Your letter came to me this morning in bed, or rather to such share of me as is left, for you have no idea what the animals are in this inn; they have eaten us both up! We have no chance of sailing; the wind is right against us, and a great deal of it, so we shall probably cross over to Ryde this afternoon, and wait there, as a cleaner and quieter place. There is such a dreadful quantity of people here, all bursting into the room at all moments; and a tribe of Sir Johns and Sir Henrys, whom George knows, and who come with offers of dinners, which we have declined.
Your long letter is a great comfort to me. I shall keep it, and study it the first time I am able to fix my eyes on anything; but I do not feel at all as if I pursued my wretched way so evenly as you say I do—quite the contrary. The last ten days at the Admiralty I think I was in a fair way to go quietly and genteelly mad—what with regrets and annoyances, and one thing and another. I am better since we have been here, and that the actual work is undertaken; and, after all, I keep thinking that if I had come down to see George off, and not to go with him, how very much worse it would have been. In short, that would have been out of the question, and there certainly is nothing that he has not deserved from us. Robert is here, and a great comfort to us. We have just been down to look at the sea, and you never saw anything so shocking!—so rough and white. None of the officers of the ‘Jupiter’ can get off, even to dine on board; and we are obliged to stay here another night, from the impossibility of crossing to Ryde. I think there must have been several things I did not tell you from London for want of time.
I had such a pretty letter from Lord Melbourne on Tuesday, with a beautiful copy of ‘Milton.’ He says: ‘My mother always told me I was very selfish, man and boy, and I believe she was right. I always find some excuse for not doing what I am anxious to avoid. I cannot bear to come and bid you good-bye, for few events of my life have been so painful to me as your going. May God bless and keep you!’ He then says a great deal that is very kind, and that he sends me a ‘Milton,’ which he has often read in, and marked what he thought I should like; and he begs I will write constantly, and he will do the same. I do not think he is so heartless as he says; at least, he has been most constantly kind to us, and puts himself out of the way for it.
I think your journal plan a very good one, particularly that idea of a résumé at the top; and I certainly shall keep your effusions to myself, because it will give you so much greater comfort in writing them.
I do hope you will not go on overworking yourself, doing a little too much every day, but keep resting yourself. This is not my last letter by any means, as we have no chance of going till the day after to-morrow, at soonest, nor much then. Love to all. I never part with my little cross, and have had a second ring put to it, for fear of accidents.