rsed (as it may be) with children, and she had no
companion in her husband. There might be times in which she regretted
her choice, dazzling as it had proved;--but she complained not of
sorrow, but monotony.

Political intrigue could not fill up the vacuum of which Constance daily
complained; and of private intrigue, the then purity of her nature was
incapable. When people have really nothing to do, they generally
fall ill upon it; and at length, the rich colour grew faint upon
Lady Erpingham's cheek; her form wasted; the physicians hinted at
consumption, and recommended a warmer clime. Lord Erpingham seized at
the proposition; he was fond of Italy; he was bored with England.

Very stupid people often become very musical: it is a sort of pretension
to intellect that suits their capacities. Plutarch says somewhere that
the best musical instruments are made from the jaw-bones of asses.
Plutarch never made a more sensible observation. Lord Erpingham had of
late taken greatly to operas: he talked of writing one himself; and
not being a performer, he consoled himself by becoming a patron.
Italy, therefore, presented to him manifold captivations--he thought of
fiddling, but he talked only of his wife's health. Amidst the regrets of
the London world, they made their arrangements, and prepared to set out
at the end of the season for the land of Paganini and Julius Caesar.

Two nights before their departure, Lady Erpingham gave a farewell party
to her more intimate acquaintance. Saville, who always contrived to be
well with every one who was worth the trouble it cost him, was of course
among the guests. Years had somewhat scathed him since he last appeared
on our stage. Women had ceased to possess much attraction for his jaded
eyes: gaming and speculation had gradually spread over the tastes once
directed to other pursuits. His vivacity had deserted him in great
measure, as years and infirmity began to stagnate and knot up the
current of his veins; but conversation still possessed for and derived
from him its wonted attraction. The sparkling jeu d'esprit had only
sobered down into the quiet sarcasm; and if his wit rippled less freshly
to the breeze of the present moment, it was coloured more richly by
the glittering sands which rolled down from the experience that
over shadowed the current. For the wisdom of the worldly is like the
mountains that, sterile without, conceal within them unprofitable ore:
only the filings and part