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“The farce of slave and tyrant masquerading in the robes of liberty and equality, and the poor Northern zealot playing well his part with a fool’s cap and bells. The weak crushed and trodden under foot, the strong shot down by secret violence—murder, rapine, and misrule taking the part of law, and both races swept along to their ruin like a vision of the night.”

Why, John Richard’s talk wuz such, he looked on things so different from what I ever had, he put such new and strange idees into my head that I can truly say that he skairt me most to death. I sot demute; I didn’t even think to look to see how my pardner wuz affected by the startlin’ views he wuz promulgatin’. I dropped stitches, I seamed where I hadn’t ought to seam; I wuz extremely nerved up and agitated, and he went on a talkin’ more stranger and startlinger than ever, if possible.

“And still these wise men sit and hardly lift their wise eyes. But when the storm bursts,” sez Cousin John Richard, in a louder voice than he had used, and more threatenin’ like and prophetic—“when the storm bursts, methinks these wise men will look up, will get up if there is enough left of them to stand after the shock and the violence of the tempest has torn and dashed over them. For the clouds will fill with vengeance, the storm will burst if something is not done soon to avert the fury of its course.