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Updated: May 28, 2025
One March day in 1882, a lad from one of the Boston schools came to me, and said that some pupils from the school wished to call on the poet, and asked me if I supposed that he would receive them and give them his autograph.
Stouter, softer, apparently even taller, she was full of small new authorities that could shut out cranks, newspaper reporters, and autograph fiends. A fitted-over-corsets black taffeta and a high comb in the greying hair had done their best with her. Pride, too, had left its flush upon her cheeks, like two round spots of fever. "Leon, it's thirty minutes till your first number. Close that door.
Linton, may I ask you to do something for me?" she blurted out. He thrust back his hair with a mock-pathetic gesture. "What is it?" he inquired humorously. "Another autograph album? Or a subscription? I've grown cautious by experience, and I don't answer 'Yes, thou shalt have it to the half of my kingdom! I never give blind promises." She has lessons from Signor Chianti.
"Pray assure him that the value of the copy of the Christian Commonwealth is to be much enhanced by the fact that it bears his autograph notes, and that I feel deeply honoured by the terms in which he has been good enough to express himself in his note to you, which I have read with great interest and which I enclose.
Edward was fast absorbing a tremendous quantity of biographical information about the most famous men and women of his time, and he was compiling a collection of autograph letters that the newspapers had made famous throughout the country.
Each guest received a box of cardboard, containing a white satin box filled with wedding cake five inches long by two broad and two deep. On the cover the date was hand-painted in colors, and a card affixed bore the autograph signature of Grover Cleveland and Frances Folsom, which they had written the previous afternoon.
What have become of the autograph memoirs of Madame Dubois de la Pierre, consulted for the unpublished history of L'Aigle by Louis Dasprès, curate of St. Martin? So many problems, so many curious points, to clear up. But a slight mark often puts one on the track of an invaluable discovery.
The chalice bears the following inscription; "King Charles the First received the communion in this Boule on Tuesday the 30th of January, 1664, being the day in which he was murthered." In the library are autograph letters from the Stuarts, including one from Mary Queen of Scots, signed "Your very good friend."
Next succeed three or four Spanish Dons, with a long fence of names attached to each, who give their views of the establishment in the grave, sonorous words of their language. Here, now, an American puts in his autograph, with his sharp, curt notion of the matter, as "first-rate." Very likely a turbaned Mufti or Singh of the Oriental world follows the New England farmer.
He did not mention the accident, although he bruised himself a good deal, and it was some days before I heard of it. Borrow created something of a sensation in the neighbourhood. As a celebrity his autograph was much sought after; but he would gratify nobody. His hosts experienced many little surprises from their guest's strange ways.
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