brings it to my mind. You told me I should be happy when I once
came here, but not an hour passes in which I do not shed tears at
thinking of home. Every hope, however unlikely to be realised,
affords me some small consolation. The morning on which I went,
you told me that possibly I might come home before the holidays.
If you can confirm this hope, believe me when I assure you that
there is nothing which I would not give for one instant's sight
of home. Tell me in your next, expressly, if you can, whether or
no there is any likelihood of my coming home before the holidays.
If I could gain Papa's leave, I should select my birthday on
October 25 as the time which I should wish to spend at that home
which absence renders still dearer to me. I think I see you
sitting by Papa just after his dinner, reading my letter, and
turning to him, with an inquisitive glance, at the end of the
paragraph. I think too that I see his expressive shake of the
head at it. O, may I be mistaken! You cannot conceive what an
alteration a favourable answer would produce in me. If your
approbation of my request depends upon my advancing in study, I
will work like a cart-horse. If you should refuse it, you will
deprive me of the most pleasing illusion which I ever experienced
in my life. Pray do not fail to write speedily.

Your dutiful and affectionate son,

T. B. MACAULAY.

His father answered him in a letter of strong religious
complexion, full of feeling, and even of beauty, but too long for
reproduction in a biography that is not his own.