In England I might probably be of a very different opinion.  But, in the quiet of my own little grass-plot,—­when the moon, at its rising, finds me with the Philoctetes or the De Finibus in my hand,—­I often wonder what strange infatuation leads men who can do something better to squander their intellect, their health, their energy, on such subjects as those which most statesmen are engaged in pursuing.  I comprehend perfectly how a man who can debate, but who would make a very indifferent figure as a contributor to an annual or a magazine,—­such a man as Stanley, for example,—­should take the only line by which he can attain distinction.  But that a man before whom the two paths of literature and politics lie open, and who might hope for eminence in either, should choose politics, and quit literature, seems to me madness.  On the one side is health, leisure, peace of mind, the search after truth, and all the enjoyments of friendship and conversation.  On the other side is almost certain ruin to the constitution, constant labour, constant anxiety.  Every friendship which a man may have, becomes precarious as soon as he engages in politics.  As to abuse, men soon become callous to it, but the discipline which makes them callous is very severe.  And for what is it that a man who might, if he chose, rise and lie down at his own hour, engage in any study, enjoy any amusement, and visit any place, consents to make himself as much a prisoner as if he were within the rules of the Fleet; to be tethered during eleven months of the year within the circle of half a mile round Charing Cross; to sit, or stand, night after night for ten or twelve hours, inhaling a noisome atmosphere, and listening to harangues of which nine-tenths are far below the level of a leading article in a newspaper?  For what is it that he submits, day after day, to see the morning break over the Thames, and then totters home, with bursting temples, to his bed?  Is it for fame?  Who would compare the fame of Charles Townshend to that of Hume, that of Lord North to that of Gibbon, that of Lord Chatham to that of Johnson?  Who can look back on the life of Burke and not regret that the years which he passed in ruining his health and temper by political exertions were not passed in the composition of some great and durable work?  Who can read the letters to Atticus, and not feel that Cicero would have been an infinitely happier and better man, and a not less celebrated man, if he had left us fewer speeches, and more Academic Questions and Tusculan Disputations; if he had passed the time which he spent in brawling with Vatinius and Clodius in producing a history of Rome superior even to that of Livy?  But these, as I said, are meditations in a quiet garden, situated far beyond the contagious influence of English action.  What I might feel if I again saw Downing Street and Palace Yard is another question.  I tell you sincerely my present feelings.