From the first line to the last?
How I said at ending solemn,
As I turned and looked at you,
That Saint Simeon on the column
Had had somewhat less to do?

'Wine of Cyprus' (_Poetical Works_, iii. 139)]

_To H.S. Boyd_
[74 Gloucester Place:] Tuesday [Christmas 1836].

My dear Friend,--I am very much obliged to you for the _two_ copies
of your poem, so beautifully printed, with such 'majestical' types,
on such 'magnifical' paper, as to be almost worthy of Baskett himself.
You are too liberal in sending me more than one copy; and pray accept
in return a duplicate of gratitude.

As to my 'Seraphim,' they are not returned to me, as in the case of
their being unaccepted, I expressly begged they might be. Had the old
editor been the present one, my inference would of course be, that
their insertion was a determined matter; but as it is, I don't
know what to think.[31] A long list of great names, belonging to
_intending_ contributors, appeared in the paper a day or two ago, and
among them was Miss Mitford's.

Are you wroth with me for not saying a word about going to see
you? Arabel and I won't affirm it mathematically--but we are,
metaphysically, _talking_ of paying our visit to you next Tuesday.
Don't expect us, nevertheless.

Yours affectionately,
E.B. BARRETT.

What are my Christmas good wishes to be? That you may hold a Field in
your right hand, and a Baskerville in your left, before the year is
out! That degree of happiness will satisfy at least the _bodily_ part
of you.

You may wish, in return, for _me_, that I may learn to write rather
more legibly than 'at these presents.'

Our love to Annie.

Won't you send your new poem to Mr. Barker, to the care of Mr. Valpy,
with your Christmas benedictions?

[Footnote 31: As a matter of fact, 'The Seraphim' was not printed in
the _New Monthly_, being probably thought too long.]

_To Mrs. Martin_.
[74 Gloucester Place:] January 23, 1837 [postmark].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--I am standing in Henrietta's place, she
says--but not, _I_ say, to answer your letter to _her_ yesterday, but
your letter to _me_, some weeks ago--which I meant to answer much
more immediately if the _ignis fatuus_ of a house (you see to what
a miserable fatuity I am reduced, of applying your pure country
metaphors to our brick pollutions) had not been gliding just
before us, and I had not much wished to be able to tell you of our
settlement. As it is, however, I must write