e asked, handing me a
miniature of a very lovely woman.

"I think the original must have been exceedingly handsome."

"Ah, yes, she was," he replied, with a sigh, leaning back in his chair.
"That is the 'Ianthe' of my poems."

"I can well understand why she inspired your muse, Mr. Landor."

"Ah, she was far more beautiful than her picture, but much she cared for
my poetry! It couldn't be said that she liked me for my books. She, too,
has gone,--gone before me."

It is to "Ianthe" that the first seventy-five of his verses marked
"Miscellaneous" are addressed, and it is of her he has written,--

"It often comes into my head
That we may dream when we are dead,
But I am far from sure we do.
O that it were so! then my rest
Would be indeed among the blest;
I should forever dream of you."

In the "Heroic Idyls," also, there are lines

"ON THE DEATH OF IANTHE.

"I dare not trust my pen, it trembles so;
It seems to feel a portion of my woe,
And makes me credulous that trees and stones
At mournful fates have uttered mournful tones.
While I look back again on days long past,
How gladly would I yours might be my last!
Sad our first severance was, but sadder this,
When death forbids one hour of mutual bliss."

"Ianthe's portrait is not the only treasure this old desk contains,"
Landor said, as he replaced it and took up a small package, very
carefully tied, which he undid with great precaution, as though the
treasure had wings and might escape, if not well guarded. "There!" he
said, holding up a pen-wiper made of red and gold stuff in the shape of
a bell with an ivory handle,--"that pen-wiper was given to me by ----,
Rose's sister, forty years ago. Would you believe it? Have I not kept it
well?" The pen-wiper looked as though it had been made the day before,
so fresh was it. "Now," continued Landor, "I intend to give that to
you."

"But, Mr. Landor--"

"Tut! tut! there are to be no buts about it. My passage for another
world is already engaged, and I know you'll take good care of my
keepsake. There, now, put it in your pocket, and only use it on grand
occasions."

Into my pocket the pen-wiper went, and, wrapped in the same old paper,
it lies in another desk, as free from ink as it was four years ago.

Who Rose was no reader of Landor need be told,--she to whom "Andrea of
Hungary" was dedicated, and of whom Lady Blessington, in one of her
letters to La