Mark Twain,
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court…
(1889)
“ The assemblage rose, whiffed ceremony to the winds, and rushed for the door like a mob; overturning chairs, smashing crockery, tugging, struggling, shouldering, crowding—anything to get out before I should change my mind and puff the castle into the measureless dim vacancies of space. Well, well, well, they were a superstitious lot. It is all a body can do to conceive of it.The poor queen was so scared and humbled that she was even afraid to hang the composer without first consulting me. ”
