I am thrown back a little just now by having caught a very bad cold, which has of course affected my cough. The worst seems, however, to be past, and Dr. Chambers told me yesterday that he expected to see me in two days nearly as well as before this casualty. And I have been, thank God, pretty well lately; and although when the stethoscope was applied three weeks ago, it did not speak very satisfactorily of the state of the lungs, yet Dr. Chambers seems to be hopeful still, and to talk of the wonders which the summer sunshine (when it does come) may be the means of doing for me. And people say that I look rather better than worse, even now. Did you hear of an autograph of Shakespeare's being sold lately for a very large sum (I _think_ it was above a hundred pounds) on the credit of its being the only genuine autograph extant? Is yours quite safe? And are _you_ so, in your opinion of its veritableness? I have just finished a very long barbarous ballad for Miss Mitford and the Finden's tableaux of this year. The title is 'The Romaunt of the Page,'[37] and the subject not of my own choosing. I believe that you will certainly have 'The Seraphim' this week. Do macadamise the frown from your brow in order to receive them. Give my love to Miss Holmes. Your affectionate friend, E.B. BARRETT. [Footnote 37: _Poetical Works_, ii. 40.] _To H.S. Boyd_ June 7, 1838 [postmark]. My dear Mr. Boyd,--Papa is scarcely inclined, nor am I for myself, to send my book or books to the East Indies. Let them alone, poor things, until they can walk about a little! and then it will be time enough for them to 'learn to _fly_.' I am so sorry that Emily Harding saw Arabel and went away without this note, which I have been meaning to write to you for several days, and have been so absorbed and drawn away (all except my thoughts) by other things necessary to be done, that I was forced to defer it. My ballad,[38] containing a ladye dressed up like a page and galloping off to Palestine in a manner that would scandalise you, went to Miss Mitford this morning. But I augur from its length that she will not be able to receive it into Finden. Arabel has told me what Miss Harding told her of your being in the act of going through my 'Seraphim' for the second time. For the feeling of interest in me which brought this labour upon you, I thank you, my dear friend. What your opinion _is_, and _will_ be, I am prepared to hear with a good deal of awe. You will _certainly not approve of the poem_. There now! You see I am prepared. Therefore do not keep back one rough word, for friendship's sake, but be as honest as--you could not help being, without this request. If I should live, I shall write (_I believe_) better poems than 'The Seraphim;' which belief will help me to survive the condemnation heavy upon your lips. Affectionately yours, E.B. BARRETT. [Footnote 38: 'The Romaunt of the Page.']