But whatever might have been Mitford's other faults, that reckless infidelity, which must always accompany the suicide, formed no portion of his character. From the instructions of an affectionate mother he had early imbibed those religious lessons, which, however silent they may have remained amid the glare and gayeties of the world, struck him with peculiar force in the midst of his desolation, and he shrunk aghast from the thought of rushing into the presence of his Creator, unabsolved by penitence, and bearing fresh on his soul the impress of a mortal crime. He turned toward his humble residence, with a throbbing brain. The streets were already crowded, but Mitford heeded not the bustle which surrounded him. The absolute, irretrievable, hopeless ruin into which he had fallen, alone occupied his thoughts; and his eyes saw nothing but the future misery to which he was doomed. The crowds turned to gaze at him, as he rushed elbowing through them, and seemed to think him some fugitive from a mad-house. Arrived at home, he threw himself on his bed. The pent-up sorrows of his nature gushed out in torrents of tears, and his agony found a vent in audible sobs. But it has been wisely ordained that no sorrow, however acute, no grief, however overwhelming, should prey upon the mind with equal and continued fervency. The floodgates of sorrow once opened, the mind, relieved from the oppression, re-bounds from the cause in which its sorrows had their source; Pride comes to the relief of Despair, and the siren Hope has yet another delusive whisper to console. Thus fared it with Mitford. Fatigued with the grievous outpouring of his soul, he slept. * * * * * WE have hitherto seen Mitford carried away by the frivolities of fashion, and even culpably straying from the strict path of morality; but it must not be imagined that his acquaintances consisted alone of those giddy moths, who cease to flutter round the candle the moment it ceases to blaze. Many of his father's friends, solid merchants with well-ballasted heads, he still continued to cultivate; and he formed some intimacies with families of sterling worth--whether we count it in virtue or in pounds--among retired traders. Let us now turn to more domestic matters. Some months had elapsed, and Mitford had long ceased to be a desirable resident at any of the fashionable hotels. There is no place in the world where a man can live so long without money, as London; but it is necessary to have a little, sometimes. Tavern-keepers, in this civilized age, are audacious enough to expect payment for their mutton after it has been eaten. So much for the march of democracy!