them myself.  I am essentially better in health, but remain weak and shattered and at the mercy of a breath of air through a crevice; and thus the unusually severe winter has left me somewhat lower than usual without surprising anybody.  Henrietta and Arabel are quite well and at home; George on circuit, always obliged by your proffered hospitality; and Charles John and Henry returning from a voyage to Alexandria in papa’s own vessel, the ‘Statira.’  I set you an imperfect example of egotism, and hope that you will double my I’s and we’s, and kindly trust to me for being interested in yours....

Yours affectionately,
E.B.  BARRETT.

To H.S.  Boyd Saturday, March 3, 1845.

My dearest Friend,—­I am aware that I should have written to you before, but the cold weather is apt to disable me and to make me feel idle when it does not do so quite.  Now I am going to write about your remarks on the ‘Dublin Review.’

Certainly I agree with you that there can be no necessity for explaining anything about the tutorship if you do not kick against the pricks of the insinuation yourself, and especially as I consider that you were in a sense my ‘tutor,’ inasmuch as I may say, both that nobody ever taught me so much Greek as you, and also that without you I should have probably lived and died without any knowledge of the Greek Fathers.  The Greek classics I should have studied by love and instinct; but the Fathers would probably have remained in their sepulchres, as far as my reading them was concerned.  Therefore, very gratefully do I turn to you as my ‘tutor’ in the best sense, and the more persons call you so, the better it is for the pleasures of my gratitude.  The review amused me by hitting on the right meaning there, and besides by its percipiency about your remembering me during your travels in the East, and sending me home the Cyprus wine.  Some of these reviewers have a wonderful gift at inferences.  The ’Metropolitan Magazine’ for March (which is to be sent to you when papa has read it) contains a flaming article in my favour, calling me ’the friend of Wordsworth,’ and, moreover, a very little lower than the angels.  You shall see it soon, and it is only just out, of course, being the March number.  The praise is beyond thanking for, and then I do not know whom to thank—­I cannot at all guess at the writer.

I have had a kind note from Lord Teynham, whose oblivion I had ceased to doubt, it seemed so proved to me that he had forgotten me.  But he writes kindly, and it gave me pleasure to have some sign of recollection, if not of regard, from one whom I consider with unalterable and grateful respect, and shall always, although I am aware that he denies all sympathy to my works and ways in literature and the world.  In fact, and to set my poetry aside, he has joined that ‘strait sect’ of the Plymouth Brethren, and, of course, has straitened his views since we met, and I, by the reaction of solitude and suffering,