| Upon the door, I called out, Down with Strafford! |
| And then just so he fixed his eyes on mine, |
| And something seemed to choke me in the throat; |
| In truth, I think it must have been the devil! |
| THIRD CITIZEN. |
| I saw him as he stept out of the House, |
| And then his face was dark, but very quiet; |
| It seemed like looking down the dusky mouth |
| Of a great cannon. |
Everard says with expressive bitterness as they shout “Down with Strafford,”
I’ve heard this noise so often, that it seems
As natural as the howling of the wind.
And again—
For forty years I’ve studied books and men,
But ne’er till these last days have known a jot
Of the true secret madness in mankind.
This morn the whispers leapt from each to each,
Like a petard alight, which every man
Feared might explode in his own hands, and therefore
Would haste to pass it onward to his friend.
Even in our piping times of peace, nullification and the Rhode Island difficulties have given us specimens of the process of fermentation, the more than Virgilian growth of Rumor.
The description of the fanatic preacher by Everard is very good. The poor secretary, not placed in the prominent rank to suffer, yet feeling all that passes, through his master, finds vent to his grief, not in mourning, but a strong causticity:
The sad fanatic preacher,
In whom one saw, by glancing through the eyes,
The last grey curdling dregs of human joy,
Dropped sudden sparks that kindled where they fell.
Strafford draws the line between his own religion and that of
