'Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,'

were the summer retreats of Rome's brightest and most enduring spirits.
There was the retirement of Horace and Mecaenas: there Brutus forgot his
harsher genius; and there the inscrutable and profound Augustus indulged
in those graceful relaxations-those sacrifices to wit, and poetry, and
wisdom--which have made us do so unwilling and reserved a justice to the
crimes of his earlier and the hypocrisy of his later years. Here, again,
is a reproach to your ambition," added Godolphin, smiling; "his ambition
made Augustus odious; his occasional forgetfulness of ambition alone
redeems him."

"And what, then," said Constance, "would you consider inactivity the
happiest life for one sensible of talents higher than the common
standard?"

"Nay, let those talents be devoted to the discovery of pleasures, not the
search after labours; the higher our talents, the keener our perceptions;
the keener our perceptions the more intense our capacities for
pleasure:[1]--let pleasure then, be our object. Let us find out what is
best fitted to give our peculiar tastes gratification, and, having found
out, steadily pursue it."

"Out on you! it is a selfish, an ignoble system," said Constance. "You
smile--well, I may be unphilosophical, I do not deny it. But, give me one
hour of glory, rather than a life of luxurious indolence. Oh, would,"
added Constance, kindling as she spoke, "that you--you, Mr.
Godolphin,--with an intellect so formed for high accomplishment--with all
the weapons and energies of life at your command,--would that you could
awaken to a more worthy estimate--pardon me--of the uses of exertion!