fly-leaf that declared her to be "the noblest of her
sex."

"And what could I say in reply," she laughingly remarked, "but 'Sir, you
are the most discerning of yours!'"

The first poem of hers that was offered in a purely professional way was
"The Romaunt of Margret." It appeared in the _New Monthly Magazine_, then
edited by Bulwer, who was afterward known as the first Lord Lytton. At
this time Richard Hengist Horne was basking in the fame of his "Orion,"
and to him Miss Barrett applied, through a mutual friend, as to whether
her enclosed poem had any title to that name, or whether it was mere
verse. "As there could be no doubt in the mind of the recipient on that
point," said Mr. Horne, "the poem was forwarded to Bulwer, and duly
appeared. The next one sent," continues Mr. Horne, "started the poetess at
once on her bright and noble career." This "next one" appears to have been
"The Poet's Vow," and a confirmation of this supposition is seen in a
letter of hers at this date to Mr. Boyd, in which she explains her not
having at hand a copy of the _Athenaeum_ that he had wished to see, and
adds:

"I can give you, from memory, the _Athenaeum's_ review in that number.
The critic says 'It is rich in poetry ... including a fine, although
too dreamy, ballad, The Poet's Vow. We are almost tempted to pause and
criticise the work of an artist of so much inspiration and promise as
the author of this poem, and to exhort him to a greater clearness of
expression, and less quaintness in the choice of his phraseology, but
this is not the time or place for digression.'

"You see my critic has condemned me with a very gracious countenance.
Do put on yours."

Again, under date of October, 1836, she writes to Mr. Boyd:

"... But what will you say to me when I confess that in the face of
all your kind encouragement, my Drama of the Angels (The Seraphim)
has not been touched until the last three days? It was not out of pure
idleness on my part, nor of disregard to your admonition; but when my
thoughts were distracted with other things, books just began enclosing
me all around, a whole load of books upon my conscience, and I could
not possibly rise to the gate of heaven and write about my angels. You
know one can't sometimes sit down to the sublunary occupation of even
reading Greek, unless one feels free to it. And writing poetry
requires a double liberty, an