Among these, in this day of proscription, is the man of a hundred romances—Alexandre Dumas. Busy, as in the old time, he now gleans from the outcasts around him, the material for his versatile pen.
Madame Hugo, he tells us, has latterly contrived a scheme for the relief of the neediest of suffering exiles, which does equal honor to her heart and to her cleverness. It was nothing more than the sale of valuable autographs, which were furnished at the mere cost of a few pen-strokes by well-wishers to the scheme.
Dumas tells us that the collection was most rich, not consisting merely of simple names, but such bits of thought added, as seemed to belong to the occasion, and as gave value to the writing. It is, we believe, the first instance on record where the barbarous hunt for autographs has been turned to a profitable and charitable account.
We hope the hint will not be lost upon the benevolent intentioned of our own city; and when next some Hague-street catastrophe shall call for deeds of kindness, let those whose "handwriting" is worth a dime, contribute their mite to the hospitable fund.
Who would not bid high for some kind and sympathetic expression in the ink, and from the pen of Henry Clay? What up-town lady, spending her eagles for Peyser's crewels, would not willingly transmute a few of them for the purchase of some benevolent thought, set down in the ink-lines of an Irving or a Bryant? At least, the hint is worthy of consideration, and we dash it down for what it may count.
Dumas always finds incident, let him go where he will; and it was to record something of the sort, that he has introduced his mention of Madame Hugo's autograph lottery. The assemblage, he says, was the gayest possible; the distinguished men of Belgium, of France, and of England, honored the occasion.
But, continues our romancer (and we only hope to catch an outline of his story), I was compelled to leave the charming scene at an early hour. The night was stormy, the streets wet, and the sky dismally dark. I congratulated myself on having secured a cabriolet—a thing, by-the-by, which I always do. Every cabman of Paris knows me; every cabman of Brussels will know me shortly. (By way of parenthesis, we must interpolate the fear, that the cabmen may possibly know Dumas as a bad paymaster.)
Well, continues our veteran romancer, I made my way to my coach. At the moment a gentleman was claiming possession. I remonstrated. He represented that a young lady, his sister, had been promised attendance at a ball in the neighborhood. He desired the coach for her conveyance. None other was to be had. It was her first ball.
In short, says he, I was constrained to allow him the carriage, bargaining only that I should be set down at the Embassador's of ——.