DEAREST MARY,—­All you say of your dreams for me in days gone by is like yourself.  You were always thinking more of my happiness than your own.  What a strange world it is, where the happiest and saddest events are so often linked together—­for instance, the marriage and absence of those one would wish to have always by one.  I certainly never wish either of our marriages undone; but “Seas between us braid hae roared sin auld Lang-syne” more than either of us could have borne to look forward to.  If ever I did wish myself freed from my husband, it has been for the last five days, since the highest honour in the land has been within his reach.  Oh dear! how unworthy I am of what to many wives would be a source of constant pride, not only for their husband’s sake, but their own; whereas, proud as I am of so public a mark of his country’s good opinion, and convinced as I am that he ought not to shrink from the post, still to myself it is all loss, all sacrifice—­every favourite plan upset—­London, London, London, and London in its worst shape—­a constant struggle between husband and children, constant anxiety about his health and theirs, added to that about public affairs.  But I will not begin to count up the countless miseries of office to those who have, I will not say a love, but a passion for quiet, leisure, and the country.

As I said before, I am so convinced that he ought to make the trial, unless the difficulties are much greater than I have wisdom to see, that I should be positively disappointed if I found he had given it up.

Besides, I see many bright sides to it all.  You will think I have lost all my old patriotism, but it is not so; and the prospect of seeing my husband repeal the Corn Laws, and pacify and settle Ireland, is one that repays me for much private regret.  You see, if he does undertake to govern, I expect him to do it successfully, and this in spite of many a wise friend.  He went off looking so miserable himself that I long to hear from somebody else how he looks now.  You cannot think what a thunderbolt it was to us both.  We were reading aloud, about an hour before bedtime, when the messenger was announced—­and he brought the Queen’s fatal letter.  Oh! how difficult I found it not to call the man every sort of name!  The next morning John was off, and though he flattered himself he would be able to come back to me in any case, I flatter myself no such thing.

Poor baby made his resolution falter that morning—­he would not leave him for a moment, clinging round his neck and laying his little cheek on his, coaxing him in every possible way.  He does not conceal either from himself or me how entire the sacrifice must be of private happiness to public duty, of which this parting was the first sample; and he writes of the desolation of domestic prospects in so sad a way that I am obliged to write like a Spartan to him.

What her feelings were at this time the above letter shows.  What was happening in London may be gathered from Lord John’s letters and the following letter from Macaulay to his sister:  [24]