



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,
