appreciated, at once, "with open arms received one poet more." Not only was the whole tribe of initialists throughout the land eclipsed, but the initials became a name.
From the summer of 1821, to that of 1824, these contributions were uninterruptedly continued. It is impossible not to be struck with the profusion in which they were poured forth. Five or six snatches of song in a week, few of them without some charm of tenderness or fancy, or a brief tale of struggling passion, delineating some chivalrous character, and abounding in the picturesque—these were read in many quarters with the admiration which glances over defects and dwells on the result—the general image of beauty presented to the mind. It was thus that the young initialist "woke, and found herself famous." Perhaps the L. E. L. itself, the compromise between the anonymous and the full announcement, the partial revelation, the namelessness of the name, had the effect of stimulating curiosity. That the poet was a "young lady yet in her teens," as the editor answering inquiries at length announced, was a circumstance that did not, we may be sure, detract from the charm. Old poets read, and younger ones wrote verses to her. One of them, Bernard Barton, thus closes an admiring apostrophe, published in February, 1822, months before the object of it had attained her twentieth year:—
"I know not who, or what, thou art,
Nor do I seek to know thee,
Whilst thou, performing thus thy part,
Such banquets can bestow me.
Then be, as long as thou shalt list,
My viewless, nameless melodist."
And this she was to thousands beside the minstrel.
