personal
affront; and thus vexed, wounded, alarmed, in her mid-career, Constance
was more than ever sensible of the peculiar disquietudes that await
female ambition, and turned with sighs more frequent than heretofore
to the recollections of that domestic love which seemed lost to her for
ever.

Mingled with the more outward and visible stream of politics there
was, as there ever is, a latent tide of more theoretic and speculative
opinions. While the practical politicians were playing their momentary
parts, schemers, and levellers, were propagating in all quarters
doctrines which they fondly imagined were addressed to immortal ends.
And Constance began to turn with some curiosity to these charlatans or
sages. The bright countess listened to their harangues, pondered over
their demonstrations, and mused over their hopes. But she had lived too
much on the surface of the actual world, her habits of thought were
too essentially worldly, to be converted, while she was attracted, by
doctrines so startling in their ultimate conclusions. She turned once
more to herself, and waited, in a sad and thoughtful stillness, the
progress of things-convinced only of the vanity of them all.

CHAPTER LVI.

THE ROUE HAS BECOME A VALETUDINARIAN.--NEWS.--A FORTUNETELLER.

Meanwhile the graced Godolphin floated down the sunny tide of his
prosperity. He lived chiefly with a knot of epicurean dalliers with
the time, whom he had selected from the wittiest and the easiest of
the London world. Dictator of theatres--patron of operas--oracle in
music--mirror of entertainments and equipage--to these conditions had
his natural genius and his once dreaming dispositions been bowed at
last! A round of dissipation, however, left him no time for reflection;
and he believed (perhaps he was not altogether wrong) that the best
way to preserve the happy equilibrium of the heart is to blunt its
susceptibilities. As the most uneven shapes, when whirled into rapid and
ceaseless motion, will appear a perfect circle, so, once impelled in
a career that admits no pause, our life loses its uneven angles, and
glides on in smooth and rounded celerity, with false aspects more
symmetrical than the truth.

One day Godolphin visited Saville; who now, old, worn, and fast waning
to the grave, cropped the few flowers on the margin, and jested, but
with sourness, on his own decay. He found the actress (who had also come
to visit the Man of Pleasure) sitting by the wi