Have we not seen half a dozen, nay, a dozen, such debacles in our own time?
And I contend that the degenerate scion of a great house who goes to the wrong side of the footlights for his wife is a criminal, and deserves all that may befall him.

I bade my friend, John Turner, farewell, he standing stoutly in his smoking-room after luncheon, and prophesying a discouraging and darksome future for one so headstrong.
"You're going to the devil," he said, "though you think you are running after an angel." "I am going to earn my own livelihood," answered I, with a laugh, lighting the last excellent cigar I was to have from his box for some time, "and make my idle ancestors turn in their graves.

I am going to draw emoluments of not less than one hundred and fifty pounds per annum." I drove across the river with my simple baggage, and was in due course installed in my apartments.

With these there was no fault to find--indeed, they were worthy of a better inmate.

A large and airy bedroom looking out over the garden where the foliage, as I have said, had none of the mournful sables worn by the trees in London.