Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L.E.L.): Poet, Novelist and Proto-Feminist

Critics of the time - not the readers, who are entitled to their opinions and weren't paid to produce them - all wove their personal agendas around her fame.

Some dismissed her completely, too busy pontificating on the subject of whether women ought to be allowed to write at all, to actually focus upon the poetry. Or, if they were permitted some stanzas, then should it only be confined to verses about romantic love, or not?

Then there were those on totally the other side of the spectrum, whose effusive outpourings of devotion and awe of her work seemed to diminish it. Anything held to such high esteem by anyone is fair game to be scoured for flaws.

Nothing changes there. Just look at the backlash concerning Justin Bieber, when the solution seems simple.  If you like him, listen to him. If you don't, then don't. Why ever should the twain cross? But nobody likes seeing success in others, particularly if they don't value the source.

Letitia Elizabeth Landon (aka L.E.L.) wrote just at the twilight of poetry's popularity. There have been amazing poems and poets since, but as a medium it declined under the Victorian fashion for novels instead. Then television. Then video games. Then whatever the next big thing will be in the pursuit of distraction.

As the 19th century wore on, it became a fad to disparage poetry as something that happened to your parents. People like L.E.L. suffered for that, for being right at the end and therefore in vague living memory.

In addition, L.E.L. has been called the Mother of Sentimentality - a school of poetry with its roots in the Sensibility genre of the earlier Georgian period, as well as a liberal sprinkling of Romanticism. It was a style of poetry which valued strong passions, elevating emotions in all their primal instincts, and attaching them to the physical world too.

It was a school of poetry which did not sit well with the Victorian vogue for Stiff Upper Lip, particularly since its major stars were women. 

Sentimentalism is one of the few Western poetical genres which had females as its most talented proponents - who were able to become independently wealthy from the proceeds of their poetry - hence it drew much of the criticism that would otherwise have gone to the male dominated Romantic movement.

In patriarchal Victorian society, Byron and Shelley's poems were allowed to limp on into lasting fame, taking their genre with them, despite the best efforts of Robert Southey to crush both. While the Sentimental poetesses were ridiculed, dismissed as pale imitators of Byron et al, or castigated as uppity housewives playing out of their league.

The whole genre was reduced throughout the latter part of the 19th century. By the turn into the 20th, its poetry was largely rendered invisible. Available only in old publications, and deemed not worth the bother of seeking it out.

This is why no-one really talks about Felicia Hemans or Caroline Norton anymore, and certainly not L.E.L., unless it's to vaguely refer to her in a derisive sense, as the 'female Byron'. (Personally, I find that latter epithet ridiculous. L.E.L.'s poetry reads more like Shelley than Byron, which proves that the critics read none of them.)

Finally, a third interpretation of the life of L.E.L. emerged from the depths of parish records and reading between the lines of her verses.

Now she was someone who, for fifteen years at least, carried on an affair with a married man, bore him three children and still managed to keep it all quiet. A genius of subterfuge, whose cleverness and passion over-rides any moral duplicity.

Confused? The truth is that L.E.L. represents one of those rare quantities. She was a highly intelligent, wildly successful and widely read writer from the 'wrong' period in history. Victorian women weren't supposed to be like her. Therefore successive commentators have had to somehow explain her away, or else use her as an example.

Depending upon YOUR perspective L.E.L. was:

• An innocent, pure girl inadvertently hinting at quite racy scenarios in her poetry.
• A fallen woman, whose life and mysterious end prove that females should NEVER attempt to be successful writers.
• A cold-blooded business woman, who knew what made money and so wrote about it (i.e. love, weddings, romantic entanglements).
• A powerful reviewer, who could make or break a reputation with her opinion upon another writer's work.
• An exploited girl, whose genius was shackled to a desk and her talent milked for all that it could enrich the men around her.
• An untalented producer of mediocre doggerel, who was only famous because her publisher fancied the petticoats off her.
• A genius poet of the highest order, who deserves to be recognized as the missing link between Byron and Tennyson, or Shelley and Poe.
• A strong woman, who was able to navigate the constraints of her situation, achieving independence and personal power far beyond the reach of most contemporary ladies.

In short, L.E.L. can never be judged - as other poets are - simply on the poetry. She outraged too many sensibilities for that, and delighted others.

For that reason, I am going to attempt to produce the facts of her adult biography, without any overt interpretation of my own, so you may reach your own conclusions about her. I'm fairly certain it's a feat that's never before been attempted for L.E.L., so wish me luck.

However, Lettie was already in his house and garden, albeit part of his children's gaggle of friends, and he'd already spotted her two years previously. Then he'd been impressed that she could read poetry AND spin a hoop at the same time.

Across the road, Mrs Catherine Landon discovered how much money there was in poetry, as long as it could be published in something like the London Literary Gazette. She casually mentioned to her new neighbor that her Lettie wrote verse. Might he have a look?

Jerdan made all of the right noises, but didn't exactly rush to acquire any samples to read.

Also in the Landon household was Lettie's paternal cousin, another Elizabeth Landon. The young lady acted as a companion for her aunt, while also a governess for the children. She penned two letters, a few days apart, building upon the promise made to Catherine that Jerdan really would look at the poetry. Elizabeth included some, just to make sure that they were in his possession.

Perhaps realizing that his neighbors could not be brushed off as easily as random people in the street, Jerdan did indeed respond this time. He wrote that there was potential in the verses, and some flashes of genius. But didn't exactly offer to publish any.

In truth - as he later admitted - he thought that Elizabeth Landon was the author. She was nearly thirty, so the poetry might appear a little juvenile from her pen. By now, Lettie was sixteen years old. Pretending that she was the poetess made it cute, and a selling point for his publication.

A short while later, Jerdan perceived an opportunity to expose their ploy. He was in a carriage, crossing London, with Lettie Landon as one of his passengers. As they passed St George's Hospital, he blithely commented that he would love to see a poem about it.

They stopped for dinner, no doubt with the publisher inwardly smiling about his little test. His smugness was soon frozen into shock. Lettie appeared at his side, as he finished his dessert, and slipped some pages onto his plate.

She'd written 74 lines of poetry about St George's Hospital, in the time it had taken Jerdan to dine, and it most certainly contained 'flashes of genius'.

Read in one way, they are akin to fan-mail. In another, full on flirting between a teenage girl and a man knocking forty. Some have also interpreted those letters as an extremely clever female flattering a mid-life-crisis male into doing her will. Using his vanity to propel herself onto the path towards literary fame. 

Others have simply regarded those letters as politely exhibiting manners. He mentored her and, like a good Georgian girl, she thanked him in writing. After all, she was just over the road, wasn't she?

But in a different telling, Letitia returned to Mrs Rowden, and her school at 22 Hans Square, in 1818. This time with her sister Elizabeth in tow. Genealogists claim that Elizabeth Jane Landon died in 1819, aged thirteen years old.

Some biographers shift that tragic event to 1825 instead. It helps underscore the fact that L.E.L.'s literary earnings were diverted into providing for her family, which included footing the bill for Elizabeth Jane Landon's prolonged medical care.  (However, I checked the records. Elizabeth died in 1819.)

In other biographies, Letitia was already writing for the London Literary Gazette from the age of sixteen. Covertly penning articles that are impossible now to pick out from all the rest without a by-line.

I've also read that her first published poem Rome was included there, under her original pseudonym of L, when she was sixteen. The date usually given is March 11th 1818, which would actually have made her fifteen, as her birthday wasn't until August 14th.

Unfortunately the archives of the magazine beg to differ. L's Rome appeared on March 11th 1820, when she was seventeen.

(This I can absolutely guarantee, as I've just plowed through volumes of The Literary Gazette's pages to find the poem. Then reconfigured the URL to take you straight to it. All because Google Books does NOT make this easy.  Tell me that you love me for finding L.E.L.'s first poem, and I'll stop ranting.)

Perhaps there are no discrepancies here.  By putting all of the pieces together, we can enter the realm of wild speculation ourselves with purported facts which aren't incompatible.

Maybe William Jerdan did pay Letitia for small, uncredited contributions to the London Literary Gazette. Filler pieces, which might otherwise have been called work experience. That money could have allowed John and Catherine Landon to enroll both of their girls into the Hans Square School.

Elizabeth Jane did die in 1819, but Letitia could have stayed on at school.

Nor is there anything stopping her nipping home on visits, or not actually being a boarder. Additionally, William Jerdan had a carriage. He could have tutored her at school, or taken her somewhere else.  It's not like Old Brompton and Hans Square (now Hans Place) were a million miles from each other.

Letitia cultivated another reputation at the London Literary Gazette. She was one of its most famous reviewers. Over the years, her opinion became increasingly important, shaping the views of readers to an extraordinary extent. In fact, it seemed that the shallow masses couldn't form a judgement of their own about any literature and its authors, without first checking to see what she thought.

Part of this was that she wrote for The Literary Gazette, which already had a huge cultural influence. But mostly her reviews were entertaining to read. They demonstrated great knowledge, in any and all subject matters, hence people tended to come away having learned something. They were well written too, which made them a pleasure to peruse.

Moreover, Letitia's reviews were witty and full of biting put downs. No-one could sneer at the weak literature of untalented writers quite like her. Think Dorothy Parker or Simon Cowell and you can see the appeal.

But Letitia was a successful woman writing, and making a lot of money from it, during the 1820s and 1830s. Those she liked could feel uneasy about the power that she wielded, and those she stung would never forgive her.

As a reviewer alone, she made a lot of enemies, but the public loved her. It would take a concerted campaign to change the latter situation, before she could be brought down, then practically wiped from the literary record. 

Yet those she raised high, favoring them in her reviews and helping cement their names in the literary world, naturally worshiped her for it. Long after her death, contemporaries from both camps would slog it out for ultimate control over her reputation. This is another reason why her life story eclipsed her poetry.

But during her life-time, it was the poetry that ruled, and the novels too. She wasn't merely Letitia Elizabeth Landon the eminently readable reviewer. She was L.E.L.!

William Jerdan appears to have been the one who made it happen. Why he waited so long is open to question, but he later claimed to have helped out.

This scenario is supported by letters from Letitia herself, written in the mid-1820s, wherein she proclaimed herself 'indebted to the gentleman for much of kindness' - referring to Jerdan - before raging in utter frustration about how impossible it was for a woman to be taken seriously by publishing houses.

However, the deal that William Jerdan struck with John Moore of Bond Street, London, doesn't seem to have been much in Letitia's favor. For a start, she had to pay the publisher rather than the other way around. Her Welsh maternal grandmother, Letitia Bishop, found the cash for that. 

Worst of all, John Moore went bankrupt within a few months. Letitia never received the royalties that she was due, which was a shame, as it had sold quite well.

Nevertheless, her metrical poem in print seems to have boosted her confidence greatly. Something clicked inside her head, and suddenly her other poetry began attracting more attention inside the pages of The Literary Gazette. Her work as L had been well-received, but nothing like those post-Adelaide, which she began signing L.E.L.

In the preface to her book, she'd written '... the path we fondly deemed led to immortality, too often terminates in the waters of oblivion..'  Yet contemporary readers would have been forgiven for laughing in the face of it, however prophetical those words now seem.

As Letitia's fame grew, so did the column inches given over to original poetry. She stopped being listed as a 'correspondent' and was given headlining status as the main attraction. Over time, The Literary Gazette even began prominently displaying the initials L.E.L. on its front page, along with a page number, so readers could find her poems more quickly.

But it was hard work.

The aforementioned Poetical Sketches became a kind of signature genre. Before the advent of photography, magazine illustrations were done by hand. Artists rushed to sketch topical scenes and personalities, in order to meet their print deadlines.

L.E.L. fell into the habit of receiving the artwork, as part of her day job, then quickly crafting a poem to accompany it. She sometimes had mere minutes from first sight to submission. Colleagues were stunned by the speed with which she was able to access her muse and find the words.

However, this kind of frenetic pace also meant that the quality could be a little hit and miss. Her poems were always good, but not consistently great. It took time to produce polished verses. Later her critics would generally draw upon her most mediocre efforts here, presenting them as indicative of her whole output, in order to denigrate her as an average lyricist at best.

Those at the time saw much more than that, and seemingly everywhere too! Though the London Literary Gazette was her bedrock publication, L.E.L.'s name appeared in many others too. Plus anthologies, gift books and anywhere else willing to pay her.

It soon became much easier to find publishing houses willing to print her books too. Seventeen of them hit the book-shops within her life-time; another three were there waiting to be released posthumously.

This was in addition to penning her reviews, answering correspondence and editing all manner of annuals, collections and essays. Even in the latter, readers and biographers alike have discerned that, though billing herself as solely the editor, she probably created most of the content too.

In short, L.E.L. was writing pretty much constantly, from waking until late into the night, for about eighteen years solid. The fame she found, she earned.

The poet L.E.L blazed like a comet during her tenure as one of Britain's leading writers. But anything (and anyone) burning at such a prominence is bound to leave some scorched Earth below.

As a Georgian female success story, some would have dragged her down anyway.

Her years at the top of her game, and the way that it all ended, elicited enough scandal and intrigue to keep people guessing for centuries. It's too big a story to tag onto the end here, hence I'm afraid we're into a third part. Though I guarantee that my telling of her story will end there.

And I'll finally reveal too that interesting blood-line to which I originally alluded.