The Lumley Autograph

{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, while a larger and a lesser blot bore painful testimony to that recklessness of propriety which a starving man might be supposed to feel; one corner had been ruthlessly abstracted at the time it was seen by the writer of this notice, and with it the last figures of the date; a considerable rent crossed the sheet from right to left, but happily without injuring its contents; several punctures were also observed, one of these encroaching very critically upon the signature. But I need not add that these marks of age and harsh treatment, like the scars on the face of a veteran, far from being blemishes, were acknowledged to be so many additional embellishments. The coloring of the piece was of that precious hue, verging here and there on the dingy, the very tint most charming in the eyes of an antiquary, and which Time alone can bestow. In fact, one rarely sees a relic of the kind, more perfect in color, more expressive in its general aspect, or more becoming to an album, from the fine contrast between its poverty-stricken air, torn, worn, and soiled, and the rich, embossed, unsullied leaf on which it reposed, like some dark Rembrandt within its gilded frame. In short, it was the very Torso of autographs. Happily the position which it finally attained was one worthy of its merits, and we could not have wished it a more elegant shrine than the precious pages of the Holberton Album, a volume encased in velvet, secured with jeweled clasps, reposing on a tasteful etagere.