



Produced by Hugh C. MacDougall.  HTML version by Al Haines.









THE LUMLEY AUTOGRAPH


by

Susan Fenimore Cooper




{by Susan Fenimore Cooper (1813-1894), daughter of James Fenimore
Cooper. "The Lumley Autograph" was published in Graham's Magazine,
Volume 38 (January-June 1851), pp. 31-36, 97-101. The author is
identified only in the table of contents for Volume 38, p. iii, where
she is described as "the Author of 'Rural Hours'".

{Transcribed by Hugh C. MacDougall, Secretary, James Fenimore Cooper
Society; jfcooper@wpe.com. Notes by the transcriber, including
identification of historical characters and translations of foreign
expressions, follow the paragraphs to which they refer, and are
enclosed in {curly brackets}. The spelling of the original has been
reproduced as printed, with unusual spellings identified by {sic}.
Because of the limitations of the the Gutenberg format, italics and
accents (used by the author for some foreign words, and in a few
quotations) have been ignored. A few missing periods and quotation
marks have been silently inserted.

{A brief introduction to "The Lumley Autograph.":

{"The Lumley Autograph" was inspired, as Susan's introductory note
states, by the constant stream of letters received by her father,
asking in often importunate terms for his autograph or for pages from
his manuscripts, and even requesting that he supply autographs of other
famous men who might have written to him. He generally complied with
these requests courteously and to the best of his ability; after his
death in 1851, Susan continued to do so, as well as selling fragments
of his manuscripts to raise money for charity during the Civil War.

{"The Lumley Autograph" is of interest today primarily because it is a
good story. Its broad satire about the autograph collecting mania of
the mid-nineteenth century is deftly combined with the more serious
irony of a poet's frantic appeal for help becoming an expensive
plaything of the rich, while the poet himself has died of want. Susan
Fenimore Cooper's typically understated expression of this irony
renders it all the more poignant, and the unspoken message of "The
Lumley Autograph" is as relevant today as it was in 1851.

{Though "The Lumley Autograph" was published in 1851, it was written as
early as 1845, when Susan's father first unsuccessfully offered it to
Graham's Magazine, asking "at least $25" for it. [See James Fenimore
Cooper to Mrs. Cooper, Nov. 30, 1845, in James F. Beard, ed., "The
Letters and Journals of James Fenimore Cooper" (Harvard University
Press, 1960-68), Vol. V, pp. 102-102]. Three years later he offered it
to his London publisher, also without success [James Fenimore Cooper to
Richard Bentley, Nov. 15, 1848, Vol. V, p. 390; and Richard Bentley to
James Fenimore Cooper, July 24, 1849, Vol. VI, p. 53.] What Graham's
Magazine finally paid, in 1851, is not known.}




THE LUMLEY AUTOGRAPH.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "RURAL HOURS," ETC.



[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