and subtle interest which alone I can impart to these memoirs, or--let him
close the book at once. I promise him novelty; but it is not, when duly
scanned, a novelty of a light and frivolous cast.

But throughout that routine of dissipation in which he chased the phantom
Forgetfulness, Godolphin sighed for the time he had fixed on for leaving
the scenes in which it was pursued. Of Constance's present existence he
heard nothing; of her former triumphs and conquests he heard everywhere.
And when did he ever meet one face, however fair, which could awaken a
single thought of admiration? while hers was yet all faithfully glassed in
his remembrance. I know nothing that so utterly converts society into
"the gallery of pictures," as the recollection of one loved and lost.
That recollection has but two cures--Time and the hermitage. Foreigners
impute to us the turn for sentiment; alas! there are no people who have it
less. We seek for ever after amusement; and there is not one popular
prose-book in our language in which the more tender and yearning secrets
of the heart form the subject-matter. The Corinne and the Julie weary us,
or we turn them into sorry jests!

One evening, a little before his departure from England--that a lingering
and vague hope, of which Constance was the object, had considerably
protracted beyond the allotted time--Godolphin was at a house in which the
hostess was a relation to Lord Erpingham.

"Have you heard," asked Lady G----, "that my cousin Erpingham is to be
married?"

"No, indeed; to whom?" said Godolphin, eagerly. "To Miss Vernon."

Sudden as was the shock, Godolphin heard, and changed neither hue nor