s and sympathies of each, blunted by that
disappointment which is the child of experience, were more willing
to concede somewhat to the tastes and sympathies of the other; that
Constance gave a more indulgent listening to his beautiful refinements
of an ideal and false epicurism; that he, smiling still, smiled with
kindness, not with scorn, at the sanguine politics, the worldly schemes,
and the rankling memories of the intriguing Constance. Fortunately,
too, for her, the times were such, that men who never before dreamed of
political interference were roused and urged into the mighty conflux
of battling interests, which left few moderate and none neuter. Every
coterie resounded with political war-cries; every dinner rang; from soup
to the coffee, with the merits of the bill; wherever Godolphin turned
for refuge, Reform still assailed him; and by degrees the universal
feeling, that was at first ridiculed, was at last, although reluctantly,
admitted by his mind.

"Why," said he, one clay, musingly, to Radclyffe, whom he met in the old
Green Park,--(for since the conversation recorded between Radclyffe and
Constance the former came little to Erpingham House), "why should I not
try a yet untried experiment? Why should I not live like others in their
graver as in their lighter pursuits? I confess, when I look back to the
years I have spent in England, I feel that I calculated erroneously. I
chalked out a plan--I have followed it rigidly. I have lived for self,
for pleasure, for luxury; I have summoned wit, beauty, even wisdom
around me. I have been the creator of a magic circle, but to the
magician himself the magic was tame and ignoble. In short, I have
dreamed, and am awake. Yet, what course of life should supply this,
which I think of deserting? Shall I go once more abroad, and penetrate
some untravelled corner of the earth? Shall I retire into the country,
and write, draining my mind of the excitement that presses on it; or
lastly, shall I plunge with my contemporaries into the great gulf
of actual events, and strive, and fret, and struggle?--or--in short,
Radclyffe, you are a wise man: advise me!"

"Alas!" answered Radclyffe, "it is of no use advising one to be happy
who has no object beyond himself. Either enthusiasm, or utter mechanical
coldness, is necessary to reconcile men to the cares and mortifications
of life. You must feel nothing, or you must feel for others. Unite
yourself to a great object; see its goal dis