# Life and Literary Remains of L. E. L./Volume 1/1824-1830

1824 to 1830.
In the month of July, 1824, after several ​unsuccessful negotiations with other publishers, "The Improvvisatrice and other poems, by L. E. L.," was published by Messrs. Hurst and Robinson. The principal poem was scarcely more than fifteen hundred lines in length, but the volume extended to upwards of three hundred and twenty pages. It was a book of beauty in every sense, and enjoyed a fate not always accorded to volumes of poetry that are ardently admired—it was as eagerly bought. Its success, as far as sale was concerned, was unequivocal on the first day of publication.
The stamp of originality was on this work. Almost as thickly sown with blemishes as with beauties—faulty to an extent that must have made the cold-natured and cynical critic felicitate himself as at the spreading of a feast—the fruit of wild and unpausing feelings that "would not be commanded"—there was still the stamp of originality upon the work. There was a power in the pages that no carelessness could mar, no obscurity hide—and the power was the writer's own. Not only had her lyre borrowed no string from the elder poets; not only were its effects unweakened by imitative notes caught from the popular poetical writings of the day, but it was just as impossible to trace in the character of her imagination and the peculiarities of her style, any resemblance to those qualities which had gained distinction for other gifted women—one of whom, Mrs. Hemans, had just preceded her in the acquisition of an honoured name.
The youth and sex of the writer constituted another charm of powerful effect. There was much, moreover, in the poem itself, connected with these, to interest and fascinate. The heroine of it was an improvvisatrice, youthful, impassioned, and ​gifted with glorious powers of song; and, although introduced as a daughter of Florence—
—————"of that land
Where the poet's lip and the painter's hand
Are most divine"—
she might be even L. E. L. herself; for what were the multitude of songs she had been pouring out for three years past, but "improvisings?" and, as some forlorn hope or blighted affection was generally their theme, so was it here—the story of love and suffering, hope and despair, was but amplified and elevated; the "moral" was the same—
"It was my evil star above,
 Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong;
It was not song that taught me love,
 But it was love that taught me song."
And thus, though it was but Sappho who sang, Sappho and L. E. L. were voted to be one, and the minstrel was identified as a martyr to ill-starred passion and blighted hope.
The assertion that many of L. E. L.'s songs were simply "improvisings," may almost be taken in a literal sense. An example is supplied in one of the minor pieces that fill up this volume—the sketch of "St. George's Hospital." It was long ago pointed out to us as an instance of the ease with which her fancy applied itself to any subject, and of the rapidity with which she embodied her ideas in verse. Passing the spot with a party of friends, she invited one of them to give her a subject for a sketch, and he carelessly suggested the hospital. Arrived at Brompton, the pen was put in action; and, in a space of time that seemed scarcely sufficient for transcribing the lines legibly, ​that beautiful set of pictures was produced. Her thoughts always flowed faster than she could put them upon paper; and of many of her fragments and sketches, as of the above, it may be said, that it would take her just as long to copy, as to compose them.
Nobody will deny that this proved, in numberless instances, a fatal facility. Here and there a stanza may have been improvised with advantage; many lines together, nay, whole pieces may be shown, which, written off as fast as the fingers could move, no study could have very materially improved. But these were the exceptions. The injury that resulted from the rule of rapidity—breathless and reckless rapidity—is shown throughout the various poems that compose the over-wrought richness, the beautiful excess, the melodious confusion of the "Improvvisatrice." If the superfluities, amounting to at least one-third of the poem, had been cut away, all that is obscure would have been clear—all that is languid, strong—all that is incongruous, harmonized. But let this, at the same time, be borne in mind, that L. E. L. is not, even in her earlier poems, chargeable with having used two words where one would do; she only sinned in employing two ideas, or three, where one was enough. It is true, she often marred a fine thought by a careless and inexact expression; but more frequently she destroyed the effect of a fine thought by profusely heaping others upon it, until she buried her nightingale in roses. It would be an endless task to recount the instances of personal tribute and congratulation from those whose "breath is renown," which this production won for its delighted author. Enough, that the public was her patron; that several ​editions were rapidly sold; and that the tide of fortune began to flow in with that of fame. But not a day did she allow herself to pause in the enjoyment of these new delights, and the advantages they were bringing to those of whom she always thought more than of herself. Her imagination would know no rest. Her weekly contributions of sketch and song were continued with unabated freshness and vigour; amidst feelings, kindled by the success of her work, which she afterwards touchingly described—
————"If ever happiness
In its most passionate excess
Offered its wine to human lip,
It has been mine that cup to sip.
I may not say with what deep dread
The words of my first song were said;
I may not say what deep delight
Has been upon my minstrel flight.
Thanks to the gentleness that lent
My young lute such encouragement."
It incited her to another trial of it, for another poem was commenced before the close of the year.
The progress of this new work was, however, interrupted by an event not wholly unlooked-for, but for which a heart so filially attached as hers could never be thoroughly prepared. Hitherto, L. E. L. had resided under her father's roof, excepting only during an interval of a year or two passed with her grandmother in Sloane-street, or spent in visits to other members of the family. Now, however, in the midst of her success; and in the freshness of her yet brighter hope, it was her misfortune to be deprived of her beloved parent; of him, whom to please was the first desire of her heart. Mr. Landon lived only long enough to ​witness the dawn of his daughter's literary fortune, and to hail in it, as he must have done, some consoling prospects of that advantage and succour to the objects bereft of his protection, which his own unprosperous enterprises in later years had rendered so necessary.
The poem was, after a while, proceeded with; and its loveliest passages are evidences that she had sought and found, among the shadows of melancholy beauty, and the images of gentleness and peace which many of the subjects selected for illustration suggested to her, that balm for hurt minds which her own so much required: the poem closes with a tribute to the revered dead, which is one gush of exquisite and unextinguishable affection.
———"My heart said, no name but Thine
Should be on this last page of mine.
My Father! though no more thine ear
Censure, or praise of mine can hear.
It soothes me to embalm thy name
With all my hope, my pride, my fame.
Alas! the tears that still will fall,
Are selfish in their fond recall.
If ever tears could win from Heaven
A loved one, and yet be forgiven,
Mine surely might! * * *
My own dead father, time may bring
Chance, change, upon his rainbow-wing;
But never will thy name depart—
The household god of thy child's heart,
Until thy orphan girl may share
The grave where her best feelings are.
Never, dear father, love can be
Like the dear love I had for thee."
These are among the closing lines of "The Troubadour," to which were added, "Poetical Sketches of Modern Pictures, and Historical Sketches," forming a volume, published by Hurst and Co., in ​July, 1825. This poem is of considerable length, and is divided into four cantos. The festival of the Golden Violet, which, at Toulouse, in the 14th century, was appointed for the bestowal of the prize due to the Troubadour victor, suggested the subject; and the hero of it, Raymond, figures bravely and brilliantly in all the honours that a mastery in love, and war, and minstrelsy, may confer upon him, until he wins from the hand of his fair mistress, who is queen of the floral games, the prize of the Golden Violet. In this subject we have some spirited descriptions of scenes where—
"With the lightning's speed, the thunder's peal,
flashes the lance and strikes the steel;"
in contrast with the most lovely, or the most gorgeous pictures of fair gardens and gay pavilions; then, again, bursts of wildest passion and bitterest grief, succeeded by such touches of sweet and natural feeling, that the heart is lulled, and the ear scarcely heeds the faltering measure and the jagged verse—
"Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh."
It is noticeable that, in her picture of the Troubadour, L. E. L. describes, what she could not yet have experienced, the insufficiency of a fair fame fairly won to atone for the evils of sacrificed repose, of unambitious dreams dispelled, of privacy invaded, of the cold sneer, the envious tongue, the heart-searing slander. The wreath of song, she says,—
"Though seemingly all bloom and light,
Hides thorn and canker, worm and blight. * *
Mocking will greet, neglect will chill
His spirit's gush, his bosom's thrill;
And, worst of all, that heartless praise
Echoed from what another says."
The poet, she assures us,
"But dreams a dream of life and light,
 And grasps the rainbow, that appears
Afar all beautiful and bright
 And finds it only form'd of tears."
The end of the adventure being invariably and inevitably,
"To sigh for all the toil, the care,
The wrong which he has had to bear."
This was written shortly after the death of Lord Byron, and expresses nothing more than that sympathy which a spirit so imaginative, and a temper so generous as hers, must necessarily have felt, with the wrongs and sufferings, real and unreal, of that extraordinary person. But L. E. L. was soon admitted to a full and most keen experience of some of the wrongs she so touchingly associates with the attainment of poetic honours. Of this presently. In the meantime, with the remark that the success of the "Troubadour," with respect both to fame and fortune, equalled her highest hopes, let us turn to another subject.
The Christmas of this year, 1825, L. E. L. spent at the house of her uncle, the Rev. James Landon, at Aberford, near Wetherby, in Yorkshire. One of the friends with whom she was always most delighted to correspond was, just at that period, making a first appearance in the "atmosphere of authorship;" and the occasion called forth a letter, which, though written in a vein of the liveliest and most playful humour, expresses some sentiments which she very seriously ​entertained. To read this is to have a pretty correct idea of her conversation taken down in short-hand.
"Ten thousand congratulations to myself, the reproach is taken away from Israel. My dearest Mrs. Thomson, your appearance in the atmosphere of authorship is a consummation devoutly to be wished by all who have the good name of their profession at heart. I shall think of my calling, 'my shame in crowds,' with somewhat of complacency, when I can call up your image, instead of visions of longitude in blue, and latitude in yellow. Already I see you a regular lioness. 'Have you got Mrs. Thomson's autograph? I am sure you will be at my party when I tell you Mrs. Thomson is to be there—she is the great historianess, a most charming, delightful woman.' 'Good gracious! can that be an authoress?' 'Why, dear me, ma'am, she has such a fine family!' How cordially, sincerely, affectionately do I wish and expect for your work the most brilliant success. May the Grand Turk read it as a matrimonial lesson,* the Mogul take the thousandth edition for himself, and the Emperor of all the Russias implore the honours of its dedication.
"Many thanks for your letter. I take the opposite of your position, and say the country is the place for reading letters; I know your's by heart. I, too, have been dining out; au premier; I did 'Miss,' very prettily, and a good-natured old lady—who put me in mind of a tun, or a lady and gentleman 'rolled into one,' having the height of one sex, the breadth of the other—gave me a book of pictures, a stool, and a little table. Au second, it was properly disseminated that I was 'the London ​Authoress.' The consequence was, that seated by the only young man I had beheld, I acted upon him like an air-pump, suspending his very breath and motion; and my asking him for a mince-pie, a dish of which I had been for some time surveying with longing eyes, acted like an electric shock—and his start not a little discomposed a no-age-at-all, silk-vested spinster, whose plate was thereby deposited in her lap—and last not least, in the hurry, he forgot to help me!
"My dear madam, I can forgive (I can do no more) your liking the country in preference to London. Both yourself and Mr. Thomson passed your childhood there; and I believe, like the absolute necessity of wigs for the bishops and judges, there is an absolute belief in the enjoyments of childhood; though, in my particularly private opinion, these reminiscences are but of triangular caps, certain donations on the right or left ear, as was most convenient, verbs, graphies, and, climax of intellectual misery, the multiplication-table! Be this as it may, it is my firm belief that the softened remembrance of these said scenes has thrown a poetical halo round the country, that it is only because you are not there which makes it so desirable to you. Nothing, I grant, can be more luxurious than the gush of fresh air, the sweep of green fields, the fine old trees and the twilight of summer; but it is coming from streets, it is the very knowledge that your pleasure is passing as you enjoy it, that makes a month or two in the country so delightful. But toujours perdrix! the very poetry of Surrey's beautiful landscapes would become prose in time. As for social intercourse there is none. I grant you a round of magnificent dinners—I allow the excellence of the champagne, ​the ices, the pine apples—I can stare at the gold and silver plate till I pine to pawn it—but for real enjoyment give me one day such as I have spent at your house. I grant that in the country nothing seems easier than to become the golden calf of a circle, but I never envied Miss Seward.
"No; 'London, my country, city of the soul,' I am content to dwell for aye with thee. I, however, cordially agree in one of your favourite opinions, the happiness of being one of a large family. There is certainly something very delightful in being the object of affectionate solicitude to many, bound in every tie of habit and relationship. . . . I should like you to know my aunt, I think you would be so much pleased with her. . . . You must summon philosophy and the haberdasher to your aid, for gloves of mine, here at least, you will never get. En passant, I have heard most ludicrous accounts of my achievements in that way. One young lady heard at Scarborough last summer, that I had had two hundred offers; and a gentleman at Leeds brought an account of three hundred and fifty straight from London. It is really very unfortunate that my conquests should so much resemble the passage to the North Pole and Wordsworth's Cuckoo, 'talked of but never seen.' . . . Since the first page of this was written, I have seen York Cathedral—it is a glorious place. The feeling on entering it is worth a whole month of common existence. I only longed to assassinate the guide who kept talking of feet and inches."
The next letter which L. E. L. addressed to Mrs. Thomson is in painful contrast with that which has just been transcribed. The subject of it is here adverted to with a reluctance which will at least ensure brevity. At the very moment when ​the hopes of a friend's success in a first literary enterprise were thus inspiring her even to gaiety, jealousy and calumny were busy with her own name. Nobody can make many friends without making some enemies. L. E. L.'s foes comprised perhaps various persons who, dispraised in the journal to which she was so valued and constant a contributor, associated the critic's opinions with hers; while others might erroneously assign to her influence the rejection of their communications. To these must be added a third class, not a numerous, but a very active one, who never forgive success. Hence the first motive for detraction, which broke out in bitter ridicule of her writings, and then proceeded to the vilest misrepresentation of her conduct. What malignity begins, ignorant, idle, some times even well-meaning gossip, finishes. Those who professed to know nothing about her, aided by their silly curiosity the insidious objects of those who might falsely pretend to know. Unfortunately, the very unguardedness of her innocence served to arm even the feeblest malice with powerful stings; the openness of her nature, and the frankness of her manners, furnished the silly or the ill-natured with abundant materials for gossip. She was always as careless as a child of set forms and rules for conduct. She had no thought, no concern about the interpretation that was likely to be put upon her words, by at least one out of a score of listeners—it was enough for her that she meant no harm, and that the friends she most valued knew this—perhaps she found a wilful and most dangerous pleasure, sometimes, in making the starers stare yet more widely. She defied suspicion. But to induce her to condescend to be on her guard, to put the slightest restraint upon her ​speech, correspondence, or actions, simply because self-interest demanded it to save her conduct from misrepresentation, was a task which, so far from any one being able to accomplish, few would, without deliberation, venture to attempt; so quick were her feelings, so lofty her woman's pride, and so keen and all-sufficing her consciousness of right.
By no one could this grave and delicate duty have been more properly discharged than by the friend to whom the preceding letter was addressed. Mrs. Thomson had known L. E. L. and her family for years. Dr. Antony Todd Thomson had been her medical attendant from her girlish days—both had been in the most friendly and cordial intimacy with her—so that it might almost be said she had been rarely out of their sight. Mrs. Thomson's high sense of moral rectitude—and not that only, but her clear perception of the nicer proprieties demanded by conventional prejudice—her intellectual qualifications, and the position she occupied—pointed her out as the friend from whom might best come some necessary hints at the existence of the scandal that had been diffused, and such advice as one woman may give to another without addressing to her an arrogant lecture on self-government. Of the just application of the solicitude and affection that were thus shown, the following letter, written in June, 1826, is at once the proof and the recompense.
"I have not written so soon as I intended, my dear Mrs. Thomson; first, because I wished to be able to tell you I had taken some steps towards change; and I also wished, if possible, to subdue the bitterness and indignation of feelings not to be expressed to one so kind as yourself. I must own ​I have succeeded better in the first than the last. I think of the treatment I have received until my very soul writhes under the powerlessness of its anger. It is only because I am poor, unprotected, and dependent on popularity, that I am a mark for all the gratuitous insolence and malice of idleness and ill-nature. And I cannot but feel deeply that had I been possessed of rank and opulence, either these remarks had never been made, or if they had how trivial would their consequence have been to me. I must begin with the only subject—the only thing in the world I really feel an interest in—my writings. It is not vanity when I say, their success is their fault. When my 'Improvvisatrice' came out, nobody discovered what is now alleged against it. I did not take up a review, a magazine, a newspaper, but if it named my book it was to praise 'the delicacy,' 'the grace,' 'the purity of feminine feeling' it displayed. . . . . . But success is an offence not to be forgiven. To every petty author, whose works have scarce made his name valuable as an autograph, or whose unsold editions load his bookseller's shelves—I am a subject of envy—and what is envy but a name for hatred? With regard to the immoral and improper tendency of my productions, I can only say it is not my fault if there are minds which, like negroes, cast a dark shadow on a mirror, how ever clear and pure in itself. You must forgive this; I do not often speak of my own works, and I may say this is the first time it was ever done boastingly; but I must be allowed to place the opinions of the many in opposition to the envious and illiberal cavillings of a few.
"As to the report you name, I know not which is greatest—the absurdity or the malice. ​Circumstances have made me very much indebted to the gentleman [whose name was coupled with hers], for much of kindness. I have not had a friend in the world but himself to manage anything of business, whether literary or pecuniary. Your own literary pursuits must have taught you how little, in them, a young woman can do without assistance. Place yourself in my situation. Could you have hunted London for a publisher, endured all the alternate hot and cold water thrown on your exertions; bargained for what sum they might be pleased to give; and, after all, canvassed, examined, nay quarrelled over accounts the most intricate in the world? And again, after success had procured money, what was I to do with it? Though ignorant of business, I must know I could not lock it up in a box. Then, for literary assistance, my proof sheets could not go through the press without revision. Who was to undertake this—I cannot only call it drudgery—but some one to whom my literary exertions could in return be as valuable as theirs to me? But it is not on this ground that I express my surprise at so cruel a calumny, but actually on that of our slight intercourse. He is in the habit of frequently calling on his way into town, and unless it is on a Sunday afternoon, which is almost his only leisure time for looking over letters, manuscripts, &c., five or ten minutes is the usual time of his visit. We visit in such different circles, that if I except the evening he took Agnes and myself to Miss B——'s, I cannot recall our ever meeting in any one of the round of winter parties. The more I think of my past life, and of my future prospects, the more dreary do they seem. I have known little else than privation, disappointment, unkindness, and harassment; ​from the time I was fifteen, my life has been one continual struggle in some shape or another against absolute poverty, and I must say not a tithe of my profits have I ever expended on myself. And here I cannot but allude to the remarks on my dress. It is easy for those whose only trouble on that head is change, to find fault with one who never in her life knew what it was to have two new dresses at a time. No one knows but myself what I have had to contend with—but this is what I have no right to trouble you with."
These were her real feelings expressed to a real friend. Her acquaintances knew nothing of them; the world saw no change in her; for in no one respect could she be persuaded to put a curb upon her high spirit, to substitute reflection for impulse, or to set a guard over the free expression of her thoughts and opinions. She could not, however, at this time, surmise the whole baseness of the scandal. The knowledge of it was reserved for after years, when, her life and manners continuing what they had ever been, but the evil report never utterly silenced, it was discovered that a silent disdain of calumny is not always the best wisdom in the slandered; nor a reliance upon time and innocence for justice, the truest delicacy in an adviser. It was L. E. L.'s fate to suffer deeply during many after years of her life, from her own high-minded indifference to false reports, and her resolution to wear no false manner at any time. How pitiful and base if a shadow were to be cast on the name she has left, or her character were still exposed to the slightest misconception, by any false delicacy to the living, or any flinching from the truth, however painful, on the part of one whom she had in solemn terms charged with the task of ​recording the successes and sorrows of her life. It is therefore, that the writer feels it to be a duty thus to advert to the slander, and thus to record the reply.
How deep was the shock her feelings sustained, her own words show. It would be in vain, perhaps, to speculate upon the duration of that bitterness and gloom which pervade the above transcript of her feelings; but the evil effect was certainly not of brief continuance, and, perhaps, from this time her real sentiments towards society, and her philosophical speculations on life, whether expressed in her correspondence or conversation, partook far more of the morbid, despairing, and desolate tone of her poetry than before. In her next letter to the same friend (dated a month afterwards from Aberford, whither she had again gone on a visit to her uncle James), the usual playful humour is dashed with excessive bitterness; and this mixture of the gentle and violent, the amiable and the scornful—a mingling of so much that was good with so dreary a disbelief in goodness—so that it often seemed to be wilful, and adopted for the mere sake of paradox—continued to be character istic of her in her late life.
"I had intended, my dear Mrs. Thomson, taking my chance of spending Monday evening with you, but my cousin's return home with me, and the beneficial effect of leaving everything to the last, prevented my going out. So I must begin my letter by bidding you most affectionately 'good bye,' with far more sincerity than those words generally convey. For my own part, in making my round of calls, I thought 'my friends' had entered into a conspiracy to wish me health and happiness in the set-terms of the polite ​letter-writer. After all, though I know you will not allow it, there is something very independent in this indifference.
'There were no tears at parting shed;
There were no eyes to shed them.'
I kept lamenting that I had not gone by sea. Who is it that says a happy quotation is a sudden treasure? I might have applied Lord Byron's lines so well—'With thee, my barque,' &c.—I had a most uncommonly pleasant journey down. Of my three companions, one was a middle-aged and middle-sized man, who alternately slept and steamed; the second may be emphatically described as a nobody, a young gentleman with red whiskers, very hot for this weather; but the third was an exceedingly gentlemanly and intelligent man, with, however, one fault, or rather misfortune, he was married—or I should have tried for a conquest.—It was to me something very amusing, and very new, (one grand half of amusement), to converse with a well-informed person, possessing a very proper appreciation, as Miss —— would say, of my being a very superior sort of person, and yet not having the slightest idea of my original sin, no thought of my taint of blue, no battery of looks erected against me. O for oblivion, and five hundred a year!—Not being now writing in the way of business, I shall spare you the flowers I have gathered, the trees I have seen, leaving you to beau-idealize them for yourself in Fate's garden. . . . This is not a gay time in the country, but prospects of future pleasure are dancing before me. I have invitations for Harrowgate and Scarborough, nay, a distant peep at Scotland. I am just in the humour in which tours are made, leaving no place ​with regret, and looking forward to none with greater pleasure than curiosity and change. Were I rich, 'I'd make a tour, and then I'd write it.' I think I could write a most delightful 'journey of a genius.' I would confine myself to portrait-painting. Altered as I am in tastes, feelings (if I have any), I must say I retain my old admiration for my aunt. She is a most delightful woman. Her powers of conversation are very great. I keep thinking, 'oh dear! what would she not be in London!' I yesterday had a drive with my uncle to (to my taste) the prettiest place about; we drank tea, and afterwards, walking through the grounds, I was shown a tree that had been, two days before, struck by the lightning. It was turned to the most beautiful pink inside and out, for when cut down, all the sap was pink. I wish I could learn if this is at all a known circumstance. What a simile! If any misfortunes happen, I beg I may hear of them; as to any good fortune, as I am perfectly sure it will not concern me, you may keep it a fountain sealed, for I am grown very envious. I am very comfortable here. I cannot, though I wish, be insensible to so much affectionate kindness; . . . . but after all, what is affection, but another of those cheats which make present life distasteful to us by comparison with the future?"
The next letter to Mrs. Thomson, dated three weeks afterwards (ever reckoning by post-marks), contradicts this fearful sentiment; or, at least, its writer shows that if affection be a cheat, in her it only exercised its dishonesty to cheat those she loved out of their troubles; for the letter is written expressly to amuse a sick friend, and is well adapted for the purpose, being lively throughout, ​with but one mocking allusion to her own want of sensibility.
. . . "I am not going to write an epistle of condolence. It is one half of a Job's comforter to put people in mind of their misfortunes. If I can entertain you for five minutes I do more good than all the pity in the world, and you need not read unless disposed. I have been both bodily and intellectually industrious. I have written poetry 'by the pound;' I have eaten fruit enough to stock a stall in Covent-garden. I have walked through green lanes, picturesque fields, &c. till I have worn out two pair of shoes, and began to wish I were an Arabian beauty, a load for a camel, and not expected to move without the assistance of two slaves. I have learned to tat, worked—yes, actually finished a lace-collar; and most commendably too, began a flounce from which I have no few dreams of future glory. I was at Leeds yesterday, 'a town o'er which a curse is laid.' Cockney as I am, I had no idea of such a sky. My remark was, what a tremendous storm is gathering!
'So darkly gloom'd the thunder-cloud
Upon the distant hill.
I do not know whether there is actually any sky above the town or not, but you see nothing but clouds of smoke forming the atmosphere. The interior improves. The principal street is really a noble one, and some of the shops made me most sentimentally recall the glories of Bond-street. But there is one shop, 'the most alluring one by far,' in which London stands unrivalled. The taste, the intellect displayed in her pastry-cook shops, place her country competitors at an immeasurable distance. I have entered on my journal—Leeds ​pastry-cooks one thousand and one years behind in civilization. Albeit, you see ribbons, gauzes, silks, satins, like moving rainbows in the streets, the people have a very plebeian appearance. I was particularly struck with this at their exhibition, which is very superior to what you would expect a provincial one to be. There are some fine old pictures sent by the neighbouring gentlemen; some good modern ones from London, and some exhibited by young artists in this part of the country, very promising indeed. The portraits are what portraits usually are, 'tiresome takings of a foolish face.' Painters might exclaim with the author of 'Rouge et Noir' on seeing his fair, alias pale, alias yellow, or tout-ensemble sea-sick countrywomen land at Calais—
'Now, by St. George on horseback! one would think
The ugliest come on purpose to disgrace us.'
There is a fine collection of pictures at——, which is also a most beautiful place, formerly a preceptory of the Templars, with some curious antiquarian remains, but invisible to common eyes, the Marchioness of H——being at present there lamenting her hard fate, and the utter inability to live on six-and-thirty thousand a year. To our left is a place belonging to Mr.——, noticeable as a woman-hater. Not so much as a foolish fat scullion will he suffer in his house. Even the white window-curtains were taken down as bearing too much resemblance to female drapery. For every why there is a wherefore; et voici le fait; he formed an early attachment to a very beautiful girl, much his inferior in fortune; he was sent abroad, but continued most romantically constant. As soon as his father's death made him master of a noble estate, he ​married her. Two months after their marriage she ran away with his most intimate friend whom she had known a fortnight.—A heavy misfortune befel me the other day—one of those misfortunes which really do affect my feelings. I was ruralizing, was caught in a violent rain, and my bonnet, my best bonnet, new trimmed, was utterly hopelessly spoilt; and what was worse, my beauty, if I have any; for I caught cold, and had a great gathering in my left eye, which besides being very painful, gave me a most pugilistic appearance. I arranged a black silk handkerchief as well as I could over the poulticed side, but, alas! it did not at all resemble
———'the mask which shades
The face of young Arabian maids,
A mask which leaves the one eye free
To do its best in witchery.'"
The following reports her literary progress, on the completion of another poem, the "Golden Violet." The letter was written at the close of October of the same year, from Biggleswade, in Bedfordshire, where she was staying for a short period with some retired friends.
"Had I any intention of setting up for epistolary fame, which, however, both Heaven and I know is not in my way, I should rest my gilt-paper-and-red-seal immortality on this present letter, for it has the mark of the beast—that is to say, is written from the most selfish motives, expressly for my own amusement. I have travelled some miles since I last wrote, from Aberford to Royston, in the mail, in company with a ponderous and somniferous noun masculine, a smart-looking adjective feminine, whether a superintendant of curls or children, letters or lace, I could not ​determine. . . . You may guess we are very quiescent, and I am very glad of it, for of all lionization, country lionizing is my utter contempt. As soon as my 'Golden Violet' begins for me to realize its name, with what pleasure shall I pay the Jehu, guard, and hackney-coachman, that land me in Hans-place. St. Vitus!—being the most dissipated and dancing saint I can think of to invoke—it will not be my fault if I do not have a gay winter. Well, give me a metropolitan five hundred a-year in preference to a rural five thousand. Albeit, I don't do much description in general, I must favour you with a little in honour of the exceeding beauty of the lanes about here. Say what you will of a spring hedge, give me an autumn one; the first has only a few flowers, the latter is covered with fruit. They are now literally loaded, thousands of haws like coral, the bright scarlet heps, the deep purple of the sloes, and the shining black of the blackberries, are so richly relieved by the sycamore and ash, the one just touched with yellow, the other with red;—the gay ribbon repositories of Bond-street might take many a useful hint. They say every gastronomic hint is a white line in the record of your life, and I have added to my list of delicacies, a branch of sloes roasted over a wood fire. I have been most edifyingly industrious; you who heard all of the 'Golden Violet' that was written, know how much I was behind hand—it is now completely finished, and I am equally busy with my 'Erinna.' I shall be so anxious for you and Mr. Thomson to like it. Is there not an old proverb which says, 'it is ill judging your own bigging?' Still, if I can write up to the idea I have formed, it must be a striking poem. Other poets have painted a very sufficient ​quantity of poetical miseries; but my aim is not to draw neglected genius, or 'mourn a laurel planted on the tomb'—but to trace the progress of a mind highly-gifted, well-rewarded, but finding the fame it won a sting and a sorrow, and finally sinking beneath the shadows of success. Apropos des bottes, I have purchased such a pretty straw bonnet for—but you must guess, when you see it."
Few readers of the poem ('Erinna') thus adverted to—a poem that formed one of the most striking features of the volume, published about two months afterwards, will hesitate to admit that L. E. L. did succeed in "writing up to the idea she had formed," and that thus the high aim was accomplished. In it she takes a lofty view of the poet's lot, entering into his feelings, painting his visions that are realities, exhibiting the moods of his waywardness, and the vicissitudes of his course—delineating his purposes and his ambition—glorifying his strength, sympathizing with his weakness, and all in
"Language mysteriously musical;"
L. E. L. herself, the while, proving her own to be, indeed, the poet's true vocation, by employing her genius in
————"giving flowers
A life as sweet, more lasting than their own."
But all these, the healthier and more cheerful parts of the poem, are heavily overshadowed by the spirit of the philosophy in which it is conceived; the thoughts are of a high cast, but chilling as the snows on the peaks of mountains; and the sweet and lovely images that cheer what else must be wholly desolate, breaking through the ​gloominess of the picture, are as lilies flung into a grave.
There are poems in the volume referred to, that, to a woman's grace, add a masculine energy. The "Golden Violet, with its tales of Chivalry and Romance," published by Messrs. Longman and Co., in December, 1826, comprises some of the best conceived and most finished of L. E. L.'s earlier compositions. This poem represents a different species of poetical competition for the prize of the Golden Violet; and introduces the minstrels of various countries, with their ballads, tales, and romances, in every species of measure, singing and reciting on "the first-born day of loveliest May" for the beautiful flower of gold. The characters are various, the subjects fitting to them, the measure, in most instances, skilfully adapted to both. L. E. L.'s taste for the old ballad, and her love of the old romance, animated her here to excellent purpose; and catching, as she was sure to do, the true tone and spirit of the "lay and legend proper," she achieved also an unwonted felicity of construction and appropriateness of expression, in working out her many-storied subject. This volume, which, like the former two, was published at a price rather above than under the average, had an immediate and extensive sale.
Still she went writing on, romancing in verse, and reviewing, as we shall presently have to mention, in prose. Her next published volume was "The Venetian Bracelet, the Lost Pleiad, the History of the Lyre, and other Poems," issued by the same publishers, in October 1829. The fierce political contentions of the time were unfavourable to poetry such as hers; yet her sweet and sorrowful songs again found a fit audience. Her critics ​had not prevailed with her to take up other themes and other measures. The burthen of the strain was love, still love. To the complaint of monotony in this respect, she pleasantly alludes in the introduction, and then vindicates herself by renewing the offence. We gather plainly from her remarks that if she herself were in love at the time, it was only with her subject, and that she considers her self exempt from the suspicion of being broken-hearted, by continually singing about those who are. Love, however, love foredoomed, love linked to woe and fated to death—the hopelessness of hope, the reality of pain, the mockery of life—were the prevailing topics.
"How wildly round our ancient battlements
The air-notes murmur! Blent with such a wind
I heard the song which shall be ours to-night.
She had a strange sweet voice the maid who sang,
But early death was pale upon her cheek;
And she had melancholy thoughts that gave
Their sadness to her speech; she sat apart
From all her young companions, in the shade
Of an old tree—a gloomy tree, whose boughs
Hung o'er her as a pall:—'twas omen-like,
For she died young—of gradual decay,
As if the heart consumed itself. None knew
If she had loved; but always did her song
Dwell on love's sorrows."
No one who had ever caught a glimpse of the animated and joyous creature who thus sang, could have committed the error of identifying her with the love-lorn damsel she painted. The "Venetian Bracelet" is a pretty tale charmingly wrought into verse; and the "Lost Pleiad" is a little mythological tragedy told in short, sparkling, and yet mournful numbers—dark as night, "but night with all her stars." The "History of the Lyre," has many passages of force and beauty, and some ​self-references mixed with their idealities. "Love," the Lyre's historian sings—
"Love, which can resign
Its own best happiness for one dear sake,
Can bear with absence—hath no part in hope,
For hope is somewhat selfish, love is not,
And doth prefer another to itself."
Of such is the volume composed. The miscellaneous poems comprise many fine ones, and among them a tender and spirited dramatic scene. "Sometimes," sighs the poet over the song as she pours it forth—
"I look round with vain regret,
And think I will re-string my lute, and nerve
My woman's hand for nobler enterprise;
But the day never comes. Alas! we make
A ladder of our thoughts where angels step,
But sleep ourselves at the foot. Our high resolves
Look down upon our slumbering acts."
Altogether, her poetry, up to this period, was too like the stream described in this volume—
"A noble stream, which, unconfined,
Makes fertile its rich banks, and glads the face
Of nature round; but not so when its wave
Is lost in artificial waterfalls
And sparkling eddies; or cooped up to make
The useless fountain of a palace-hall."
Writing verses was to her but a labour of love, if labour in any sense it could be called; it was far less irksome to her to compose a poem than to sit idle; and as she rarely looked about for choice subjects, but seized on those that first occurred to her, so she never waited for the "poetic fit," the "happy moment," but sat down to her desk in any mood, careless or solemn. Thus, it is not surprising that she was continually repeating herself in stanzas on memory and hope, and love and ​disappointment; nor is it strange, considering the activity, or rather the restlessness of her imagination, if the volumes which, up to this time, we have seen published in her name, formed but an inconsiderable portion of what she actually wrote. To the "Literary Gazette" she still continued a frequent contributor of poetical fragments; but her writings were far from being confined to those columns in which the initials of the poet were regularly sought. In the lighter departments of criticism, she was, week by week, a devoted labourer; and many are the authors, young and old, poets, novelists, dramatists, travellers, and reminiscence-mongers, who owe the first generous words of encouragement, or the cordial renewal of former welcomes, to her glowing and versatile pen. Written generally to suit the occasion merely, it is not thought worth while to make reference to these criticisms in detail; but it is due to L. E. L. to say, that were her opinions upon books and authors, whether expressed in this or any other publication, impartially extracted, and collected in volumes, there would be seen in them the results of great miscellaneous reading, research in more than one foreign language, acuteness and brilliancy of remark—with, it is true, much hastiness of judgment, many prejudiced and inconclusive views, frequent wildness of assertion—but without one ungenerous or vindictive sentiment, one trace of an unkindly or interested feeling. She has often gone far out of her way to recommend to the public the productions of rivals who abused her; and assuredly, towards those by whom she conceived herself obliged though in the slightest degree, she was ever ready to play the friend where she should have been the critic only, and to repay with a ​column of praise the favour of a kind word—for the smallest service she always remembered and always overrated. But here her sinnings against "impartial judgment" end. Her failings as a critic leaned to virtue's side; and the young writer, with but a spark of the poetic fire in his lines, was as sure of a gentle sentence of appreciation and sympathy, as the established favourite was of a grateful welcome, and an honouring tribute.
In addition to these continued tasks, should be noticed her contributions to the "Annuals." From their commencement, a few years before, there was scarcely one (although every season produced its new ones) that did not secure the attraction of her initials. From several of these, such as the "Literary Souvenir," the "Forget-me-Not," &c., she derived sums considerable enough to show that it was no immutable decree of fate by which poetry and poverty had been made inseparable companions, and that in the judgment of experienced publishers, her writings retained their charm over the gentle purchaser, in spite of their profusion.
Yet L. E. L. did not, therefore, become rich; though much of her literary labour was productive, she never knew how to hoard; and those she loved and respected always shared in her good fortune—it was in her troubles only that she allowed no one, if she could help it, to be a participator. The death of her father had but served to strengthen those maternal claims which (though even here calumny did not spare her) she ever esteemed sacred; nor could she forget that her brother, younger than herself, was equally destitute of parental aid; and, although he had been sent to Oxford by his uncle, there were still wants, which it was one of the delights of her existence to ​supply, as it is the affectionate pride of his (he wishes this to be said), to remember and acknowledge it.