The peep at our treasures to regain composure had, we fear, given the foreigner glimpses, and whetted the appetite of our masses.

No sooner are we at peace than these are heard uttering low howls, and those are seen enviously glaring.

The spectre, Panic, that ever dogs the optimistic feast, warns us of a sack under our beds, and robbers about to try a barely-bolted door...

Then do we, who have so sweetly sung our senses to sleep, start up, in their grip, rush to the doctor and the blacksmith, rig alarums, proclaim ourselves intestinally torn, defenceless, a prey to foes within and without.

It is discovered to be no worse than an alderman's dream, but the pessimist frenzy of the night has tossed a quieting sop to the Radical, and summoned the volunteers to a review.