I send you the magazines which I have just received from America, and which contain, one of them, ‘The Cry of the Human,’ and the other, four of my sonnets.  My correspondent tells me that the ‘Cry’ is considered there one of the most successful of my poems, but you probably will not think so.  Tell me exactly what you do think.  At page 343 of ‘Graham’s Magazine,’ Editor’s Table, is a review of me, which, however extravagant in its appreciation, will give your kindness pleasure.  I confess to a good deal of pleasure myself from these American courtesies, expressed not merely in the magazines, but in the newspapers; a heap of which has been sent to me by my correspondent—­the ‘New York Tribune,’ ‘The Union,’ ‘The Union Flag,’ &c.—­all scattered over with extracts from my books and benignant words about their writer.  Among the extracts is the whole of the review of Wordsworth from the London ‘Athenaeum,’ an unconscious compliment, as they do not guess at the authorship, and one which you won’t thank them for.  Keep the magazines, as I have duplicates.

Dearest Mr. Boyd, since you admit that I am not prejudiced about Ossian, I take courage to tell you what I am thinking of.

I am thinking (this is said in a whisper, and in confidence—­of two kinds), I am thinking that you don’t admire him quite as much as you did three weeks ago.

Ever most affectionately yours,
ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

Arabel not being here, I send her love without asking for it.

To Mrs. Martin January 30, 1843.

My dearest Mrs. Martin,—­Thank you for your letter and for dear Mr. Martin’s thought of writing one!  Ah! I thought he would not write, but not for the reason you say; it was something more palpable and less romantic!  Well, I will not grumble any more about not having my letter, since you are coming, and since you seem, my dear Mrs. Martin, something in better spirits than your note from Southampton bore token of.  Madeira is the Promised Land, you know; and you should hope hopefully for your invalid from his pilgrimage there.  You should hope with those who hope, my dearest Mrs. Martin....

Our ‘event’ just now is a new purchase of a ‘Holy Family,’ supposed to be by Andrea del Sarto.  It has displaced the Glover over the chimney-piece in the drawing-room, and dear Stormie and Alfred nearly broke their backs in carrying it upstairs for me to see before the placing.  It is probably a fine picture, and I seem to see my way through the dark of my ignorance, to admire the grouping and colouring, whatever doubt as to the expression and divinity may occur otherwise.  Well, you will judge.  I won’t tell you how I think of it.  And you won’t care if I do.  There is also a new very pretty landscape piece, and you may imagine the local politics of the arrangement and hanging, with their talk and consultation; while I, on the storey higher, have my arranging