The Lumley Autograph | Page 4

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