“Sed fugit interea, fugit irreparabile tcmpus,
  Singula dum capti circumvectamur amore.”

And now, gentlemen, in conclusion, let me again solemnly disclaim all pretensions on my own part to the character of a professional man.  I never attempted any murder in my life, except in the year 1801, upon the body of a tom-cat; and that turned out differently from my intention.  My purpose, I own, was downright murder.  “Semper ego auditor tantum?” said I, “nunquamne reponam?” And I went down stairs in search of Tom at one o’clock on a dark night, with the “animus,” and no doubt with the fiendish looks, of a murderer.  But when I found him, he was in the act of plundering the pantry of bread and other things.  Now this gave a new turn to the affair; for the time being one of general scarcity, when even Christians were reduced to the use of potato-bread, rice-bread, and all sorts of things, it was downright treason in a tom-cat to be wasting good wheaten-bread in the way he was doing.  It instantly became a patriotic duty to put him to death; and as I raised aloft and shook the glittering steel, I fancied myself rising like Brutus, effulgent from a crowd of patriots, and, as I stabbed him, I

  “called aloud on Tully’s name,
  And bade the father of his country hail!”

Since then, what wandering thoughts I may have had of attempting the life of an ancient ewe, of a superannuated hen, and such “small deer,” are locked up in the secrets of my own breast; but for the higher departments of the art, I confess myself to be utterly unfit.  My ambition does not rise so high.  No, gentlemen, in the words of Horace,

  “—–­fungos vice cotis, excutum
  Reddere ere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi.”

SECOND PAPER ON MURDER,

CONSIDERED AS ONE OF THE FINE ARTS.

DOCTOR NORTH:  You are a liberal man:  liberal in the true classical sense, not in the slang sense of modern politicians and education-mongers.  Being so, I am sure that you will sympathize with my case.  I am an ill-used man, Dr. North—­particularly ill used; and, with your permission, I will briefly explain how.  A black scene of calumny will be laid open; but you, Doctor, will make all things square again.  One frown from you, directed to the proper quarter, or a warning shake of the crutch, will set me right in public opinion, which at present, I am sorry to say, is rather hostile to me and mine—­all owing to the wicked arts of slanderers.  But you shall hear.

A good many years ago you may remember that I came forward in the character of a dilettante in murder.  Perhaps dilettante may be too strong a word. Connoisseur is better suited to the scruples and infirmity of public taste.  I suppose there is no harm in that at least.  A man is not bound to put his eyes, ears, and understanding into his breeches pocket when he meets with a murder.