176 AUDUBON THE NATURALIST, 
“We were sitting one night, lately,” he says, 
“all alone by durselves, almost unanimously 
eyeing the embers, fire without flame, in the 
many-visioned grate, but at times aware of the 
symbols and emblems there beautifully built up 
of the ongoings of human life, when a knocking, 
not loud, but resolute, came to the front door. 
At first we supposed it might be some late home- 
going knight-errant, from a feast of shells, in a 
mood between ‘malice and true love,’ seeking 
to disquiet the slumbers of old Christopher, in 
expectation of seeing his night-cap (which he 
never wears) popped out of the window, and 
hearing his voice (of which he is chary, in the 
open air) simulating a scold upon the audacious 
sleep-breaker. So we benevolently laid back 
our head on our easy chair, and pursued our 
speculations on the state of affairs in general, 
and more particularly on the floundering fall of 
that inexplicable people—the Whigs. We had 
been wondering—and of our wondering found 
no end—what could have been their chief reasons 
for committing suicide. It appeared a case of 
very singular felo de se—for they had so timed 
the ‘rash act,’ as to excite suspicion in the publi 
mind, that his majesty had committed murder. 
Circumstances, however, had soon come to light 
that proved to demonstration, that the ministry 
had laid violent hands on itself, and effected its 
