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 but applied to the maintenance and advancement of her family. It might be partly the early consciousness of this power to befriend others, which encouraged her to such ceaseless composition as necessarily precluded the thought and cultivation essential to the production of poetry of the highest order. Hence, with all their fancy and feeling, her principal works—the Improvisatrice—the Troubadour—the Golden Violet—the Golden Bracelet—and the Vow of the Peacock—bear a strong family likeness to each other in their recurrence to the same sources of allusion, and the same veins of imagery,—in the conventional rather than natural colouring of their descriptions, and in the excessive, though not unmusical carelessness of their versification. It should be remarked, however, that in spite of the ceaseless strain upon her powers, and the ceaseless distractions of a London life, Miss Landon accomplished much for her own mind in the progress of its career; that she had reached a deeper earnestness of thought—had added largely to the stores of her knowledge, and done much towards the polishing and perfecting of her verse;—her latest published lyric, The Polar Star, written on shipboard, and which appears in the current number of the New Monthly Magazine, is an earnest that the scenes upon which she was entering would have opened a new life for the authoress as well as the woman. Besides her poetry, Miss Landon's three novels—Romance and Reality—Francesca Carrara—and Ethel Churchill remain to attest her powers as a prose writer. They are, all of them, stories of sentiment: the two latter relieved by glimpses of such gay and courtly life, as Watteau loved to paint, and Walpole and Lady Mary Wortley Montagu to embalm in their correspondence. In right of this spirit they in some degree reflect the conversation of their authoress—which sparkled always brightly with quick fancy, and a badinage astonishing to those matter-of-fact persons who expected to find, in the manners and discourse of the poetess, traces of the weary heart, the broken lute, and the disconsolate willow tree, which were so frequently her theme of song. Another novel was in progress at the time she was snatched away with such awful suddenness—it having been her purpose to maintain her literary relations with England, and her hope to produce yet better and fresher works. Had her life been spared, this hope would, we think, have been fulfilled. As it is, the public will recollect pleasantly what she has achieved, and feel the void caused by the withdrawal of her graceful and versatile fancy. Her private friends and her literary contemporaries, too, will remember her long—as one alike kind, affectionate, and liberal.