Another day, on which the rain forbade them to stir from home, Godolphin, after he had remained long silent and meditating, said to Constance, who was busy writing letters to her political friends, in which, avoiding Italy and love, the scheming countess dwelt only on busy England and its eternal politics:
“Will you read to me, dear Constance? my spirits are sad to-day; the weather affects them.”
Constance laid aside her letters, and took up one of the many books that strewed the table: it was a volume of one of our most popular poets.
“I hate poetry,” said Godolphin, languidly.
“Here is Machiavel’s history of the Prince of Lucca,” said Constance, quickly.
“Ah, read that, and see how odious is ambition,” returned Godolphin.
And Constance read, but she warmed at what Godolphin’s lip curled with disdain. The sentiments, however, drew him from his apathy; and presently, with the eloquence he could command when once excited, he poured forth the doctrines of his peculiar philosophy. Constance listened, delighted and absorbed; she did not sympathise with the thought, but she was struck with the genius which clothed it. “Ah!” said she, with enthusiasm, “why should those brilliant words be thus spoken and lost for ever? Why not stamp them on the living page, or why not invest them in the oratory that would render you illustrious and them immortal?”
“Excellent!” said Godolphin laughing; “the House of Commons would sympathise with philosophy warmly!”
Yet Constance was right on the whole. But the curse of a life of pleasure is its aversion to useful activity. Talk of the genius that lies crushed and obscure in poverty! Wealth and station have also their mute Miltons and inglorious Hampdens.
Alas! how much of deep and true wisdom do we meet among the triflers of the world! How much that in the stern middle walks of life would have obtained renown, in the withering and relaxed air of loftier ranks dies away unheeded! The two extremes meet in this,—the destruction of mental gifts.