tell us everything about Mr. Martin and yourself. And ever believe me,
dearest Mrs. Martin,

Your affectionate
E.B. BARRETT.

[Footnote 18: Alfred, the fifth brother.]


_To Mrs. Martin_
Sidmouth: September 7, 1833.

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--Are you a _little_ angry _again_? I do hope
not. I should have written long ago if it had not been for Henrietta;
and Henrietta would have written very lately if it had not been for
me: and we must beg of you to forgive us both for the sake of each
other. Thank you for the kind letter which I have been so tardy in
thanking you for, but which was not, on that account, the less gladly
received. Do believe how much it pleases me _always_ to see and read
dear Mrs. Martin's handwriting. But I must try to tell you some
less ancient truths. We are still in the ruinous house. Without any
poetical fiction, the walls are too frail for even _me_, who enjoy the
situation in a most particularly particular manner, to have any desire
to pass the winter within them. One wind we have had the privilege of
hearing already; and down came the tiles while we were at dinner, and
made us all think that down something else was coming. We have had
one chimney pulled down to prevent it from tumbling down; and have
received especial injunctions from the bricklayers not to lean too
much out of the windows, for fear the walls should follow the destiny
of the chimney. Altogether there is every reasonable probability