There were few portraits of Miss Landon painted, although she was acquainted with many artists, and had intense love of Art. Her friend Maclise painted her three or four times; but I know of no other portraits of her, except that by Mr. Pickersgill, which I always thought the most to resemble her, albeit the likeness is not flattering. She first met the Ettrick Shepherd at our house. When Hogg was presented to her, he looked earnestly _down_ at her, for perhaps half a minute, and then exclaimed, in a rich, manly, Scottish voice, "Eh, I did na think ye'd been sae bonnie. I've said mony hard things aboot ye. I'll do sae na mair. I did na think ye'd been sae bonnie." Mrs. Opie, who also met her at our dwelling, paid her a questionable compliment,--that she was "the prettiest butterfly she had ever seen": and I remember the staid Quaker shaking her finger at the young poetess, and remarking, "What thou art saying thou dost not mean." Miss Jewsbury, (the elder sister of the accomplished authoress, Geraldine,) whose fate somewhat resembled her own, said of her, "She was a gay and gifted thing"; but Miss Jewsbury knew her only "in the throng." In short, I have rarely known a woman so entirely fascinating as Miss Landon; and this arose mainly from her large sympathy. She was playful with the young, sedate with the old, and considerate and reflective with the middle-aged. She could be tender and she could be severe, prosaic or practical, and essentially of and with whatever party she happened to be among. I remember this faculty once receiving an illustration. She was taking lessons in riding, and had so much pleased the riding-master that at parting he complimented her by saying,--"Well, Madam, we are all born with a genius for something, and yours is for horsemanship." One of the many writers who mourned her wrote,--"Apart from her literary abilities and literary labors, she was, in every domestic relation of life, honorable, generous, dutiful, self-denying,--zealous, disinterested, and untiring in her friendship." Her industry was wonderful. She was perpetually at work, although often--nay, generally--with little of physical strength, and sometimes utterly prostrated by illness. Yet the work _must_ be done, as her poems and prose were usually for periodical publications, and a given day of the month it was impossible to postpone.