[Footnote 99:  It will be observed that this is not quite the same as the current legend, which asserts that the whole poem (of 412 lines) was composed in twelve hours.]

To H.S.  Boyd August 6, 1844.

My very dear Friend,—­I cannot be certain, from my recollections, whether I did or did not write to you before, as you suggest; but as you never received the letter and I was in a continual press of different thoughts, the probability is that I did not write.  The Cyprus wine in the second vial I certainly did receive; and was grateful to you with the whole force of the aroma of it.  And now I will tell you an anecdote.

In the excess of my filial tenderness, I poured out a glass for papa, and offered it to him with my right hand.

‘What is this?’ said he.

‘Taste it,’ said I as laconically, but with more emphasis.

He raised it to his lips; and, after a moment, recoiled, with such a face as sinned against Adam’s image, and with a shudder of deep disgust.

‘Why,’ he said, ‘what most beastly and nauseous thing is this?  Oh,’ he said, ‘what detestable drug is this?  Oh, oh,’ he said, ’I shall never, never, get this horrible taste out of my mouth.’

I explained with the proper degree of dignity that ’it was Greek wine, Cyprus wine, and of very great value.’

He retorted with acrimony, that ’it might be Greek, twice over; but that it was exceedingly beastly.’

I resumed, with persuasive argument, that ’it could scarcely be beastly, inasmuch as the taste reminded one of oranges and orange flower together, to say nothing of the honey of Mount Hymettus.’

He took me up with stringent logic, ’that any wine must positively be beastly, which, pretending to be wine, tasted sweet as honey, and that it was beastly on my own showing!’ I send you this report as an evidence of a curious opinion.  But drinkers of port wine cannot be expected to judge of nectar—­and I hold your ‘Cyprus’ to be pure nectar.

I shall have pleasure in doing what you ask me to do—­that is, I will—­if you promise never to call me Miss Barrett again.  You have often quite vexed me by it.  There is Ba—­Elizabeth—­Elzbeth—­Ellie—­any modification of my name you may call me by—­but I won’t be called Miss Barrett by you.  Do you understand?  Arabel means to carry your copy of my book to you.  And I beg you not to fancy that I shall be impatient for you to read the two volumes through.  If you ever read them through, it will be a sufficient compliment, and indeed I do not expect that you ever will.

May God bless you, dearest Mr. Boyd.

I remain,

Your affectionate and grateful
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.