being a gloomy child, all who knew her laugh at such a notion. Now and then, as her cousin remembers, a certain violence of temper would get the better of the young student, and on such occasions her unfortunate books were condemned to take up their abode in different directions; but calmly to replace them, at a word, or even a look of admonition, was enough—"her tears flowed abundantly—she would kneel down and beg God to forgive her." Her temper, says this respected relative, was cheerful and kind; "and she lived only with those who loved her for herself, and wished solely for her good."
"I have told the history of my childhood," wrote L. E. L., concluding the little imaginative sketch of which mention has been made; "childhood which images forth our after life. Even such has been mine—it has but repeated what it learnt from the first, sorrow, beauty, love, and death." In contrast with the romance of this picture, and to clear up all mistakes as to the original melancholy of her nature, we must set before the reader a picture painted in far pleasanter colours, not even admitting that the truth is less poetical than the fiction. He who knew her childish feelings and habits so well, sharing her sports and seeing into her very dreams, gives us this assurance that "up to the age of thirteen, when the family quitted Trevor-park, she was a strong healthy child, a joyous and high-spirited romp. Nor," he proceeds, "was this disposition ever wholly lost. When, indeed, thought began to deepen, and the imagination to unfold, it then only changed to the milder and less childish form of playful wit and social cheerfulness." Such were the early days of the happy L. E. L.; and such, we venture to assert, were the
