This happened to me last autumn. At a party, I heard one mother try to pay another a compliment. The streets of the City resembled a forest. Everything was playing into Hannibal's hands, and his view of the situation was similar to Scipio's. When strange noises came from the stable-block at three in the morning, I half expected to see a stolid posse of villagers surround the house, flaming torches in hand, demanding to know with what strange forces he be meddling. Needless to say, we were at war with the French again.