THE LUMLEY AUTOGRAPH

THE LUMLEY

AUTOGRAPH

by Susan Fenimore Cooper

THE LUMLEY AUTOGRAPH

THE LUMLEY AUTOGRAPH.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "RURAL HOURS," ETC.

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.

THE LUMLEY AUTOGRAPH

"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,

THE LUMLEY AUTOGRAPH

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

THE LUMLEY AUTOGRAPH

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.

THE LUMLEY AUTOGRAPH

{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

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THELUMLEYAUTOGRAPH1THELUMLEYAUTOGRAPHbySusanFenimoreCooperTHELUMLEYAUTOGRAPH2THELUMLEYAUTOGRAPH.BYTHEAUTHOROF"RURALHOURS,"ETC.ThemonthofNovemberoftheyearsixteenhundredand--wascheerlessanddark,asNovemberhasneverfailedtobewithinthefoggy,smokyboundsofthegreatcityofLondon.Itwasoneoftheworstdaysoftheseas...

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