Part 4

"Oh dear--not like Lady Holberton's of course--hers is quite unique--so full of nice odd things. But are your albums in America at all like ours?"

"Why yes! we get most of them from Paris and London."

"Oh dear! how strange--but don't you long to see this new treasure of Lady Holberton's--that dear nice letter of Otway's, written while he was starving?" inquired the charming Emily, helping herself to a bit of pate de Perigord.

{pate de Perigord = an expensive French delicacy: goose liver pate with truffles.}

"Yes, I am exceedingly curious to see it."

"You don't believe it was written by that coarse, vulgar Butler, do you?"

"No, indeed,--it is the pathetic Otway's, beyond a doubt!"

My neighbor, the Butlerite, gave a contemptuous shrug, but I paid him no attention, preferring to coincide with the soft eyes on my right, rather than dispute with the learned spectacles to the left.

After dinner when we had done full justice to the bill of fare, concluding with pines, grapes, and Newtown pippins, we were all gratified with a sight of the poor poet's letter, by way of bonne bouche. A little volume written by Lady Holberton--printed but not published--relating its past history from the date of its discovery in the library of Lord G----, her grandfather, to the present day, passed from hand to hand, and this review of its various adventures of course only added force to the congratulations offered upon the acquisition of this celebrated autograph.

{pine = pineapple. Newtown pippin = a green, tart, tangy American apple, originally from Long Island, a favorite of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson; bonne bouche = a tasty morsel (French)}

While the company were succeeding each other in offering their homage to the great album, my attention was called off by a tap on the shoulder from a friend, who informed me that Miss Rowley, a very clever, handsome woman of a certain age, had expressed a wish to make my acquaintance. I was only too happy to be presented. After a very gracious reception, and an invitation to a party for the following evening, Miss Rowley observed:

"You have Autographs, in America, I understand, Mr. Howard."

"Both autographs and collectors," I replied.

"Really! Perhaps you are a collector yourself?" continued the lady, with an indescribable expression, half interest, half disappointment.

"No--merely a humble admirer of the labors of others."

"Then," added the lady, more blandly, "perhaps you will be good-natured enough to assist me."

And, after a suspicious glance toward the spot where Lady Holberton and Mr. T---- were conversing together, she adroitly placed herself in a position to give to our conversation the privacy of a diplomatic tete-a-tete.

"Could you possibly procure me some American autographs for my collection? I find a few wanting under the American head--perhaps a hundred or two."

I professed myself ready to do any thing in my power in so good a cause.

"Here is my list; I generally carry it about me. You will see those that are wanting, and very possibly may suggest others."

And as the lady spoke she drew from her pocket a roll of paper as long, and as well covered with names as any minority petition to Congress. However, I had lived too much among collectors of late to be easily dismayed. The list was headed by Black Hawk. I expressed my fears that the gallant warrior's ignorance of letters might prove an obstacle to obtaining any thing from his pen. I volunteered however to procure instead, something from a Cherokee friend of mine, the editor of a newspaper.

{Black Hawk = Black Hawk (1767-1838), an American Indian (Sac) chieftain, defeated by the U.S. Army in 1832, whose "Autobiography" (1833) became an American classic.}

"How charming!" exclaimed Miss Rowley, clasping her hands. "How very obliging of you, Mr. Howard. Are you fond of shooting? My brother's preserves are in fine order--or perhaps you are partial to yachting--"

Bowing my thanks for these amiable hints, I carelessly observed that the letter of the Cherokee editor was no sacrifice at all, for the chief and myself were regular correspondents; I had a dozen of his letters, and had just given one to Mr. T----. This intelligence evidently lessened Miss Rowley's excessive gratitude. She continued her applications, however, casting an eye on her list.

"Perhaps you correspond also with some rowdies, Mr. Howard? Could you oblige me with a rowdy letter?"

{rowdies = in the mid-nineteenth century, an American slang term for backwoodsmen or other rough and disorderly types}

I drew up a little at this request; my correspondents, I assured the lady, were generally men of respectability, though one of them was of a savage race.

"No doubt; but in the way of autographs, you know, one would correspond with--"