Still Portfolioing

I'm still writing on my portfolio. Yesterday, I got so frustrated with it that I started throwing things--my beloved cap included. It's pretty to make me get that bothered. Still, it'll all be done in a little over a week.

I'm still struggling on the epigraph for the essay. I've decided not to use the quote I posted several days ago from Chesterton. Instead, I'm leaning toward a short, one-page story by Chesterton meant to help characterize my exit from academia. I'm afraid, though, that including it might seem a bit egotistical. I'm not sure if any of my readers will have the time to read this story or comment on it (particularly considering that most of my readers are in the same fix as me or have recently gone to another continent), but if you have a chance, would you please read the short story and tell me if you think it would sound to egotistical? Thanks.

Here it is:

“Long ago as it is, every one remembers the terrible and grotesque scene that occurred in -----, when one of the most acute and forcible of English judges suddenly went mad on the bench. I had my own view of that occurrence; but about the facts themselves there is no question at all. For some months, indeed for some years, people had detected something curious in the judge’s conduct. He seemed to have lost interest in the law, in which he had been, beyond expression, brilliant and terrible as a K.C., and to be occupied in giving personal and moral advice to the people concerned. He talked more like a priest or a doctor, and a very outspoken one at that. The first thrill was probably given when he said to a man who had attempted a crime of passion: “I sentence you to three years’ imprisonment, under the firm, and solemn, and God-given conviction that what you require is three months at the sea-side.” He accused criminals from the bench, not so much of their obvious legal crimes, but of things that had never been heard of in a court of justice, monstrous egoism, lack of humor, and morbidity deliberately encouraged. Things came to a head in that celebrated diamond case in which the prime-minister himself, that brilliant patrician, had to come forward, gracefully and reluctantly, to give evidence against his valet. After the detailed life of the household have been thoroughly exhibited, the judge requested the premier again to step forward, which he did with quiet dignity. The judge then said, in a sudden, grating voice: “Get a new soul. That thing’s not fit for a dog. Get a new soul.” All this, of course, in the eyes of the sagacious, was premonitory of that melancholy and farcical day when his wits actually deserted him in open court. It was a libel case between two very eminent and powerful financiers, against both of whom charges of considerable defalcation were brought. The case was long and complex; the advocates were long and eloquent; but at last, after weeks of work and rhetoric, the time came for the great judge to give a summing-up; and one of his celebrated masterpieces of lucidity and pulverizing logic was eagerly looked for. He had spoken very little during the prolonged affair, and he looked sad and lowering at the end of it. He was silent for a few moments, and then burst into a stentorian song. His remarks (as reported) were as follows:
‘Oh Rowty-owty tiddly-owty
Tiddly-owty tiddly-owty
Highty-ighty tiddly-ighty
Tiddly-ighty ow.”
He then retired from public life and took the garret in Lambeth.