long speech he had the night before made in the House of Commons.

"Can such things be?" thought I; yea, and thereby hangs a secret and an
anomaly in the human heart. A man may commit the greatest of crimes, and
(if no other succeed to it,) it changes not the current of his being--to
all the world--to all intents--for all objects, he may be the same. He
may equally serve his country--equally benefit his friends--be generous--
brave--benevolent, all that he was before. One crime, however heinous,
makes no revolution in the system--it is only the perpetual course of
sins, vices, follies, however insignificant they may seem, which alters
the nature and hardens the heart.

My mother was out of town when I returned there. They had written to her
during my illness, and while I was yet musing over the day's journal, a
letter from her was put into my hand. I transcribe it.

"My Dearest Henry,

"How dreadfully uneasy I am about you: write to me directly. I would come
to town myself, but am staying with dear Lady Dawton, who wont hear of my
going; and I cannot offend her for your sake. By the by, why have you not
called upon Lord Dawton? but, I forgot, you have been ill. My dear, dear
child, I am wretched about you, and now pale your illness will make you
look! just too, as the best part of the season is coming on. How unlucky!
Pray, don't wear a black cravat when you next call on Lady Roseville; but
choose a very fine baptiste one--it will make you look rather delicate
than ill. What physician do you have? I hope, in God, that it is Sir
Henry Halford. I shall be too miserable if it is not. I am sure no one
can conceive the anguish I suffer. Your father, too, poor man, has been
laid up with the gout for the last three days. Keep up your spirits, my