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I copy the following, for the sake of the few words describing the appearance of the heathery moors in late summer. "May 24th, 1851. "My dear Sir, I hasten to send Mrs. Dobell the autograph. It was the word 'Album' that frightened me I thought she wished me to write a sonnet on purpose for it, which I could not do.
"If I drop the 'u' the autograph will be shorter, and I'll gain time writing it," said Napoleon. "It shall be Bonaparte without 'u." "Humph!" ejaculated Bourrienne. "Bonaparte without me! I like that. Might as well talk of Dr. Johnson without Boswell."
The things of life and intellect appeared in their true proportions; she saw the virtue of repose. When she had been here a day or two, the conversation chanced to take a turn which led to her showing the autograph of Trafford Romaine; she said merely that a friend had given it to her. "An interesting man, I should think," remarked the elder of the two sisters, without emphasis.
I have it in my book still, signed E.J.H.; it's got the most impertinent snout, and large peaked ears. I'm sure she must have been practising drawing pigs before she did it." "Ghost signatures were nearly as much fun," said Enid. "What are those?" enquired Patty, to whom all these schoolgirl pastimes were unknown. "You have a special autograph book for them," explained Enid.
On receipt of this letter Pallisser wrote to Cook, and this communication, together with autograph copies of letters written by Cook having reference to the Grenville, a receipt for her husband's pay, signed by Mrs. Cook, and some other papers of interest relating to his voyages, are now in the hands of Mr. Alexander Turnbull, of Wellington, New Zealand.
I had, on two or three occasions, used a motto of hers in autograph books, just as I had sentiments from Longfellow, Lowell, Shakespeare, Moses, or Paul. In long lyceum trips innumerable autograph books met one at every turn, in the cars, depots, on the platform, at the hotel and in the omnibus. "A sentiment, please," cry half a dozen voices. One writes hastily different sentiments for each.
They try to shut their saddening eyes, And in the vain endeavour We see them twinkling in the skies, And so they wink forever. What do you think of these verses, my friends? Is that piece an impromptu? said my landlady's daughter. Long ringlets. Cameo pin. Gold pencil-case on a chain. Locket. Bracelet. Album. Autograph book. Accordeon.
The Bibliotaph liked the autograph of the modern man of letters because it was modern, and because there was a reasonable hope of its being genuine. He loved genuineness. Everything about himself was exactly what it pretended to be. From his soul to his clothing he was honest. And his love for the genuine was only surpassed in degree by his contempt for the spurious.
Over the door are my name, portrait, and autograph, expanded to colossal proportions, and surrounded in flowing letters, by the motto of the establishment, 'Down with the Doctors! Even Mrs. Wragge contributes her quota to this prodigious enterprise. She is the celebrated woman whom I have cured of indescribable agonies from every complaint under the sun.
All that, of course, was very nice nothing better could be desired, but the worst of it was, the old army officer was so carried away by the pleasure of the young men's company that till sunrise he was telling the officers anecdotes of his glorious past, taking them over the house, showing them expensive pictures, old engravings, rare guns, reading them autograph letters from great people, while the weary and exhausted officers looked and listened, longing for their beds and yawning in their sleeves; when at last their host let them go, it was too late for sleep.
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