Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?"-
"Not there, not there, my child !"

"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or 'midst the green, islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?'

"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it far away, in some region old,

66

Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?—
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand ?—
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?”-

"Not there, not there, my child!

Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child!"

WOMAN AND FAME.

THOU hast a charmed cup, O Fame!
A draught that mantles high,
And seems to lift this earthly frame

Above mortality.

Away! to me--a woman-bring

Sweet waters from affection's spring.

Thou hast green laurel-leaves that twine
Into so proud a wreath;

For that resplendent gift of thine,

Heroes have smiled in death.

Give me from some kind hand a flower, The record of one happy hour!

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone
Can bid each life-pulse beat,
As when a trumpet's note hath blown,
Calling the brave to meet :

But mine, let mine—a woman's breast,
By words of home-born love be blessed.

A hollow sound is in thy song,

A mockery in thy eye,

To the sick heart that doth but long
For aid, for sympathy;

For kindly looks to cheer it on,

For tender accents that are gone.

Fame, Fame! thou canst not be the stay

Unto the drooping reed,

The cool fresh fountain, in the day

Of the soul's feverish need;

Where must the lone one turn or flee?Not unto thee, oh! not to thee!

CHAPTER VII.

"L. E. L.”—ADELAIDE PROCTER- CAROLINE NORTON-LADY

DUFFERIN MRS. SOUTHEY-MARY

FLOWER ADAMS-SARA COLERIDGE.

M

MITFORD-SARAH

RS. BROWNING has addressed a very kind poem to Letitia Landon, but other verse writers, especially the more modern ones, have not held her in high esteem. There has been a natural jealousy about her, and the real truth is that this jealousy was not irrational. "L. E. L." was a spoiled woman.

Not pretty enough to be a beauty, not patient enough to be a clear thinker, not inspired enough to be a fine poet, not sincere enough to be steadfast in her affections; a little of the flirt and gadabout, so hungry for applause that she hasted too eagerly to win it,—she was doomed to the early disappointment which her curious foreboding disposition seemed to court for itself. On the other hand, if not beautiful, she was graceful; if not inspired, she had such a taste as came very near the true poetical nature; if not possessed of that great-hearted sincerity which makes the highest lives a succession of long calms and a few great storms, she was possessed of sweet amiability, and that longing to be loved constantly betraying itself even in feeble natures, though with an appeal that is often touching. There was nothing to make her early days miserable, but from childhood her style of thought, so far as it was expressed in literary form, was sickly. Ere she had become a full-grown woman, the world did everything it could to help her on.

A kindly editor opened up to her the glory of print as soon as she could write facile verses; the public repaid her with its courtesy. At the Oxford Union there was a rush of young students whenever a new number of the magazine containing her poems appeared. Emolument came to her with more ease than it has come to almost any woman-writer of our Society was willing to dandle her, and more With many

own times. than one man of genius sought to marry her. sensibilities, but no distinct aim, Letitia Landon allowed the circumstances of her first success to master her. Finding that money and flattery could be had in abundance by such facile productions as her pen had produced for the Literary Gazette, she devoted her powers to endless contributions for "Books of Beauty," "Keepsakes," and all such ephemera of the time. Finding also that one or two men of exceptional literary power took an interest in her which her winning disposition elicited as much as her talents, she gave herself up to their company and guidance with a heedlessness that her best friends called ingenuous, but which was still unbecoming in a young girl whom circumstances had made her own mistress. The consequence was that invidious calumny ere long attacked her. Some whom she had eclipsed in the literary world wondered that the public did not grow tired of her conceits, and in their jealousy they found means to characterise her want of circumspection in private life as levity, and at length rumour had it that her levity had come to be something worse. Then true sorrow fell upon her. No one now believes that her purity was ever really sullied by her conduct; but yet the mysterious allegations brought against her by her enemies were never fully faced and exposed. She continued to write, always with acceptance to the reading public, and increasingly with a sad burden in her song. Lovers still clung to her, however; and one to whom she had given her affection was prepared to front and

live down with her all the backbiting that her carelessness had allowed to grow into serious scandal; but with that curious knack of making herself misunderstood which characterised her so much, she considered it necessary to renounce her connection with this gentleman. The consequence of this severance was the very opposite to what she had anticipated, since the rupture was considered by the ill-natured to cause new reasons for distrust. Then came another engagement in which her heart seemed less concerned at the commencement. It was her last chance of happiness, and apparently she was resolved to cast her hopes into it. Its dénouement was a tragic fate which befell her in circumstances already well-known to so many, and to be referred to more particularly on a subsequent page. Smiling in society and sighing in her study, thirsting for love and too heedless of that maiden reticence which best hoards a woman's affections for the worthiest object, she had herself to blame in a great measure for the shadow that makes her so pensive a picture on the page of our literature. She reminds us of Clarissa, who with the bloom of lovely womanhood upon her young cheek, sat with such sad persistence, stitching at her own shroud.

"L. E. L." was the daughter of John Landon, a gentleman of good family, who had been to sea in his youth, and who in middle-age became a successful army agent in London, although speculation ruined him before his family of three had passed out of childhood. Of these three children, Letitia Elizabeth was the oldest. She was born at 25, Hans Place, Chelsea, on 14th August, 1802. Her earliest education was conducted by a Miss Rowen, who subsequently had the fortune to become a French countess; and passing from this lady's charge at the age of seven, Letitia was placed under the care of a cousin, who was not very capable of firmly superintending her relative's studies. The little girl and her brother, who subsequently became a respected