Those there are to whom it has ever seemed the gravest of misconceptions that a man cannot love two at once: that (so to speak) he cannot carry a change of raiment in his knapsack, when no climate in the world is so captious or so variable as that of the Land of Love. But I have never shirked the confession that, though full-blooded Lydia may sway my grosser affections, gentle Dorinda hath ever the softer place in my heart. Therefore, it is with no dread of a charge of inconsistency, “the foolish hobgoblin of little minds,” that, while firmly avowing myself the leal bondman of Port, the master-wine, I would still go
