Immagini della pagina
PDF
ePub

A MORNING AMONG AUTOGRAPHS.

BEFORE citing any further extracts from Mr. Old's collection, a few more words may be fitly bestowed upon it as a whole. The autographs, then, set apart in groups, illustrated by extremely choice portraits, and chronologically arranged, number about one thousand. Two or three hundred besides-that may be termed miscellaneous, though possessing in some instances a rare interest-await the acquisition of the requisite engravings, and have not yet fallen into their places. The collection, properly so called, is contained in twelve large portfolios. Eight of these are devoted to the British series; two to the French, from the period of Louis XI. to that of Louis XVIII.; one to the German, between the reigns of Maximilian I. and Joseph II. inclusive; and one to the Italian and Spanish, the latter of which commences with Charles V. and comes down only to the era of Ferdinand VI. This covers, however, the Spanish occupation of the Low Countries, and offers therefore a rich field for gleaning. The British series, filling, as I have said, eight portfolios, is thus subdivided and grouped: five portfolios are given up to the sovereigns, statesmen, military and naval commanders, and other personages usually designated as historical; two to celebrities in Literature, Science, and the Arts; one to priests and divines, a numerous and important class. With very few exceptions-and these generally of the most remote date-the letters are holograph, that is to say, written entirely by the hand of the signer. One cannot expect, indeed, to find manuscripts at length from the pen of Henry VII., or Louis XI., or Charles V.; but mere signatures, as a rule, would be but lightly esteemed by your genuine collector of autographs. Indeed, I came to

II.

the conclusion that Mr. Old, in exercising his judgment, had been very much influenced by the character, sɔ to say, of the letter or document that he acquired. Light is thrown, in some cases, upon doubtful points in history; in others, upon the motives that have influenced men of mark in their doings at critical moments, or on occasions that have been variously interpreted by commentators. This will be shown, I cannot but think, in a few more citations; and to these I hasten back for the reader's entertainment, seeing that generalities soon tend to be wearisome. A bill of fare is no criterion of the excellence of a restaurant. You may be struck with the brilliant air of an evening assembly; but how soon does the eye settle down upon individual attraction! You care not to speculate on the height or breadth of the saloons; you wonder rather, or inquire, who may be the tall blonde promenading round the roomwho the handsome little woman seated apart in a corner, with lily complexion and expressive features, with classic head faultlessly posed on faultless shoulders, wearing a perfect costume as though none other would fit her, and carrying a wealth of ornament as though gems were made for her, and not she for them.

But now comes in reality what the French call the embarrassment of riches. The intellectual treat is of so high an order, that one is fairly puzzled which way to turn. In compliment, nevertheless, to the scholarly tone of Putnam's Magazine, let us turn at the outset to Alexander Pope. Thus does he conclude a letter to Dr. Oliver, dated 28th August, 1743, the year before his death

his courtly faith in medical science not exonerating him from the common lot of mortality:

Pray make my compliments to Dr. Hartley, as I shall yours to Dr. Mead. I have had such obligations to the best of your Faculty during my whole life, that I wish all others, both my Friends and my Enemies, were their Patients, in which I show that I wish well to my Friends, and not ill to my Enemies. That every Physical and moral Evil may be far from you is the Philosophical prayer of,

Dear Sir, Your very obliged and very affectionate servant,

A. POPE.

Jonathan Swift's character has been extensively discussed, of late. Here is a strong testimonial in his favor, given

in a letter from Sir William Temple to Sir Robert Southwell, dated 29th March, 1690. It seems to have served as an introduction and recommendation of

for fear it should be thoug.
arrogance.

dle piece of

Not dedicated to any man of quality, for fer it might be thought too assuming.

Not dedicated to any learned body of men, as either of the Universities, or the Royal Society, for fear it might be thought an uncommon piece of vanity.

Not dedicated to any one particular friend, for fear of offending another.

Therefore dedicated to Nobody.

But if, for once, we may suppose Nobody to be Everybody, as Everybody is often said to be Nobody, then is this work dedicated to Everybody, by their most humble and devoted.

graph epistles from John Evelyn, Jeremy Taylor, Abraham Cowley, Edmond Waller, Lady Dorothy Sunderland, known as Waller's "Sacharissa," John

I might have made copies of holo

Swift to the care and patronage of Sir Dryden, John Locke, Sir Isaac Newton,

Robert:

Hee has lived in my house, read to me, writt for me, and kept all accounts, as far as my small occasions required., Hee has Latine and Greek, writes a very good and current hand, is

very honest and diligent, and has good friends, though they have for the present lost their fortune in Ireland; and his whole family hav. ing been long known to me, obliged mee thus farr to take care of him. If you please to accept him into your service, either as a Gentleman to wait on you, or as Clerk to write under you; and either to use him so, if you like his service, or upon any Establishment of the Colledge to recommend him to a Fellowship there, which he has a just pretence to, I shall acknowledge it as a great obligation.

Here is a bit from David Garrick, that almost rivals Edmund Kean's expression: "the pit rose at me." Writing to his brother, George Garrick, on the 12th April, 1776, he says:

Last night I played Drugger for the last time. The Morning Post will tell you the whole of that night. I thought the audience were mad, and they almost turned my brain.

In an age when lordly patronage was considered, by authors and artists, an essential passport to public favor, it is curious to find Hogarth thus satirizing the system that prevailed. What follows is a copy of an undated paper in his handwriting, headed "The No Ded

ication:

Matthew Prior, Joseph Addison, Sir Richard Steele, Henry Fielding, Lawrence Sterne, Samuel Johnson, James Boswell, Oliver Goldsmith, Sir Joshua Reynolds, David Hume, Edward Gibbon, Thomas Gray, William Cowper, William Wordsworth, or Samuel Taylor Coleridge—I might, I say, have transferred to my note-book, for use in these pages, the whole or parts of letters penned by these notable persons, and by others who are naturally grouped with them. But I bore this fact in mind, with reference to those whom Literature has made famous: we are familiar with their style, and with an infinity of their thoughts. One does not, therefore, in regarding their correspondence, feel the same sense of gratified curiosity, as in being brought face to face, as it were, with those whose actions have tended to the making of history, but whose spoken or written words are comparatively unknown or scarce. Thus I confess to looking with profoundest interest at letters from Sir Philip Sidney and Sir Walter Raleigh, treasures that few private collections can boast. One from the former I quote at length, as a sample of phraseology that appears quaint in these days. The seal is broken, whereas generally in these antique missives the seal remains intact, while the silk that was secured by it

Not dedicated to any Prince in Christendom, has been cut. The writing, on foolscap

paper, is in a fine clerkly hand; and the signature is low down on the page, connected with the main body by a line such as one sees in account-books, when the entered items on either side do not correspond in number. This peculiarity was common before this period, and was continued for very many years. The letter itself runs thus:

To the

right honorable my very good Lorde the Lorde Burghley-Lorde Hy Treasorer of England.

Righte honorable my singular good Lorde | Sir Nicholas Bagnoll dothe requeste my humble letters to your L. for the som of to-hundred pounde out of the treasure. wch he for his necessities dothe desyre to receave here and to pay at his cominge into Irelande | I do take it that there is as muche due unto him, and besydes I know the creddit my father hathe in him, dothe stretche to a matter of greater importance, so that thus furr these few lynes shall only serve, humbly to advertise your L. that I holde it for assured my father will be very well satisfied withe it | furdre I can not proceede, but referringe it holy to your Lordeships goodnes humbly leave your L. to the protection of the Allmightie.

Frome Leysterhouse this 8th of Februarie 1576

Your Lys moste humbly at commandement PHILIPPE SIDNEY.

The remarkable letter that I next proceed to cite, has indeed been published-but only in the Archæologia of the Society of Antiquaries, having been read at one of their meetings while it was in possession of the Tyrr family, of Shotover, in Oxfordshire. It was written, probably in 1610, to Sir Walter Cope, Governor of the Tower, while Sir Walter Raleigh was a prisoner therein. It is on a foolscap sheet, much frayed and very dirty. The writing is neat. The superscription is: "To my very worthy friend Sir Walter Cope Knight." The following is a copy:

Sir Walter Cope. You are of my old acquayntance, and were my familier friend for many yecres, in wch time I hope you cannot say that ever I used any unkind office towards you. But our fortunes are now changed, and it may be in your power greatly to bynde me unto you, if the bynding of a man in my estate be worth anything.

My desire unto you is, that you wilbe pleased

to move my Lord Treasorer in my behalf, that by his grace my wife might agayne be made a prisoner with me, as she hath bine for six yeeres last past. Shee being now devided from me, and thereby, to my great impoverishing, I am driven to keip two howses. A miserable fate it is, and yet great to me, who, in this wretched estate, can hope for no other thing than peacible sorrow.

It is now, and I call the Lord of all power to witnes, y I have ever bine, and am resolved, that it was never in the worthy hart of St Robert Cecyll, (whatsoever a counceler of state and a lord treasorer of Ingland must do) to suffer me to fall, much less to perrish. For whatsoever termes it hath pleased his Lordship to use towards mee, we might utterly despaire any bodie else, yet I know y' he spake them as a counceler, sitting in councell, and in company of such as would not otherwise have bine satisfied-But, as God liveth, I would have bought his presence att a farr dearer rate than those sharp words, and these three moneths close imprisonment; for it is in his Lordship's face and countenance that I behold all y' remaynes to me of comfort, and all the hope I have, and from wch I shall never be beaten, till I see the last of evills, and the dispaire wh hath no healp. The blessings of God cannot make him cruell that was never so, nor prosperitie teach any man of so great worth to delight in the endles adversitie of an enemie, much less of him who in his very soule and nature can never be such a one towards him.

S, the matter is of no great importance, (though a cruell destinie hath made it so to me) to desire that my wife may live with me in this unsavory place. If by your mediation I may obtayne it, I will acknowledg it in the highest degree of thankfullness, and rest reddy in trew fayth to be commanded by you. October the 9.

W. RALEGH.

Come we down to a later period in English history, and to an incident that is famous. Here is a letter from James Stanley, Earl of Derby, to Prince Rupert, dated 23d March, 1643, but without mention of place, praying the Prince to send succor to the relief of Lathom House, then beleaguered by the Parliament forces. A former attempt at aiding the garrison had failed; and the Earl states that

the time for effecting it by that means had passed, for the enemy is soe close unto the house that it is impossible for that designe to take effect, which might have been some reviving of a distressed woman, whose only hope next the almightyes is in your highness help, for double reasons, soe she hath tolde me in her Last Letter. I praise God bless and pros

[blocks in formation]

The "distressed woman" in the foregoing extract was the heroic Charlotte de la Tremoille, Countess of Derby, who also directly implored assistance from the same quarter. This her touching appeal-never published, I believe, heretofore-is written in a large bold hand on note-paper. It has been folded up in long and narrow form, to be the more easily secreted on the person of its bearer. The two black wax-seals are broken; nor are there, as is usual, any vestiges of the silk fastening that was once bound by them. The copy is exact; and the reader cannot fail to notice the curious mixture of correct and incorrect rendering. For "wigain," one may read “Wigan; " and for devent," ," "avant;" but the word "fray

en" is a puzzle. Can it have been hastily written for "prayen," and can her Ladyship have thus conjugated the verb prendre? The whole runs thus: Monseigneur

tonte arleure je viens de resivoir les mauvaisse nouvelles de la perte de wigain a 6 mille de saite plasse elle na teneu que deux heures et a este frayen mon mary etoit a 12 mille et

devent quil peut estre prest de la secourir ils
se sont rendeus an nom de dieu Monseigner
prenes pitie de nous et sy vous aparessez vous
pouves reconquerir bien aysement et avec bien
de l'honneur pour vostre altesse je ne say ce
que je dis mes ayes pitie de mon mary mes
enfens et moy qui sommes perdues pour tout
jamais sy dieu na pitie de nous et vostre
altesse a qui je suis
Monseigneur

tres humble et tres obeysente servente
X DE LA TREMOILLE.

A ladhom ce 1 davril 1643.

For a youthful student of French it would be a pleasant exercise, to put this letter into correct terms, and to punctuate it in accordance with custom.

THE PICTURE OF CHRIST.

UNDER the gathered dust of years
Many a time the truth appears;
Many a time the words of old
Shine the better when freshly told,
And over their story hangs a praise
Growing nobler by lapse of days.
Such are the tales of early date
Concerning bishop and celibate;
Concerning wonders the martyrs wrought;

Concerning treasures the churches brought;
Concerning much, now long left out,
Which quaint Baronius wrote about.

His are the folios dark with age
Wherein are annals of seer and sage;
Printed when Faust's inventive hand
Not long had lifted the glowing brand
Of that pure fire of a knowledge freed
From harsh dominion and selfish creed.
Here, on the page of each bulky tome,
A black-art mystery seems at home.
Here, in such Latin as classics hate,
Is record of Constantine the Great.
The marvellous history here unrolls
Of sainted heroes with holy souls;
Of Peter and Paul, and divers others,
Bishops and deacons and lay-brothers;

Of women mighty in all good deeds,
And "ladies elect " in widows' weeds;
Of Nero's circus when games began,
Where each blazing torch was a living man;
Of caves which ramify under Rome,

Where the threatened Christians found a home,
Holding a church in a catacomb.

These, and the like, each student still

Can read and ponder as he will;

Yet one old legend may be spared,

Culled from a myriad undeclared.

Here followeth then, in modern phrase, Baronius' story of ancient days:

Constantia, sister of Constantine,
Was given to thought of things divine:
Sylvester had laid upon her head
Baptismal blessing before she wed,
And so, at Rome in the holy place,
She followed the fashion of her race-
Owning herself by the bishop's hands
No longer subject to Satan's bands.
Her husband, Caius Licinius,
While in the East grew mutinous,
And, fighting against his rightful liege
At Nicomedia, lost the siege;
Ending at last a conquered lord,

And dying under the headsman's sword.
She then, a widow, dwelt peacefully,
And wished to pray in obscurity,
Quietly waiting for the day

When mortal troubles shall pass away.
Yet was her fate of another sort:

Her brother replaced her in his court,
And there, beset upon every side

With words of praise and with thoughts of pride,

Her life shone out like a splendid star,

And cast its lustre serene and far.

At Nicomedia was a man

Eusebius, the historian

Who in his volume says that he
Has seen the Christ of Calvary.

Not in His mortal shape alone

For three whole centuries then had flown-
But still in image as rarely true

As any mortal might dare to view.

He saw St. Paul and St. Peter, too;

And these were portraits, preserved with care,

Whose tone and tinting were wondrous fair.
Him had Constantia questioned much

Of these sweet relics, and other such;
And he, as Bishop of Palestine,
Told her about that One Divine;
Yet said no more to describe the face,
Than here I say in this later place.
Of Peter and Paul he talked with ease,
And spoke of the famed symbolic keys;
He mentioned the painter's skill and art,
The feeling of truth in every part,
The certainty which his mind received
That these were faces to be believed.

« IndietroContinua »