But upon the opposite side of the square another orator was
haranguing the crowd. A young Quaker woman had got up upon some
steps, moved in spirit, as she declared, to denounce the wickedness
of war, and to urge the townsmen to peaceful methods. Her shrill
voice rose high and piercing, and she invoked Heaven to bless the
work of those who would endure all things rather than spill human
blood.

But the people had heard something too much of this peaceful
gospel. For long they had upheld the policy of non-resistance. They
had their shops, their farms, their merchandise; they were
prosperous and phlegmatic, more interested in local than in
national issues. They had been content to be preached at by the
Quakers, and to give passive adhesion to their policy; but the hour
of awakening had come. The agonized cries of those who looked to
them for aid had pierced their ears too often to be ignored.
Humanity itself must rise in answer to such an appeal. They were
beginning to see that their peace policy was costing untold human
lives, amid scenes of unspeakable horror.

They let the woman speak in peace; they did not try to stop her
utterances. But when a brother Quaker took her place and began a
similar harangue, the young men round raised a howl, and a voice
cried out:

"Duck him in the horse pond! Roll him in a barrel! Let him be
tarred and feathered like an Indian, since he loves the scalping
savages so well. Who's got a tomahawk? Let's see how they use them.
Does anybody know how they scalp their prisoners? A Quaker would