forehead, over the right eye. "What do you mean?" cried Albert,
turning back the pistol. "It is not loaded," said I. "And even
if not," he answered with impatience, "what can you mean? I
cannot comprehend how a man can be so mad as to shoot himself,
and the bare idea of it shocks me."

"But why should any one," said I, "in speaking of an action, venture
to pronounce it mad or wise, or good or bad? What is the meaning
of all this? Have you carefully studied the secret motives of our
actions? Do you understand -- can you explain the causes which
occasion them, and make them inevitable? If you can, you will be
less hasty with your decision."

"But you will allow," said Albert; "that some actions are criminal,
let them spring from whatever motives they may." I granted it,
and shrugged my shoulders.

"But still, my good friend," I continued, "there are some exceptions
here too. Theft is a crime; but the man who commits it from extreme
poverty, with no design but to save his family from perishing, is
he an object of pity, or of punishment? Who shall throw the first
stone at a husband, who, in the heat of just resentment, sacrifices
his faithless wife and her perfidious seducer? or at the young
maiden, who, in her weak hour of rapture, forgets herself in the
impetuous joys of love? Even our laws, cold and cruel as they
are, relent in such cases, and withhold their punishment."

"That is quite another thing," said Albert; "because a man under
the influence of violent passion loses all power of reflection,
and is regarded as intoxicated or insane."