sir, compelled me to the deed; my conscience condemned it: -- but all remonstrance was vain, and through the bosom of my friend I have pierced my own heart, whose wounds will never heal." Here a fresh gush of woe issued from the source of sorrow, which seemed inexhaustible.

What is this phantom, Honour! that plunges a dagger where it should offer balsam? Traitor, persidious traitor! that stalkest at large under the habit of ridiculous custom, or more ridiculous fashion! unknown to our forefathers, unknown to those we stile unpolished and barbarous, thou art reserved for this age of