Alas, it cried, "Give me some drink, Titinius,"
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me
A man of such a feeble temper should

So get the start of the majestic world

And bear the palm alone.

(SHAKESPEARE: Julius Cæsar)

ANDREAS HOFER'S SELF-DEFENSE

you, who

You ask what I have to say in my defense, glory in the name of France, who wander through the world to enrich and exalt the land of your birth,— you demand how I could dare to arm myself against the invaders of my native rocks? Do you confine the love of home to yourselves? Do you punish in others the actions which you dignify and reward among yourselves? Those stars which glitter on your breasts, do they hang there as recompense for patient servitude?

I see the smile of contempt which curls your lips. You say: "This brute,- he is a ruffian, a beggar! That patched jacket, that ragged cap, that rusty belt, -shall barbarians such as he close the pass against us, shower rocks upon our heads, and single out our leaders with unfailing aim, these grovelling mountaineers, who know not the joys and brilliance of life, creeping amidst eternal snows, and snatching with greedy hand their stinted ear of corn?"

Yet, poor as we are, we never envied our neighbors their smiling sun, their gilded palaces; we never strayed from our peaceful huts to blast the happiness of those who had not injured us. The traveler who visited our valleys met every hand outstretched to welcome him; for him every hearth blazed; with delight we listened to his tale of other lands. Too happy for ambition, we

were not jealous of his wealth; we have even refused to partake of it. (HOFER: Speech in Self-Defense)

MURDER WILL OUT

He has done the murder. No eye has seen him, no ear has heard him. The secret is his own, and it is safe!

Ah! Gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake.

True it is,

Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner where the guilty can bestow it, and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which pierces through all disguises, and beholds everything as in the splendor of noon, such secrets of guilt are never safe from detection, even by men. True it is, generally speaking, that " murder will out." that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern things, that those who break the great law of Heaven by shedding man's blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Especially, in a case exciting so much attention as this, discovery must come, and will come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man, every thing, every circumstance, connected with the time and place; a thousand ears catch every whisper; a thousand excited minds intensely dwell on the scene, shedding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a blaze of discovery. Meantime the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. It is false to itself; or rather it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to itself. It labors under its guilty possession and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant. It finds itself preyed on by a torment, which it dares not acknowledge to God or man.

A vulture is devouring it, and it can ask no sympathy or assistance, either from Heaven or earth. The secret which the murderer possesses soon comes to possess him; and, like the evil spirit of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his master. It betrays his discretion, it breaks down his courage, it conquers his prudence. When suspicions from without begin to embarrass him, and the net of circumstance to entangle him, the fatal secret struggles with still greater violence to burst forth. It must be confessed, it will be confessed; there is no refuge from confession but suicide, and suicide is confession.

(WEBSTER: The White Murder Case)

A GLORIOUS CHRISTMAS DINNER

Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course - and in truth it was very much like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard upon their post, crammed spoons into their mouths lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last

the dishes were set on and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and the longexpected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried "Hurrah!"

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onions to the eyebrows.

(DICKENS: A Christmas Carol)

THE ART OF PUFFING

(Sneer): But surely, Mr. Puff, there is no great mystery in your present profession?

(Puff): Mystery, sir! I will take upon me to say the matter was never scientifically treated nor reduced to rule before.

(Sneer): Reduced to rule!

(Puff): O Lud, sir, you are very ignorant, I am afraid! Yes, sir, puffing is of various sorts; the principal are, the puff direct, the puff preliminary, the puff collateral, the puff collusive, and the puff oblique, or puff by implication. These all assume, as circum

stances require, the various forms of Letter to the Editor, Occasional Anecdote, Impartial Critique, Observation from Correspondent, or Advertisement from the Party.

(Sneer): The puff direct, I can conceive

(Puff): O yes, that's simple enough! For instance, a new comedy or farce is to be produced at one of the theaters (though by-the-by they don't bring out half what they ought to do) - the author, suppose Mr. Smatter, or Mr. Dapper, or any particular friend of mine - very well; the day before it is performed, I write an account of the manner in which it was received; I have the plot from the author, and only add —“ characters strongly drawn - highly colored-hand of a master-fund of genuine humor-mine of invention -neat dialogue - Attic salt." Then for the performance" Mr. Dodd was astonishingly great in the character of Sir Harry. That universal and judicious actor, Mr. Palmer, perhaps never appeared to more advantage than in the colonel; - but it is not in the power of language to do justice to Mr. King; indeed he more than merited those repeated bursts of applause which he drew from a most brilliant and judicious audience. As to scenery the miraculous powers of Mr. De Loutherbourg's pencil are universally acknowledged. In short, we are at a loss which to admire most, the unrivaled genius of the author, the great attention and liberality of the managers, the wonderful abilities of the painter, or the incredible exertions of all the performers."

(SNEER): That's pretty well indeed, sir.

(PUFF): Oh, cool!-quite cool!- to what I sometimes do. (SHERIDAN: The Critic)