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The Lumley Autograph
by
“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.”
“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: