TO DAY IN HISTORY

Southland Times, Issue 20616, 15 October 1928, Page 4

TO DAY IN HISTORY

OCTOBER 15. Born: Virgil, Latin poet, Mantua, 70 8.C.; Evangelista Torricelli, inventor of barometer, Romagna, 1608; Allan Ramsay, Scottish poet, Leadhills, 1686; Alexander Fraser Tytler, Lord Woodhouselee, author, Edinburgh, 1747; Christian, Count Stolbery, poet and dramatist, Hamburg, 1748; Frederick William IV., King of Prussia, 1795. Died: Lucretius, Latin poet, 55 8.C.; Andreas Vesalius, anatomist, Zante, 1564; Pope Gregory XIV., 1591; Dr. James Anderson, economist, London, 1808; Michael Kelly, composer, Ramsgate, 1826; Letitia Elizabeth Maclean, poetess, 1838; Rev. John Foster, essayist. Bristol, 1843. Mrs Maclean (“L.E.L.”) On New Year’s Day morning, 1839, was received the news of the death at Cape Coast Castle of Mrs Maclean, wife of Mr George Maclean, the Governor of the settlement, thus ending a young and enthusiastic career of a promising writer. The feeling of sorrow at the tidings was speedily followed by intense curiosity and interest, by the report that Mrs Maclean had died from the effects of a dose of prussic acid, incautiously taken, and an some did not hesitate to insinuate, with the intention of self-destruction. The whole affair was involved in the deepest mystery, the sole explanation afforded being, that between 8 and 9 o’clock on the morning of Monday, October 15, a servant had gone to Mrs Maclean’s room for the purpose of delivering a note which had just been received. She experienced some difficulty in opening the door, and found that Mrs Maclean had fallen with her back against it. The unfortunate lady was perfectly senseless, with an empty bottle in her hand, labelled as containing hydrocyanic or prussic acid. Assistance was immediately procured, but all in vain. No one had observed anything peculiar in her demeanour, or indication of depression in spirits, though from her attendance night and day upon her husband who had been indisposed for a few days, she had become very much exhausted, and was besides liable to spasmodic attacks, for the relief of which, it was stated at the inquest, she was in the habit of taking in a glass of water a few drops of the medicine found in her hand. The conjecture was that she had taken an overdose, and no satisfactory conclusion ever being arrived at, there the matter

Previous to her marriage the life of Letitia Elizabeth Landon, had not been diversified by much incident. The greater part of it was spent in London where she had been born in 1802. Her father was the

son of a Herefordshire rector, who, in his early days had gone to sea,< but afterwards settled in London as an army agent. From her earliest years Letitia displayed an engrossing propensity to read, and the bent of her genius towards poetry was displayed at nearly as early a date as with Pope and Cowper. When the family resided at Brompton they had for their neighbour William Jordan, the celebrated editor of the Literary Gazette, and some of Miss Landon’s juvenile works being shown to him, he had them inserted in his journal. Public attention was soon attracted, and thus stimulated she proceeded to more ambitious undertakings, and the poems of “The Improvisatrice,” “The Troubadour,” “The Golden Violet,” and the “Venetian Bracelet,” produced all the fame they richly merited. Whether, however, from its essentially artificial character, however natural an appearance it may wear, the poetry of Miss Landon ls destined to an abiding immortality, may reasonably be questioned. Never was there a poet whose works were less a reflex of his own mind than those of L.E.L. With all the enchanting descriptions of Provencal or Italian scenery, Miss Landon had, like Charles Lamb, little affection for the country, and found herself nowhere in a more congenial atmosphere than amid the smoke and bustle of London. Neither did her disposition partake of the pensive melancholy cast, so conspicuous in her poems, being on the contrary, remarkable for its vivacity and cheerfulness. It was said of her “that she should write with a crystal pen dipped in dew upon silvery paper, and use for pounce the dust of a butterfly’s wing”; the real fact being that her locality for invoking the Muses was her bedroom—a bare homely-looking room facing the street, where she wrote at an old worn-out desk, placed on an old dressing-table. In person she was slight and graceful, and without being artistically beautiful in feature her face, when she spoke, became handsome in its expressiveness. It is recorded of Hogg, the Ettrick shepherd, that, on being first presented to her at the house of Mrs Hall, he took her hand, and looking earnestly into her face, exclaimed: “Oh dear! I hae written and thocht mony a bitter thing about ye, but I will do so nae mair; I didna think ye’s been sae bonny!”