coming it with "special wonder," and those to whom sin was a horrible thing afar, have it in their constant thoughts; it has been committed by one among themselves. We all know that there is evil in the world—we read of it—we hear of it—but we never think of its entering our own charmed circle. Look round our circle of acquaintance; how it would startle us to be asked to name one whom we thought capable of crime; how much more so to find that crime had been committed by one near and dear to our inmost heart. What a moral revulsion would such a discovery produce—how weak we should find ourselves under such a trial—how soon we should begin to disconnect the offender and the offence; then, for the first time, we should begin to understand the full force of temptation, and to allow for its fearful strength; and should we not begin to excuse what had never before seemed capable of palliation? Jeannie Deans' refusal to save her sister—so young, so beloved, so helpless—at the expense of perjury, has always seemed to me the noblest effort in which principle was ever sustained by religion. How well I remember (at such a distance from England, I may perhaps be pardoned for clinging to every recollection of the past) a discussion between some friends and myself, as to whether Jeannie Deans should have saved her sister's life—even with a lie I am afraid I rather argued—"and for a great
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