The Lumley Autograph | Page 9

commander in Arabic}
"But what a queer old box this is, H-----," said Major D-----, eyeing the
trunk through his glass.
"It's one I've had these hundred years," replied the colonel. "So you
think this trumpery will do, D-----?"
"Do? To be sure it will, my dear fellow--it gives your Milesian skin the
true Nawaub dye. But I was just trying to make out an old letter pasted

in the lid of your trunk, under my nose here. Is this the way you
preserve your family archives?"
{Milesian = slang term for Irish, from Milesius, mythical Spanish
conqueror of Ireland; Nawaub = from Nabob, Anglo-Indian slang for
one who has returned home from India with a large fortune}
"That letter is really a curiosity in its way," said the colonel, turning
from the glass and relating its history, so far at least as it was known to
himself.
His friend spelt it through.
"My dear fellow, why don't you give this letter to the father of your fair
Louisa; he's quite rabid on such points; you'll make him a friend for life
by it!"
The advice was followed. The letter was cut from its old position in the
lid of the trunk, and presented to Sir John Blank, the father of the
lovely Louisa, who, in his turn, soon placed the hand of his daughter in
that of Colonel H-----.
Sir John, a noted follower in the steps of Horace Walpole, had no
sooner become the owner of this interesting letter, than he set to work
to find out its origin, and to fill up its history. Unfortunately, the sheet
had received some wounds in the wars, as well as the gallant colonel.
One corner had been carried away by an unlucky thrust from a
razor--not a sword; while the date and signature had also been half
eaten out by the white ants of Bengal. But such difficulties as these
were only pleasing obstacles in the way of antiquarian activity. Sir John
had soon formed an hypothesis perfectly satisfactory to himself. His
mother's name was Butler, and he claimed some sort of affinity with
the author of Hudibras; as the Christian name of the poor poet had been
almost entirely devoured by the ants, while the surname had also
suffered here and there, Sir John ingeniously pursuaded {sic} himself
that what remained had clearly belonged to the signature of the great
satirist; as for the date, the abbreviation of "Nov. 20th." and the figures
16-- marking the century, were really tolerably distinct. Accordingly,
Sir John wrote a brief notice of Butler's Life, dwelling much upon his
well-known poverty, and quoting his epitaph, with the allusion to his
indigence underscored, "lest he who living wanted all things, should,
when dead, want a tomb," and placed these remarks opposite the letter
of our starving poet, which was registered in the volume in conspicuous

characters as an "Autograph of Samuel Butler, author of Hudibras,
showing to what distress he was at one time reduced."
{Samuel Butler (1612-1680), another English author popularly
believed to have died in great poverty; he is best known for his long
satiric mock-epic poem, "Hudibras" (1663-1678)}
Here the sheet remained several years, until at length it chanced that Sir
John's volume of autographs was placed in the hands of a gentleman
who had recently read Mr. Lumley's MS. Life of Otway. The identity
of this letter, with that copied by Mr. Lumley, immediately suggested
itself; and now the first sparks of controversy between the Otwaysians
and the Butlerites were struck in Sir John's library. >From thence they
soon spread to the four winds of heaven, falling on combustible
materials wherever they lighted on a literary head, or collecting hands.
By the bye, the rapidity with which this collecting class has increased
of late years is really alarming; who can foresee the state of things
likely to exist in the next century, should matters go on at the same rate?
Reflect for a moment on the probable condition of distinguished
authors, lions of the loudest roar, if the number of autograph-hunters
were to increase beyond what it is at present. Is it not to be feared that
they will yet exterminate the whole race, that the great lion literary, like
the mastodon, will become extinct? Or, perhaps, by taming him down
to a mere producer of autographs, his habits will change so entirely that
he will no longer be the same animal, no longer bear a comparison with
the lion of the past. On the other hand should the great race become
extinct, what will be the fate of the family of autograph-feeders? What
a fearful state of things would ensue, even in our day, were the supply
to be reduced but a quire! The heart sickens at the picture which would