ey done for Fonblanque, who could have
kicked them overboard on his toe-nail? Their abilities put together
are less than a millionth of his; and his have been constantly and
most zealously exerted in their favour. My first conversation with
Kenyon was about the publication of his poems, which are just come
out. They are in part extremely clever; particularly one on happiness
and another on the shrine of the Virgin. He was obliged to print them
at his own expense; and his cousin, Miss Barrett, who also has written
a few poems of no small merit, could not find a publisher. These,
however, bear no proportion to Miss Garrow's.[1] Yet I doubt whether
publishers and the folks they consult would find out that.

[Footnote 1: To those who never knew Landor, and the habitual
limitless exaggeration of his manner of speaking, it may be necessary
to observe that he did not really hold any opinion so monstrous as
might be supposed from the passage in the text. And a letter given
by Mr. Forster expresses earnestly and vigorously enough his high
admiration for Miss Barrett's poetry. It must be remembered also, that
at the time this was written, Mr. Landor could only have seen some of
the earliest of Miss Barrett's writings.]

"Southey was about to write to me when his brothers death, by which
six children come under his care, interrupted him. I wish I possessed
one or two of Miss Garrow's beautiful poems, that I might ask his
opinion and advice about them. His opinion I know would be the same as
mine; but his advice is what I want. Surely it cannot be requisite and
advantageous to withhold them from the world so long as you imagine.
In one single year both enough of materials and of variety for a
volume might be collected and prepared. Would Miss Garrow let me offer
one to the _Book of Beauty_? I shall be with Lady Blessington the
last day of the present month. One of the best poems of our days" [on
death], "appeared in the last _Book of Beauty_. But in general its
poetry is very indifferent. With best regards to the ladies,

"I am ever, my dear sir,

"Yours most sincerely,

"W.S.L."

* * * * *

The following, dated merely "Gore House, Sunday morning," was written,
or at least posted, on the 14th May, 1838.

* * * * *

"MY DEAR SIR,--It is impossible you should not often have thought me
negligent and ungrateful. Over and over again have I redd [_sic_],
the incomp