to Hookham's for a box of long-neglected novels, and the eagerness with which she perused the antiquated volumes, though I can only recollect the title of one, and the impression which it made upon her—Sydney Biddulph.
All works of art afforded L. E. L. great enjoyment; though not using the pencil herself, she saw every thing with a painter's eye, making pictures in her mind, and being struck, even in the crowded streets, with any fine effect of light or shade falling upon picturesque architecture. She was fond, in her poems, of suggesting subjects for the sister art, and many noble works might be executed from the glowing delineations of her ever-vivid pen. Music she did not profess to like, but no one more thoroughly enjoyed that which appealed to the mind rather than the ear. I have been with her to the Opera before she had acquired a taste for Italian music, and when we had some difficulty in persuading her to accompany us; and though at first inattentive, have seen her quit her seat, chosen in a remote corner, and kneel down in the front of the box, with eyes dilating and bosom heaving, as she gave her whole soul to Pasta. Those, too, who have observed how delightedly she listened to Mr. Lover's songs, and how anxiously she expressed her wish that he would give popularity
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