My case is very clear:  not tubercular consumption, not what is called a ‘decline,’ but an affection of the lungs which leans towards it.  You know a blood-vessel broke three years ago, and I never quite got over it.  Mr. Jago, not having seen me, could scarcely be justified in a conjecture of the sort, when the opinions of four able physicians, two of them particularly experienced in diseases of the chest, and the other two the most eminent of the faculty in the east and west of England, were decided and contrary, while coincident with each other.  Besides, you see, I am becoming better—­and I could not desire more than that.  Dear Mr. Boyd, do not write a word about it any more, either to me or others.  I am sure you would not willingly disturb me.  Nelly Bordman is good and dear, but I can’t let her prescribe for me anything except her own affection.

I hope Arabel expressed for me my thankful sense of Mrs. Smith’s kind intention.  But, indeed, although I would see you, dear Mr. Boyd, gladly, or an angel or a fairy or any very particular friend, I am not fit either in body or spirit for general society.  I can’t see people, and if I could it would be very bad for me.  Is Mrs. Smith writing?  Are you writing?  Part of me is worn out; but the poetical part—­that is, the love of poetry—­is growing in me as freshly and strongly as if it were watered every day.  Did anybody ever love it and stop in the middle?  I wonder if anybody ever did?...  Believe me your affectionateE.B.B.

To H.S.  Boyd 50 Wimpole Street:  December 29, 1841.

My dear Friend,—­I should not have been half as idle about transcribing these translations[58] if I had fancied you could care so much to have them as Arabel tells me you do.  They are recommended to your mercy, O Greek Daniel!  The last sounds in my ears most like English poetry; but I assure you I took the least pains with it.  The second is obscure as its original, if it do not (as it does not) equal it otherwise.  The first is yet more unequal to the Greek.  I praised that Greek poem above all of Gregory’s, for the reason that it has unity and completeness, for which, to speak generally, you may search the streets and squares and alleys of Nazianzum in vain.  Tell me what you think of my part.

Ever affectionately yours,
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

Have you a Plotinus, and would you trust him to me in that case?  Oh no, you do not tempt me with your musical clocks.  My time goes to the best music when I read or write; and whatever money I can spend upon my own pleasures flows away in books.

[Footnote 58:  Translations of three poems of Gregory Nazianzen, printed in the Athenaeum of January 8, 1842.]

To Mr. Westwood[59] 50 Wimpole Street:  January 2, 1842.

Miss Barrett, inferring Mr. Westwood from the handwriting, begs his acceptance of the unworthy little book[60] he does her the honour of desiring to see.