any unbecoming familiarity. Interesting as his position is, and
flattered, gratified, and touched as he must be by the confiding
devotion with which she places herself in his hands, it is still
marvellous that he should be able to overcome the force of habit
so completely as to endure the life he leads. Month after month
he remains at the Castle, submitting to this daily routine: of
all men he appeared to be the last to be broken in to the
trammels of a Court, and never was such a revolution seen in
anybody's occupations and habits. Instead of indolently sprawling
in all the attitudes of luxurious ease, he is always sitting bolt
upright; his free and easy language interlarded with 'damns' is
carefully guarded and regulated with the strictest propriety, and
he has exchanged the good talk of Holland House for the trivial,
laboured, and wearisome inanities of the Royal circle.

[6] The Duke of Wellington says that Melbourne is quite
right to go and stay at the Castle as much he does, and
that it is very fit he should instruct the young Queen
in the business of government, but he disapproves of
his being always at her side, even contrary to the
rules of etiquette; for as a Prime Minister has no
precedence, he ought not to be placed in the post of
honour to the exclusion of those of higher rank than
himself.

December 19th, 1838 {p.149}

[Page Head: BROUGHAM'S LETTER TO THE QUEEN.]

Dined with Brougham the day before yesterday, with whom I am on
mighty intimate terms just now. Sat next to Bellenden Ker (who
drew up his Privy Council Bill), who told me that Brougham said
he was writing sixteen hours a day, and about to bring out two
more volumes of his Paley,[7] and I found the explanation of his
calculations at the Council Board in the fact that he was working
out some problems for the purpose of proving the form of the
structure of honeycombs. In the meantime he has put forth a
pamphlet in the shape of a letter to the Queen, which he half
acknowledges, and of which nobody doubts that he is the author,
as in fact nobody can who is acquainted with the man or his
writings. It makes a prodigious noise in the world and is read
with avidity, but, though marked with all his cleverness, it is a
discreditable production. The tone of it is detestable, the
object mischievous, though by no means definite or clear. After
stripping it of all it