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{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.