But Lady Caroline could not live without some sort of interest outside the more or less humdrum events of family and social life, and now set herself to captivate William Godwin. In 1819 her brother-in-law, George Lamb, was contesting Westminster, and she wrote to Godwin to ask him to vote for Lamb. He replied that he did “not mix in the business of the world,” and was too old to alter his course “even at the flattering invitation of Lady Caroline Lamb.” She conceived a great admiration for Godwin’s works, and evidently read them with care and appreciation, and was much disappointed and vexed that the two children and the four young women to whom she endeavoured to read them did not choose to attend. Glad to have some one again to whom she could lay open her mind, for Lady Caroline was ever ready to confide her woes and her thoughts to any one who would listen, she entered into correspondence with Godwin. She further hoped that he, with his wisdom, might be able to advise her how to deal with her son, whose intellect showed no signs of developing. Godwin paid a visit to Brocket, saw the boy, but could suggest no means of improving his mental health. All the same, Lady Caroline in a while took Godwin for her guide, philosopher, and friend, and wrote him long letters about herself. They belong to the years 1821-23, and the following passages serve to illustrate the curious mixture of sense and sensibility contained in them: “For what purpose, for whom should I endeavour to grow wise? What is the use of anything? What is the end of life? When we die, what difference is there here between a black beetle and me?” “BROCKET, 1821. “You would not say, if you were here now, that nature had not done her best for us. Everything is looking beautiful, everything in bloom. Yet do not fancy that I am here in rude health, walking about, and being notable and bountiful. I am like the wreck of a little boat, for I never come up to the sublime and beautiful--merely a little gay merry boat which perhaps stranded itself at Vauxhall or London Bridge--or wounded without killing itself, as a butterfly does in a tallow candle. There is nothing marked, sentimental, or interesting in my career. All I know is, that I was happy, well, rich, joyful, and surrounded by friends. I have now one faithful kind friend in William Lamb, two others in my father and brother--but health, spirits, and all else is gone--gone how? Oh, assuredly not by the visitation of God, but slowly and gradually by my own fault!” “1823(?). “My own faults are so great that I can see and remember nothing beside. Yet I am tormented with such a superabundance of activity, and have so little to do, that I want you to tell me how to go on.