had reached just the
point where to stop, and who had led Godolphin through just that vein
of conversation, half sentimentalising, half sensible, all profligate,
which seldom fails to win the ear of a man both of imagination and of
the world. "I will not; and, to vary the topic, I will turn egoist, and
tell you _my_ adventures."

With this, Saville began a light and amusing recital of his various and
singular life for the last three years. Anecdote, jest, maxim, remark,
interspersed, gave a zest and piquancy to the narration. An accomplished
roue always affects to moralise; it is a part of his character. There
is a vague and shrewd sentiment that pervades his morale and his system.
Frequent excitement, and its attendant relaxation; the conviction of the
folly of all pursuits; the insipidity of all life; the hollowness of all
love; the faithlessness in all ties; the disbelief in all worth; these
consequences of a dissipated existence on a thoughtful mind, produce
some remarkable, while they make so many wretched, characters. They
coloured some of the most attractive prose among the French, and the
most fascinating verse in the pages of Byron. It might be asked, by a
profane inquirer (and I have touched on this before), what effect a life
nearly similar--a life of luxury, indolence, lassitude, profuse, but
heartless love, imparted to the deep and touching wisdom in his page,
whom we consider the wisest of men, and who has left us the most
melancholy of doctrines?

It was this turn of mind that made Savill's conversation peculiarly
agreeable to Godolphin in his present humour; and the latter invested
it, from his own mood, with a charm which in reality it wanted. For, as
I shall show, in Godolphin, what deterioration the habits of frivolous
and worldly life produce on the mind of a man of genius, I show only in
Saville the effect they produce on a man of sense.

"Well, Godolphin," said Saville, as he saw the former rise to depart;
"you will at least dine with me to-day--a punctual eight. I think I can
promise you an agreeable evening. The Linettini, and that dear little
Fanny Millinger (your old flame), are coming; and I have asked old
Stracey, the poet, to say bons mots for them. Poor old Stracey! He goes
about to all his former friends and fellow-liberals, boasting of his
favour with the Great, and does not see that we only use him as we would
a puppet-show or a dancing-dog."

"What folly," said Godolphin, "it is in