half inclined to imagine that "L. E. L." might be, in some unknown tongue, the name of sylph or naiad—that the fair poet's inkstand was a lily, her ink dew, and her pen the wing-feather of a real phoenix—these youthful devotees have seen their graceful and gallant fancies dissipated one by one, and were long ago convinced, even before the first portrait appeared, that there was an actual mortal lady in the case, and that L. E. L. really meant Letitia Elizabeth Landon! But beyond that they knew very little, nor can we tell them much more. What we have heard we will relate.
The family, whose name is now identified with so much that is poetical in our literature, has a singularly green and flourishing testimonial of its age and respectability, still visible in the church of Jedstone Delamere, in Hertfordshire. There, at this day, round the tomb of one of the Landons, may be seen a growth of hazels—fresh and luxuriant as any in the open air, and sacred as those of Wordsworth, which by his heedless and eager hand
"Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being—"
and made him feel that there is "a spirit in the woods." This scene of green and beautiful repose is in strong contrast with the active and, in the end, unprosperous life of Miss Landon's father, who was a partner in the well-known army-agency house in Pall-mall—the interest in which had previously been possessed by Mr. Adair. The good fortune of this gentleman did not, unluckily, descend to Mr. Landon, whose sole treasure at his death consisted in that of which he and the world were alike ignorant, the gift of genius which nature had conferred upon his daughter. Of this father, thus "blessed unaware," and unconscious of the glory of his fortune amidst its seeming ruin, there is a trait recorded by which he may be pleasantly remembered. We find it in an incident related in the "History of a Child," to which we have above alluded. Little L. E. L. was excessively fond of a favourite dog of her father's, and the dog was just as fond of repairing at a certain hour to a certain spot, to wait the return of its master. Rather than part company with her pet, the child went with him one day, and waited too. When she heard the sound of the horse's hoofs, she was half inclined to run away; but her stay was rewarded, for her father took her in his arms, and kissed her as he said, "So you have been waiting for me!" and then, hand in hand, both walked very happily across the park.
The next day, and the next, and the next, child and dog were in attendance; kisses and caresses were bestowed, and were no doubt an exceeding great reward to both; but little L. E. L. was luckier far one day, for her father, on approaching the gate, held up to her eager and delighted eyes—eyes that had been accustomed to read almost in the cradle—four volumes bound in russia, and adorned with many pictures. These were—the "Arabian Nights!" "The delight of reading those enchanted pages," says L. E. L., "I must even to this day rank as the most delicious excitement of my life." And then she adds, (being very much mistaken)—"I shall never have courage to read them again—they would mark too decidedly, too bitterly, the change in myself." Now with respect to this change—without recurring again to the con-
