Part 3

{aymeer = Emir; a Muslim title signifying 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 persuaded 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 then be presented--collectors turning on each other, waging a fierce war over every autographic scrap, making a battle-field of every social circle. Happily, nature seems always to keep up the balance in such matters, and it is a consoling reflection that if the million are now consumers, so have they become producers of autographs; it is therefore probable that the evil will work its own remedy; and we may hope that the great writers of the next century will be shielded in some measure by the diversion made in their favor through the lighter troops of the lion corps.

As for the full merits of the controversy so hotly waged over the Lumley autograph between the Otwaysians and the Butlerites, dividing the collecting world into two rival parties, we shall not here enter into it. In all such matters it is better to go at once to the fountain head; if the reader is curious on the subject, as doubtless he must be, he is referred to one octavo and five duodecimo volumes, with fifty pamphlets which have left little to say on the point. Let it not be supposed, however, for an instant, that the writer of this article is himself undecided in his opinion on this question. By no means; and he hastens to repel the unjust suspicion, by declaring himself one of the warmest Otwaysians. It is true that he has some private grounds for believing that a dispassionate inquiry might lead one to doubt whether Otway or Butler ever saw the Lumley autograph; but what of that, who has time or inclination for dispassionate investigation in these stirring days! In the present age of universal enlightenment, we don't trouble ourselves to make up our opinions--we take and give them, we beg, borrow, and steal them. True, there are controversies involving matters so important in their consequences, so serious in their nature, that one might conceive either indifference or fanaticism equally inexcusable with regard to them; but there are also a thousand other subjects of discussion, at the present day, of that peculiar character which can only thrive when supported by passion and prejudice, and falling in with a dispute of this nature, it is absolutely necessary to jump at once into fanaticism. Accordingly, I had no sooner obtained a glimpse of the letter of the starving poet, embalmed within the precious leaves of one of the most noted albums of Europe, than I immediately enlisted under Lady Holberton's colors as a faithful Otwaysian. With that excellent lady I take a tragical view of the Lumley Letter, conceiving that a man must be blind as a bat, not to see that it was written by the author of Venice Preserved, and this in spite of other celebrated collectors, who find in the same sheet so much that is comical and Hudibrastic. Strange that any man in his senses should hold such an opinion--yet the Butlerites number strong, some of them are respectable people, too; more's the pity that such should be the case.

As we have already observed, the controversy began in the library of Sir John Blank, and it continued throughout the life-time of that excellent and well-known collector. At his death, a few years since, it passed into the hands of his daughter, the widow of Colonel H----; and it will be readily imagined that although the main question is still as much undecided as ever, yet the value of the document itself has been immeasurably increased by a controversy of twenty years standing, on its merits. I wish I could add that the fortune of Colonel H---- had augmented in the same proportion; but, unhappily for his widow, the reverse was the case; and it was owing to this combination of circumstances that Lady Holberton at length obtained possession of the Lumley Autograph. Mrs. H---- became very desirous of procuring for her eldest son a cornetcy in the regiment once commanded by his father; as she was now too poor to purchase, the matter required management and negotiation. How it was brought about I cannot exactly say. Suffice it to declare that the young man received his commission, through the influence of Lady Holberton, in a high military quarter, while the Lumley Autograph was placed on a distinguished leaf of that lady's velvet-bound, jewel-clasped album.

It so happened that I dined at Holberton-House on the eventful day upon which the Lumley letter changed owners. I saw immediately, on entering the drawing-room, that Lady Holberton was in excellent spirits; she received me very graciously, and spoke of her son, with whom I had just traveled between Paris and Algiers.

"Wish me joy, Mr. Howard!" exclaimed the lady after a short conversation.

Of course I was very happy to do so, and replied by some remarks on the recent success of her friends in a parliamentary measure, just then decided--Lady Holberton being a distinguished politician. But I soon found it was to some matter of still higher moment she then alluded.

"I never had a doubt as to our success in the house, last night--no; rather wish me joy that I have at last triumphed in a negotiation of two years standing. The Lumley Autograph is mine, Mr. Howard! The letter of poor Otway, actually written in the first stages of starvation--only conceive its value!"

Other guests arriving I was obliged to make way, not however, before Lady Holberton had promised me a sight of her recent acquisition, in the evening. In the mean time I fully entered into her satisfaction, for I had already seen her album in Paris, and heard her sigh for this very addition to its treasures. During dinner the important intelligence that the Lumley letter was her own, was imparted to the company generally.

"I knew it! I was sure of it from her smile, the moment I entered the room!" exclaimed Mr. T---- the distinguished collector, who sat next me.

Another guest, Miss Rowley, also a collecting celebrity, was sitting opposite, and turned so pale at the moment, that I was on the point of officiously recommending a glass of water.

"Have you albums in America, Mr. Howard?" inquired a charming young lady on my right.

"There is no lack of them, I assure you,"--I replied.

"Really! Adela, Mr. Howard tells me they have albums in America!" repeated the young lady to a charming sister, near her; while on my left I had the satisfaction of hearing some gratifying remarks from Mr. T----, as to the state of civilization in my native country, as shown by such a fact.

"And what are your albums like?" again inquired my lovely neighbor.

"Not like Lady Holberton's, perhaps--but pretty well for a young nation."