118 WILD SCENES AND WILD HUNTERS. 
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, followed by the rustling thrill of the bell- 
wire, and then by a tinkling far below, too gentle to waken 
the house, that continued to enjoy the undisturbed dream of its 
repose. At first we supposed it might be but 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 sui- 
cide. It appeared a case of very singular felo-de-se—for 
they had so timed the “rash act,” as to excite strong suspi- 
cions in the public mind that his Majesty had committed 
murder. Circumstances, however, had soon come to light, 
that proved to demonstration, that the wretched Ministry had 
laid violent hands on itself, and effected its purpose by 
strangulation. There—was the fatal black ring visible round 
the neck—though a mere thread; there—were the blood- 
shot eyes protruding from the sockets; there—the lip-biting 
teeth clenched in the last convulsions; and there—sorriest 
sight of all—was the ghastly suicidal smile, last relic of the 
laughter of despair. But the knocking would not leave the 
door—and listening to its character, we were assured that it 
came from the fist of a friend, who saw light through the 
chinks of the shutter, and knew, moreover, that we never put 
on the shroud of death’s pleasant brother, sleep, till “ae wee 
short hour ayont the twal,” and often not till earliest cock- 
