was made of all that the family mansion, the magazines, grounds, gardens, furniture, &c. contained. All was then put up to auction; and spite of the law under which Francis tried to shelter himself, the law deprived him of all he possessed. The mischief was now done: it was done too late to ponder and philosophize; and he never once dreamed of terminating his perplexities by the summary method so prevalent in the present civilized age. He might have made a dignified exit by hanging, shooting, or drowning, or have turned his back upon his native city in high dudgeon for ever, as he could no longer cut a noble and fashionable figure in it. But no such thing: the light careless young fellow never once troubled himself with that formidable reflection for which we are indebted to French frivolity and fashion, of “what will the world say?” a saying meant to bridle some, and to spur on other follies quite as absurd. Luckily Frank’s feelings were not suifficiently fine to make him ashamed of the result of his dissipation: he was like a man awakening out of a state of intoxication, almost unconscious of what had passed; and he lived on, heedless alike of sorrow and of shame, as most unlucky prodigals are known to do. He had saved a few of his mother’s jewels from the general wreck, and with the help of these he contrived to prolong
